Blood Rights (House of Comarre 1)

by Kristen Painter

  ‘Only two hours.’ Her face softened and she laid her hand on his arm. ‘Don’t be a hero, seriously. I have great faith in your ability to smite the bad guys, but you need more sleep than that.’

  At her touch a soft whine whispered through his cranium. ‘No, I don’t.’ He’d never needed much sleep. He’d always chalked it up to the residual power he’d siphoned off his sire. Since taking her blood, the hours required had dropped even more.

  Her brows cocked along with the side of her mouth in a blatantly incredulous expression. ‘Just because you don’t want to sleep where Dominic’s slept … ’

  He shifted in his seat to lean closer and lowered his voice. ‘It’s one of those things. Like what I did at the door of Seven when we first got there.’

  ‘Oh.’ She nodded slowly. ‘An inherited trait from your sire.’ She grinned, nearly knocking him back with the way her eyes lit up. ‘Or should I say an ingested trait?’

  ‘What?’ Her smile was amazing. Or more bloody likely it was just such a rare thing to see a smile aimed in his direction. A smile wasn’t anything special. Which was why he was going to stop staring at hers very soon.

  ‘Never mind.’ She went back to the paper, tracing rooms and doorways. A few strands of hair escaped her braid to fall around her face, the pale silk crisscrossing the whorls of gold on her cheeks and neck. The tip of her tongue peeked out between her lips as she concentrated.

  Unable to bear the ache in his soul, he looked away and stared directly into his reflection in the window. It was the first time in a long time he’d seen himself. He kept no mirrors on the ship in the compartments he frequented. Why should he? He couldn’t afford gold-backed ones, and seeing his true reflection – the only reflection silver-backed mirrors showed – was unnecessary torture.

  Seeing his face reminded him of everything he’d lost. His true face, the one he wore without effort, was the face of a monster, not a man. His human face was just a mask. One he’d worn countless times in hundreds of years to lure the unsuspecting to their deaths. Neither face was worth looking at.

  He closed his eyes, but the image of the savage he’d seen in the window was burned in his mind. Killer. Murderer. Beast. Butcher. Bourreau.

  His thoughts had stirred the voices and for once, he let them rail. He couldn’t deny their words. Death had been his human trade. If only he could hide behind the hood now. He glanced at Chrysabelle. She had handed off the schematic to Mortalis and now covered herself with a blanket. She claimed to know his history but hadn’t said much about it. Did she think he’d gotten what he deserved?

  In his human years, how many murderers had he dispatched? How many thieves? Rapists? Many from his time had believed the weight of the condemned’s vile deed passed over to the headsman upon death. No wonder the women of his village refused him. Despite the hood, they knew who he was. What he did. Even in the tavern, he’d sat alone, relegated to a tankard reserved solely for him so that no one else might have to drink from the same cup.

  ‘Are you not talking to me?’

  Her question brought him out of his thoughts. ‘What? No. I didn’t hear the question.’

  ‘I asked you to tell me about the night you were turned.’ Her shoulders lifted slightly. ‘If you want to.’

  ‘That’s not a story you need to hear now.’

  ‘Your persuasion doesn’t work on me, remember?’ She pulled the blanket up to her chin. ‘Besides, we might not have a later after this trip.’

  He focused on the weave of her blanket. If she wanted to know how he’d become a monster, so be it. ‘It was late, well after midnight, when I finally arrived home. I entered our cottage and went first to see … ’ He swallowed at the tightness in his throat. ‘I went first to see my daughter, Sofia. I always checked on her first.’

  ‘You had a child?’

  ‘Yes, I had a child.’ An angel. That’s what Sofia had been. Everything that was worthwhile in his world had narrowed to that tiny, giggling human being. The first time her soft hand had wrapped his pinkie finger, the fierceness of a thousand warriors had leaped up inside him with the need to protect her. And yet he’d watched her die.

  She shook her head. ‘Never mind, go ahead, I won’t interrupt again.’

  But he was too lost in the rising emotions of that night to care. The swell of fear, panic, helplessness, and grief would have suffocated him had he still been mortal. ‘A dark shape bent over Sofia’s bed. Too large to be Shaya. I grabbed him, pulled him away. Even in the moonlight coming through her window I could tell something was wrong with Sofia.’ His sweet angel had been as pale as the bed linens, her perfect rosebud mouth gray, her body limp.

  ‘The creature overpowered me. He bit me, started draining me. I cried out and the sound brought Shaya running in. The vampire left me and attacked her. I found enough strength to beat at him, but not enough to stop him. He finished with Shaya, then told me that one as strong as I would be perfect for his family. He tore at his own wrist and fed me his blood.’ The bitter memory ran down Mal’s throat. It was the last time the taste of blood had turned his stomach.

  ‘Power surged through me, and when I realized that he was saving me, I couldn’t stop drinking. I determined I would save Sofia and Shaya as well … ’ He’d thought only for them. For their salvation. ‘Too late, I tasted death in his veins. I had taken everything.

  ‘I mimicked what he’d done and fed Shaya from my own wrist. As soon as she revived, I scooped Sofia into my arms. There was still breath in her, still a trace of life. But then I couldn’t do it.’ He shook his head slowly and blinked hard, trying not to remember the exact moment the spark of life had died in his precious child’s eyes. Had she thought he’d let her die? Or had she understood what he’d saved her from? All the years he’d spent chained in that ruined dungeon couldn’t compare with the agony of not knowing.

  ‘I knew what I had become. I could not pass that curse to my own child. I could not damn my own flesh and blood.’ His innocent Sofia. Better she die and cross heaven’s threshold than live a cursed existence. Better he live with the guilt than she find out the monster he’d become. Or hate him for turning her into one too. ‘Shaya never let me forget I could have saved Sofia. Never.’

  ‘You made the right choice in a very hard decision.’

  He snorted softly, hating himself for that night all over again. Aching to feel Sofia’s arms around him once more. To hear her soft ‘Papa’ whispered in his ear. To inhale the scent of grass and sun in her hair after she’d been playing outside. Pain wracked his chest. Let Chrysabelle think what she wanted, but truth was truth. ‘Don’t romanticize it. I let Sofia die.’

  ‘At least Sofia had a chance to know you and Shaya. Comarré never know their parents. Or any of their blood family, for that matter. You gave her that much.’

  ‘What about your aunt?’

  ‘She’s not really my aunt, that’s just what we call the older comarrés, but she is the comarré who was assigned to me when I was born. She’s about the closest thing to a mother I’ve had.’ Chrysabelle picked at the blanket’s stitching. ‘What happened after you realized what you’d been turned into?’

  ‘I didn’t know anything about the curse involved in drinking one’s sire to death, but it didn’t take me long to figure out I couldn’t feed without killing.’ His lip curled. ‘I didn’t care. Drinking my victims to death gave me pleasure. I reveled in it. After all, I knew exactly what humans were capable of. Punishing their sins was my livelihood. At first, Shaya begged me to stop, to spare them. Then she joined me. The bodies we left behind meant we couldn’t stay in one place for long.’

  Chrysabelle showed no signs of disinterest, but he’d gone beyond the tale of his turning. ‘You want to know more?’

  ‘Yes.’ She bit her bottom lip. ‘If you don’t mind.’

  Did he mind? He wasn’t sure. Part of him wanted to keep his history to himself, but another part wanted someone to understand what he’d been through. To know how vile the n
obility could be. ‘Europe became our banquet hall. Out hunting one night in a small village, Shaya met a noble vampire and, after talking to him, determined that the vampire who’d turned us had been House of Tepes, one of the strongest of the noble Families. To our amazement, that meant we were noble as well.

  ‘The life this noble showed us was beyond our comprehension. Hidden cities devoted solely to vampire society. Mansions and servants, fine clothes, art, jewels. Shaya wanted to stay, but my inability to feed without killing undid me. When the others discovered I’d drained my sire, they pronounced me anathema. Some talked of chaining me in an open field and letting the sun take care of me. I had to go. So I slipped away and left Shaya there. It was a far better life than what I could give her. Besides that, my need to feed and kill grew stronger with each passing year. I was afraid if she stayed with me … ’

  ‘That you might kill her?’ Chrysabelle asked.

  He nodded. The fear had almost realized itself several times before he’d left Shaya. But he hadn’t harmed her, and that was all that mattered. ‘Then, about fifty years ago, a pair of nobles found me in northern England. Lord Ivan was one of them. They had Shaya with them. Said that my killing had gone on long enough, that I was making things difficult for all nobles. That my inability to control my bloodthirst risked rousing the kine against them all. If I didn’t go with them, they would kill Shaya. So I went.

  ‘They took me to a ruined fortress and pronounced my punishment. I would not be killed as vampire law holds that no vampire should kill another. Instead I would be chained in the dungeon and left to rot until the hunger drove me insane. They blindfolded me and shoved me to my knees. Shaya cursed and screamed, begged them to let us go. I heard them hit her, knock her down.

  ‘I begged them to spare her. They refused. She fought them hard.’ The plane disappeared, replaced by the crumbling castle walls. ‘I recognized the sound of the sword being pulled from its sheath. Shaya cried out. Air brushed my cheek as the blade sailed past me and met its target.

  ‘Blood spattered my face.’ The broken stones bit into his knees. ‘Shaya went quiet.’

  Blindfolded and shackled, he’d listened helplessly to the sound of her dropping to the ground, smelled her turn to bitter ash. Black ice sprang up through him, filling his veins and encasing his heart. She had been the last bastion against his accursed hunger. Removing her had opened a portal of surging hatred and murderous intent. In that moment, he became more of a monster than he’d ever been before.

  Had he not already been in chains, he would have killed every last one of them before destroying the village surrounding the ruins. Man, woman, and child, he would have ended every life he came upon.

  Chrysabelle’s soft voice broke through, the slightest quaver of horror evident in the timbre. ‘Oh, Mal. I’m so, so sorry for what they did.’

  He scrubbed a hand across his face. He was not in that dark place. Had not been there for a very long time. ‘Then they took me to the dungeon and chained me there as promised. The one who wasn’t Lord Ivan spoke an incantation over me – that was the curse that would give me these names and these voices – then they left, sealing the passage behind them.’

  ‘Holy mother,’ she whispered. A tear streaked down one cheek. ‘That’s where Fiona found you?’

  ‘Yes. And killing her triggered the second curse. It woke the voices and etched the names into my skin.’

  Dominic and Mortalis walked toward them. Company was the last thing he wanted. He nodded and shifted his body away. ‘Go to sleep.’

  A few moments later, a soft weight pressed his side. He scowled as he turned. Why couldn’t they just leave him alone? The sight of Chrysabelle’s blonde head using his shoulder as a pillow drained the temper out of him in a cold rush.

  He listened over the hum of the engines and the chatter in the cabin and focused on her breathing. Soft and steady. She slept. She’d probably have nightmares after what he’d told her.

  Hating his own weakness, he leaned in carefully so as not to disturb her and inhaled. Her perfume held more than just the allure of blood now, but he didn’t think on it for long. Thoughts about her, about the possibility of what could be between them, about what the future might hold, were pointless. His past proved that. His curse hung over him like a bird of prey waiting to snatch anything good from his life and devour it.

  He turned again to the window and closed his eyes. Even without the curse, there was no reason to think of her as anything more than a temporary blip on his radar, because if this trip went as he assumed it would, his future would end within Corvinestri’s walls.

  A hand jiggled Chrysabelle’s shoulder. Then a voice spoke from somewhere very close to her. ‘Time to wake up. We’re almost there.’

  Mal’s voice. The sudden rush of everything he’d told her swept over her. She wanted to comfort him, tell him everything would be okay, but none of that would help. She didn’t know everything would be okay. Doubted it, actually.

  She rubbed her eyes as she sat up, only to realize she’d been leaning against him. Sleeping on him. No wonder she’d dreamed of him. Of what he’d been like before he’d been turned. Of what it would have been like to … Her face began to heat. She’d not had those kinds of dreams about Algernon, that much was for sure.

  ‘I’m up.’ She stood under the pretense of stretching. Desperately, her mind searched for something else to think about other than the horrors Mal had endured. ‘How much longer before we get there?’

  Dominic sat across from them. If he had an opinion about her snuggling up with Mal, his face didn’t show it. ‘Forty, forty-five minutes. You need to strap in.’

  She shook her head and reached into the overhead for her bag and the two shopping bags of stuff Fi had purchased. ‘I’ve got to change first.’ She trekked to the bathroom, thankful for the excuse to put some space between her and Mal. After the tenderness of his last kiss, she’d been shocked. Now he’d confessed his past to her, then let her sleep on his shoulder. She was downright worried.

  Locking the door turned the bathroom light on automatically. Quite a bit different from the commercial jet she’d flown to get to the Americas in the first place, the bathroom on Dominic’s plane bordered on luxurious. The shower alone could have held three or four people. She set her bags on the polished glass countertop. The gold-backed mirror ran the length of the wall, reflecting her bedraggled image.

  She frowned. Her clothes were beyond ruined. Dirty, stained, speckled with blood. Even a few small tears. Completely unbecoming for a comarré. Madame Rennata might not even see her if she showed up looking like this. Chrysabelle stripped down to her underwear and used a damp washcloth to clean up as best she could. What a relief to have fresh clothes waiting for her.

  Time to see what Fi had gotten her, then she’d peel on her body armor and get dressed. She plunged her hands into the first shopping bag, reached beneath the tissue paper, and pulled out—

  Sweet heaven. She closed her eyes and sent up a silent prayer. Forgive me, holy mother, but I think I’m going to kill a mortal.

  Black leather pants with some kind of corset-style lacing on the back. Or the front, she couldn’t tell which. A matching leather vest and a long black leather duster lined with burgundy fabric. A tank top with a deeply scooped neckline. At least that was white, except for the flowered skull embroidered on the front. Three more tanks just like it in red, gray, and black – each with its own hideous embellishments. The urge to weep welled up like a hot bubble in Chrysabelle’s chest. The tanks would barely cover her cami bra.

  The second bag held a large shoe box. She pulled it out and tossed the lid away. Short, lug-soled black leather boots that zipped up the side. What were they called? Combat boots? Shaking slightly, she set the box on the counter next to the other unacceptable items.

  Disappointment weighed her down. The purchases were obviously Fi’s idea of cool, and for that, Chrysabelle did her best not to be angry. But these wouldn’t do. She just … couldn�
�t wear these things. The clothes reminded her of those worn by the pretenders at Puncture.

  She took a few calming breaths. In through the nose, out through the mouth. Then she called through the cracked door, ‘Fi! Could you come here, please?’

  Half a knock and Chrysabelle opened the door and pulled Fi into the bathroom.

  ‘Hey, what’s up?’ Fi smiled at the clothes laid out on the counter. ‘Hot threads, huh?’

  ‘About those.’ How to put this. ‘I’m not comfortable wearing such hot threads.’

  ‘Why not? You’ll look great in them. It’s what all the sexy vampire slayers are wearing.’ Fi scratched her arm, then her eyes went wide as if she suddenly realized Chrysabelle had on nothing but underwear. ‘Wow, you really are covered with those gold tattoos, aren’t you?’ She reached out toward the butterfly hovering near Chrysabelle’s navel.

  Chrysabelle backed up. ‘Too sexy is part of it. It’s also that comarré are only supposed to wear white. Just like I put on the list with my sizes, remember?’

  With a little grin, Fi shook her head. ‘I hate to tell you this, but all that long-sleeved, loose, and flowy white stuff makes you look like a Palm Beach grandma on her way to yoga.’

  Chrysabelle clutched the back of her neck and massaged the knotting muscles. ‘Fi, it’s what I’m used to. What I feel comfortable in. I know it must be hard to understand, but—’

  ‘Plus those clothes you wear are no good for fighting. A blade could slice right through that thin fabric.’

  ‘I’ve never trained in anything else. And I need those clothes to cover the body armor I’ll be wearing.’ By not covering it, she’d be breaking yet another rule.

  ‘Leather makes great body armor. Plus white gets dirty fast. Shows the blood.’ Fi frowned, her mouth bunched to one side. ‘I’m sorry you don’t like them, but trust me, you’re going to look great. Very intimidating.’