Blood Rights

by Painter, Kristen

  Everything decelerated into frame by frame slow motion. A crimson thread of liquid jetted through the needle. The scent of Chrysabelle’s blood replaced the air in the room. Mal’s head came up at the same time as Preacher’s. Fangs pierced the gaping maw of his mouth. Mal knew his face had gone feral and his eyes silver, a sure reminder to Preacher of the difference between them.

  Mal snarled a warning. Her scent alone was enough to intoxicate him, but the smell of her uncontained blood infected him like a virus. Her scent became his blood, his reason, his brain. Every inch of his flesh hummed with the drive to protect. Possess. The voices crammed his cerebrum with a frantic, high-pitched, jet engine whine. Blackness edged his vision, but this was no time to lose control. He shoved his demons back into his brain.

  ‘Mine,’ Preacher snarled back. ‘I need her.’

  ‘You need to be put down.’ Strength born of the moment surged through Mal. He landed a fist across Preacher’s jaw, throwing him into the wall. ‘Stay away from her.’

  The needle lay on the floor leaking an ever-widening pool across the linoleum. Preacher jumped to his feet, eyes flicking from Mal to Chrysabelle to the blood and back again. Mal vaulted over Chrysabelle and landed squarely between her and Preacher.

  Mal clenched his fists and roared, baring his fangs. ‘Back. Off.’

  Preacher threw a punch. Mal blocked with his left forearm and rammed his right fist into Preacher’s gut. He retched and went to his knees, bile dripping from his mouth.

  ‘Praying’s not going to help you now,’ Mal growled. In his peripheral vision, Doc helped Fi off the cot.

  ‘Preacher’s here?’ Fi asked, narrowing her eyes at the other vampire.

  ‘Yeah.’ Doc pushed her behind him. ‘I’ll explain later.’

  ‘Doc,’ Mal called over his shoulder. ‘Take both girls below.’

  Doc nodded as Preacher lunged to his feet and sprang forward. ‘She’s mine.’

  Mal snagged him around the neck and hurled him to the floor. Preacher hung on and they rolled together. Fi shrieked. Doc scooped a limp Chrysabelle into his arms and hustled her and Fi out the door as Mal came to his knees.

  ‘Hell spawn.’ Preacher’s fist pounded Mal’s cheek.

  Mal shook off the pain. ‘That the best you can do, jarhead?’ Amateur. What he wouldn’t give for a weapon. Or a quart of blood. His muscles were starting to tremble from exhaustion.

  ‘Get staked, anathema,’ Preacher growled.

  ‘You fringe don’t know when to quit.’ Mal clipped Preacher in the temple, opening a cut and snapping his head back until the floor stopped it. Hitting something beside the heavy bag, something that bled, felt good. With Chrysabelle out of the room, and the added bitterness of Preacher’s blood, his brain was starting to clear.

  ‘Her blood is pure. She should belong to someone worthy.’ Preacher shoved his combat boots into Mal’s chest, thrusting him back and cracking a few ribs. The pain barely registered.

  ‘You’ve outstayed your welcome, altar boy.’ Mal rolled to his feet. Preacher was a second behind him. They faced off, circling.

  ‘Give her to me and I’ll leave.’

  Mal realized he had no idea if the transfusion had helped Chrysabelle or not. Time to bring this to a close. ‘You go home alone.’

  Mimicking the combo he’d used on the bag earlier, he hit Preacher again and again until blood covered his fists. His or Preacher’s, he wasn’t sure. Preacher staggered back against the wall. His head wobbled on his neck like a doll’s, then he slumped to the floor.

  ‘Age plus nobility always equals a win. I tried to tell you that last time.’ Mal grabbed Preacher by the belt, his doctor bag by the handles, and dragged them both out of the room. He kept going until he hit the end of the pier, then he dumped Preacher and threw his bag to the ground beside him. ‘Consider that your last chance to cleanse me.’

  He slogged back to the ship to check on Chrysabelle. Fatigue overtook him as the exhilaration from the fight disappeared. Pain started to register. His right eye was swelling. He probed his ribs through his shirt. Two broken. Good thing he didn’t have to breathe. That was going to hurt in the morning. Or whenever he woke up after he collapsed into bed.

  Back on board, he winced as he wiped his bloody hands on his pants. He followed Chrysabelle’s scent toward the room Doc had taken her to. A few doors away, and he knew Doc wasn’t done punishing him for what happened to Fi.

  Sleeping in his own bed was no longer an option. Chrysabelle was already in it.

  Tatiana couldn’t take her eyes off the mansion even as she slipped through the car door Octavian held open. Hers. Very soon. Especially now that she had a possible clue as to where the comarré might—

  ‘Hello, child.’

  If she’d been less focused on the future and more on the present, she would have recognized his scent before she’d heard his voice. If the sound of words being dragged over gravel and broken glass could be called a voice.

  Not now. She didn’t have time for this now. Not when she was so close to finding the comarré. She could scatter, but they’d find her. They always did. There was no running from the Castus Sanguis. She bowed her head in obeisance and shifted on the leather seat to face him.

  ‘My lord.’

  He offered his hand. Dutifully, she kissed his ring, careful to touch as little of his skin as possible.

  ‘You seem troubled.’ The voice came from deep within the hooded black cape. No visible face, which suited her fine. She’d seen his face. Once was enough.

  ‘No, my lord, just … I have a lot on my mind.’ She concentrated on not gagging from the stench of sulfur and gangrenous flesh.

  ‘Ah. Then you may not be able to focus as much as I’d like on this plane.’

  After her first trip to his dimension, she’d vowed never to return if she could help it. ‘My lord, please, I’m fine.’ She reached behind her neck, found the clasp of her locket, and released it, letting it fall from beneath her blouse to the car’s seat. She would not lose that memory again.

  He twisted the amber gem in his ring and the world around her swirled away. She fought to maintain consciousness but when the blackness lightened to charcoal, she knew she hadn’t. The glassy black walls and disappearing corners were not her dimension. She was in theirs. And at their will.

  She tested her surroundings. Not bound. That was something. Not that she could run. Where would she go? She was a rat, confined by an inescapable maze. She stretched her arms out, feeling for what was beneath her.

  A bed. Her stomach churned. Not again. Please, not again. The last time it had taken her nearly a month to recover.

  He approached, robe gone. Her memories of him had not been exaggerated. Veins throbbed with blood so powerful and ancient it had given birth to three races. A skirt of shadows covered him from the waist down, hiding his hooved feet. Behind him, knots of darkness hovered. His brethren. He circled the bed, giving her a glimpse of his back where the blackened stumps from his torn-away wings still thrust from his shoulders.

  ‘We sense that the ring has not come into your possession as promised.’

  ‘It will, master. I will have it very soon.’

  He spun, jaws extended, rows of fangs jutting forward. ‘You should have it already.’ Spittle stung her face.

  ‘It was … ’ No, no, that was not the right answer. If the Castus Sanguis found out about the girl, they would be furious. If they got to her first … ‘Yes, master, I should. I failed you, but I will redeem myself.’

  He relaxed. ‘Yes, we have faith you will. Or we will find another.’ He continued circling. The scrape of his hooves abraded her nerves.

  ‘We don’t want to find another, child. You understand that. But we want the covenant abolished as soon as possible.’

  ‘As do I, my liege.’ Neither did she want to give up the power that would be hers. She’d been through too much already. She braced herself for whatever he might deal her. For such power, she could withstand anythi
ng. She repeated the word like a mantra. Anything, anything …

  ‘Good. Do you have a sacrifice in place? You know what we require—’

  ‘The light and the dark shall collide, and the covenant shall be broken.’ She quoted the old text, knowing it would please him and hoping it would hide the fact that she had no sacrifice and no idea where to get it.

  ‘Yes, that is the way of it. You are the darkest of all our children, the one in whom we are most pleased.’ The shadows disappeared from his lower half. An unstoppable shudder ran through her at the sight of him. Her words had pleased him more than she’d expected. She swallowed a mouthful of bile. He kneeled on the bed and ran a claw up her thigh. She shivered and his mouth pulled back in a frightening smile.

  ‘Your pound of flesh is due.’

  Chapter Thirteen

  Mal’s scent tugged Chrysabelle from her dreams, waking her with the cool promise of more. She opened her eyes to slits. Definitely not the cot she’d slept in the other night. Too comfortable. She was on her side in this strange bed, staring at a wall of old books. A soft circle of light washed over her from a squat candle under a hurricane lantern on the night table.

  And everything – the bed linens, the air, her skin – smelled like the vampire’s dark, spicy scent. Wait. That must mean this was his bed. Oh no. No, no, no. She held her breath for a moment as the possibilities made her blush with horror. The blood sickness. Sweet holy mother, what had she done?

  She forced that horrible prospect out of her head and took stock of herself. Her head was clear. The fever gone. Her body held no unfamiliar soreness, except … a faint pang in her arm and a dull throb in her foot.

  Using her elbows, she pushed to a sitting position and extended her bare arm. The covers fell down around her waist. Air cooled her skin and her signum winked back in the candlelight. Why was she only in her bra and – she lifted the sheet – underwear? First things first. On her arm, medical tape held a puff of cotton to the inside of her elbow. She hooked her nail underneath and peeled it off. A tiny pinpoint of red marked her skin.

  Not only had someone stripped her down to her underwear, they’d drained her. At once she felt relieved and violated and scared. Who had undressed her? How had they … disposed of the excess blood? That blood was hers to give or not. Those rights reverted back to her with Algernon’s death. Had the vampire … She closed her eyes against the thought and inhaled in hopes of finding some calm before investigating her foot. The thickness of his scent spoiled the air for a proper breath. Please, don’t let my freedom be so short-lived.

  The tiniest sound, like skin brushing leather, brought her head up. Beyond the circle of light, all was black, but in the far corner, the shadows were darker than the rest.

  No wonder his scent choked her. He was in the room, watching.

  She tugged the sheet to her throat, covering all but the signum on her hands. She glared in his direction. ‘Show yourself.’

  Light flared as he struck a match and lit a squat candle on the small table beside him. ‘Didn’t want to disturb your sleep.’ He shook the match out. The extra glow illuminated more of the room. Additional shelves, all packed with books. Any bare space on the walls held a collection of long swords. Other than that, there was nothing personal, nothing to indicate the room’s occupant held anything or anyone dear.

  ‘So you left a candle burning on the table next to me?’ She tucked her knees to her chest. ‘Your concern is touching.’ And his need to watch her unnerving. He’d left that candle lit to see her better. And her signum too, no doubt.

  Silver shifted through his eyes. ‘You’re feeling better.’ He stood, and without invitation moved his leather chair next to the bed. A bruise grayed his left cheek and surrounded his eye. And he’d shaved, revealing a hard jaw.

  ‘Who undressed me?’

  ‘You did.’

  She didn’t remember doing that, but better than at someone else’s hands. She peered over the edge of the bed. Nothing. ‘Where are my clothes? I’d like to put them back on.’

  ‘They’re in the gym.’ Mal’s eyes stayed on her face, but he’d probably seen his fill of the rest of her last night.

  ‘Why are they—’

  ‘You didn’t want them, and when you passed out, it became a nonissue.’

  ‘I took my clothes off in the gym.’ And he’d obviously been there to witness it, which meant he’d seen her signum. All of them. Mortification heated her cheeks.

  ‘No, you took your clothes off in the holding cell. Not sure if that happened before or after you kicked the door down.’

  She pressed her forehead to her knees and fought the shame burning her eyes. ‘Leave me alone.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Get out.’ She yelled the words into the sheet.

  ‘Not until we talk.’

  ‘I’m done talking.’ She sniffed, hating her own weakness.

  ‘You haven’t begun to talk, Chrysabelle.’

  She looked up. ‘How do you know that name?’

  ‘You corrected me when I called you Anna yesterday.’

  Self-pity turned to anger. ‘Did everyone get a good look at my signum yesterday too? I’m sure that gave you a nice thrill, hmm? Watching the blood-drunk comarré stumble around half-naked?’ She clenched her jaw against the rage. She wanted to hit something. Anything. Him. ‘You’re a monster.’

  ‘Yes, I am.’ He leaned back. ‘And yet you’re in my bed, broken foot tended, fever free, and clearheaded enough to vent all over me.’ He kicked his feet up on the edge of the mattress. ‘Go ahead, I think I can manage not to walk into the sun from the guilt.’

  ‘You think this is funny?’ She tugged the sheet free, knocking his legs off the bed, and wrapped it around herself. ‘I’m leaving.’

  ‘Suit yourself.’ He grabbed the corner of the sheet and yanked it off her, spinning her on her good foot. ‘But the sheet is mine. It stays.’

  His eyes didn’t keep to her face this time. ‘Not sure which one of us has more marks. I like yours a hell of a lot more than mine.’ Tossing the sheet to the foot of the bed, he got up, walked back to the small table, and picked up a book. He kept his back to her while he paged through it. ‘You can get back in bed and rest, or I’ll carry you to another room and you can rest there, but you’re not leaving and we both know it.’

  Carry her? ‘I am leaving.’ Although her foot had begun to throb harder.

  ‘To go where?’

  ‘Back to my au—my friend’s house.’

  ‘If someone’s after you, would you take that danger back to your friend?’ He waited and when she didn’t answer, continued. ‘You obviously came here for a reason. What is it?’

  She tried to see into his thick head. ‘Why do you want to help me all of a sudden?’

  He flipped a page. ‘Didn’t say I would help. But I will listen. After what you did for Fi, I’ll do that much.’

  ‘I want my clothes.’ She paused. ‘After I did what for Fi?’

  ‘You tore your shirt down the middle, but your pants are still—’

  ‘After I did what for Fi?’

  ‘Your blood. She’s been solid ever since. Without working at it either.’

  ‘You … you put my blood into her?’ She collapsed onto the bed, no longer caring if she was half-naked. He’d taken her blood, then given it away like it was his to give. That was not supposed to happen. Did that even count? ‘My blood. You put my blood into a ghost?’

  ‘She was corporeal at the time.’ He turned around. ‘It seemed like the best solution for both of you.’ He scowled. ‘Plus I owed Fi.’

  She shook her head, disbelief clogging her throat. ‘That was my blood. Mine to give or not. You had no right to do what you did.’

  He took a step toward her. ‘So we should have let you die? Because that’s the direction you were headed in.’ Then another step. ‘Or are you just disappointed because I didn’t personally suck it out of you? Maybe I should have given in to you in the gym and done what
you were begging me to do.’

  ‘Stop.’ She bent her head and wished she could hide. Wished she’d never come to this horrid city. Wished Algernon was still alive. ‘No.’

  ‘We did what we thought best. None of us are comarré experts, and you haven’t exactly given us much to go on.’

  She studied the leafy tendrils of signum curling up her thighs. Loathing the way they tied her to so much power and responsibility. She didn’t want it. Not anymore. Not ever again. ‘I want my clothes.’

  ‘Here.’ A flutter of movement, and a black T-shirt landed in her lap. It was oddly cool and redolent with his scent. She glanced up. He was bare-chested. The names written on him seemed as much a part of the shadows as he was, moving and flickering with the candlelight. Pulling her gaze from him was difficult, but she knew what it meant to be stared at. Neither did she want to give him the satisfaction of thinking she found anything about him interesting. Because she didn’t, despite the fact that she’d never seen a naked male torso before his.

  ‘I don’t wear black.’ She bent down to hide herself and pulled the shirt on anyway.

  ‘Some of us have no choice.’ Book under his arm, he returned to the chair and settled in. He put the book on his lap and held out his hand. ‘Give me one of those pillows.’

  She tossed one to him, then pointed at the bruise on his cheek. ‘Did I do that?’

  ‘No, but it amuses me that you think you could have. You have a rather lofty opinion of yourself, don’t you, comarré?’ He arranged the pillow at the bottom of the bed, then patted it. ‘Foot.’

  She kept her mouth shut and frowned. He read her curious look correctly. ‘It’s supposed to be elevated.’

  Reluctantly, she stretched her leg across the sateen sheets. Not silk, but not a bad substitute. At least he found money for the important things. He caught her ankle and held it in his hand as he stuffed the pillow beneath. The touch was less unpleasant than she’d hoped it would be. ‘There. Now, who’s after you?’