Gemini haerbinger were rare. When twin haerbinger fae were born, one twin carried the power to read futures while the other carried no power at all, but unless the gifted twin’s blood remained pure, the gift would be lost. Which meant feeding from the ungifted twin. Usually, the ungifted twin killed the other.
Before Pasha could respond, Satima sidled up to him, sliding her arms around his waist and pressing the length of her body against him. She kissed his neck and winked at Chrysabelle. ‘Dominic will see you now.’
‘Very good.’ Freaks. She turned to get Mal. He was holding Ronan off the floor by his throat. ‘Satima said—’
‘I heard.’ Jerking his arm, he threw Ronan into a flank of low couches, scattering patrons. Mal smoothed his coat. ‘After you.’
They followed Satima and Pasha until it became clear the twins were taking them to the door to Wrath.
‘There are other ways to Dominic’s office.’ Mal’s voice grated with an undercurrent of anger.
Satima shrugged. ‘He asked me to bring you this way.’
Liar, Chrysabelle wanted to shout. Even without the true connection of patron and comarré, she could feel Mal’s discomfort. Was there something behind that door he feared or was it the temptation of wrath itself? She reached for his forearm and gave the corded muscle a squeeze.
Satima laughed. ‘How touching. Look, Pasha, the pretty one seeks to reassure her master. So precious.’
Chrysabelle snatched her hand back. ‘Take us to Dominic. Now.’
Pasha’s grin softened. ‘Or what? You’ll get us drunk on your blood?’
‘Enough.’ Mal silenced the twins. He shot a dark glance at Chrysabelle, but she refused to acknowledge his displeasure. So touching him was the wrong thing to do. It wouldn’t happen again.
‘Fine.’ Satima sniffed. They didn’t stop until they stood before the scarred metal door to Wrath and its fae guard.
Mal cursed under his breath then nodded. ‘Mortalis.’
The shadeux fae notched his head slightly to one side, his murky green eyes unblinking. His six-fingered grip tightened around one of the blades tucked into his belt. ‘Malkolm.’
Chrysabelle had never seen a real live shadeux, only drawings. The horns that curled from his forehead down to his jaw line had been capped in filigreed silver, but their points were as sharp as daggers. He was charcoal-blue wherever leather didn’t cover skin, and the high-pointed tips of his ears, also capped in filigree, peaked through his ebony shag. The hilts of a matched pair of fae thinblades jutted over his shoulders. His stormy-sea eyes shifted to her. ‘Comarré.’
She lifted her chin slightly. This creature would not cow her, no matter that his visible blades outnumbered her hidden ones. ‘Shadeux.’
His thin mouth angled at one side, then smoothed out. He returned his attention to Mal and gestured him closer, holding a hand up to the twins to keep them back. Chrysabelle stayed with Mal. The fae kept his voice low. ‘Your comarré is armed.’
‘So are you,’ Chrysabelle whispered back through gritted teeth.
Mal grabbed her arm without taking his eyes off the fae. His fingers pressed the sheath of her wrist blade into her skin. ‘Name your price.’
Chrysabelle tugged her arm away, giving Mal her most evil glare. Unfortunately, he wasn’t looking at her.
The fae stared at her then shook his head. ‘Your comarré is poorly behaved.’
‘Thanks for the bulletin. You going to let us pass or not?’
‘For one of her varcolai bone blades, yes.’
Now Mal’s attention was on her. His eyes held a million things – surprise, distrust, anger. ‘Give him one.’
‘No.’ She was already woefully under-armed.
The fae crossed his arms. Barbs protruded along the lengths of his forearms. ‘Then no access.’
Chrysabelle advanced until the barbs were a breath away, then lowered her voice and pinned his gaze with hers, hoping the thumping music would keep her words from being overheard. ‘Let us in to see Dominic or you’ll have more access to my blades than you want, understood?’
The fae just stared. Chrysabelle’s body tensed, a thousand different fight scenarios cycling through her brain. He dipped his chin. ‘Foolish or brave, I do not know.’ He reached behind him and opened the door. ‘Go.’
She pushed through, keeping watch on the shadeux until Mal blocked her view. The twins did not follow. The downward sloping passage was narrow and hot and lit with red phosphorescent coating on the walls and ceiling, bringing to mind the entrance to hell.
Mal grabbed her shoulder, turning her. ‘What did you say to Mortalis?’
‘I threatened him. Why, is he an old friend of yours?’
His hand left her shoulder. If her mocking tone bothered him, he didn’t show it. ‘Do you know what a shadeux fae is capable of?’
How stupid did he think she was? Anyone remotely other-natural knew what a shadeux fae could do. ‘You mean the way they can latch onto your soul and suck it out of you, or the way they can slip inside a soulless creature and kill it before it even knows they’re there?’
He grunted. ‘Are you really carrying varcolai bone blades?’
‘Yes.’
‘Why varcolai?’
‘Remember how it burned when I sank one into your shoulder?’
He frowned. ‘Yes.’
That should be enough explanation. ‘Doc doesn’t need to know, understand?’ Her victory with the shadeux spurred new confidence. She turned to go. ‘We’re wasting time. Which way?’
He grabbed her again, this time pulling her to him. ‘Don’t ever do anything so foolish again.’
She laughed softly, but inside her nerves tingled hot and wary. ‘Your concern is touching, but I don’t need protecting. I don’t know what your experience with women has been, but when it comes to me, don’t apply it. I’m not like any woman you’ve ever known.’ She struggled to break the bonds of his hands. ‘Do you think we could get on with it? My aunt’s life is at stake.’
His grip tightened, and he brought his face within inches of hers. ‘So is yours.’ The red phosphorescence gave him a devilish glow. It suited him. Made her body ache to be bitten.
She shook her head, searching for something, anything, to diffuse the prickly heat of being so close to him. ‘If this is what you think passes for romance, no wonder you don’t have a woman.’
‘Romance? Why the hell would I romance you?’ He barked out a short, humorless laugh. ‘And getting a woman isn’t the problem. It’s keeping them alive.’
Chapter Twenty-two
Glad Chrysabelle didn’t respond, Mal strode past her, trying to deny the odd feeling of uncertainty building in his gut. Other than himself, he had never known anyone to face down Mortalis and live. Did he really want this woman at his back? No. The voices whined like hungry children.
He looked over his shoulder. She chewed her bottom lip. Not exactly the picture of a fear-inducing warrior. He cocked his head. ‘This way.’
How many times had he walked this passage, knowing what lay ahead meant pain and humiliation? Not enough. How many times had he done it to survive? How many times had he done it, half-hoping he wouldn’t?
Taking Chrysabelle’s blood meant never facing that kind of sacrifice again, but her blood came with too many strings. Too many! Too many! Drain her now. Of all the bloodsucking beings under the covenant, he was the last one who should be responsible for a human life. The voices roared their approval.
The passage widened. The jeers and cheers of a distant crowd threaded his memories as his steps took him closer to the Pits. He’d always dreaded this walk, but this time the dread clawed into him, shredding his resolve. He shook his head; the sounds of the crowds remained. Hell. The sounds weren’t just memories. The Pits were in use, and in a few yards he’d have to decide which way to take Chrysabelle – through them or through the holding cells. The crowds would probably ignore her if he kept her close and they didn’t look too hard, but she’d se
e into the Pits, see the match raging below, the beings within desperate to maim or kill in order to claim victory and the purse attached to it. Taking her through the holding cells would mean walking her past the combatants awaiting their turns. They would not ignore her. And she would know he’d once been behind those bars. Animal.
He preferred neither direction, but there was no other way to get to Dominic at this point. He stopped to weigh the choice. Chrysabelle’s soft form collided with his.
‘Hey,’ she muttered. ‘You could give a person some warning.’ She tucked her fingers into the strap of her sword. The red phosphorescence gave her signum the glint of live flame. ‘Judging by the lack of any discernable office, I’m guessing we’re not there yet, so why did we stop?’
‘You talk a lot.’ So silence her.
‘And you don’t answer questions.’
He ground his back teeth together. ‘We have to go through the Pits to get to Dominic. Stay close, don’t talk to anyone, keep your eyes on me.’
Her mouth bunched to one side. ‘You really don’t get it, do you? I’m not helpless.’ She rolled her eyes and shook her head. ‘Can we just go?’
‘That’s what I’ve been trying to do.’
She snorted. ‘Right.’
He whirled. ‘You think I’m trying to drag this out for some reason? That I want you around any longer than necessary?’ All that blood, yours for the drinking. ‘Things have to be done a certain way here. You should understand protocol.’ He retook the route to the Pits, fists clenched. Bothersome woman.
‘Protocol and stalling are two different things, vampire.’
He said nothing, kept marching. Footsteps rushed up behind him. She snagged his arm. He yanked it away, pace unaltered. ‘Stay close, don’t talk to anyone, keep your eyes on me.’
‘I heard you the first time.’ She marched beside him, righteous anger wafting off her in hot waves. ‘I don’t know why you have to be so—’
‘Quiet.’ He put his arm out to stop her before she pushed through the doors that led into the Pits. A sudden cheer rose from behind them, and her eyebrows lifted. The place sounded packed, the crowd bloodthirsty. Chrysabelle bobbed her head, trying to see through the crack between the doors. He moved in front of her, catching her eyes. ‘How would a patron typically indicate his possession of a comarré?’
Her eyes narrowed. ‘Why?’
The back of his head throbbed. The voices laughed, taking delight in his pain. ‘Once we get inside, it needs to be very clear that you are not available.’
She crossed her arms. ‘There’s a ceremonial collar, but that’s not going to help you now.’
‘What else?’ Bite her. Drink her. Drain her.
Her mouth firmed into a hard narrow line.
‘What?’ Ramming his fist into the concrete wall would be less painful. ‘Tell me or I swear—’
‘Your hand on the back of my neck.’ She swallowed like she’d just downed a mouthful of bad eggs.
‘Your sword might get in the way of that.’
She perked up, shrugging with an all too obvious joy. ‘You asked.’
‘Stay close.’ He grabbed her forearm, feeling the business end of one hidden blade.
‘I know the drill.’
He just hoped she’d follow it. Leading with his shoulder, he pushed through the double doors and into one of the many places he’d never intended to return.
The din swelled up around them, a fog of noise that blended into a cacophonous gray cushion between him and the voices. At least that was a plus. He kept to the wall, but the stadium setup meant the view was good at any angle, despite the shoulder-to-shoulder audience. The twenty-foot-wide pit currently held a fringe vamp and a remnant. Judging from the creature’s six-clawed hands, horns and gold eyes, he was some sort of shadeux or smokesinger fae mixed with varcolai. The remnant lunged, driving the fringe back into the chains of iron and silver that ringed the arena. His cry of pain as the silver bit into his flesh barely registered above the crowd’s noise. Mal’s back burned in remembrance. Silver for vampires and varcolai, iron for fae. Both for remnants if their blood was unlucky.
‘Ow,’ Chrysabelle said softly, prying at his fingers where his hand clasped her arm.
Her whisper filled his head, blanked out the memories that had nearly caused him to forget her presence.
‘You’re hurting me.’ She stared, peering into him like he’d suddenly become transparent.
Surrounded by the dirty concrete walls and hazy air, her eyes seemed bluer than he remembered. Her face more beautiful compared to the ugliness around them. He eased his grip. ‘I didn’t mean to.’ He hadn’t meant to come to a stop either, but they had.
‘You fought here, I take it.’
‘Yes.’ What point was there in denying it? She’d heard what had been said in the club.
A fresh cheer went up from the crowd. Mal turned in time to see the remnant lift the bloody threads that had once been the fringe’s throat, then the remains went to ash, trickling from the remnant’s fingers.
The spectators turned to one another, exchanging congratulations and commiserations as bets were cashed in. A few glanced in the direction of Mal and Chrysabelle. Their eyes skimmed him to stop on her. One fringe deliberately inhaled. His eyes fluttered closed, then widened with hunger. His body tensed into a slight crouch.
Mal propelled Chrysabelle toward the door at the other end. ‘Go.’
The fringe landed in front of them. ‘Haven’t seen you around here in a long time, Malkolm.’
Mal’s hand slid beneath her hair to clasp the back of her neck, barely avoiding her sword. Heat radiated off it, prickling his skin. Her pulse jacked higher.
‘Move, fringe.’ He couldn’t come up with a name, but the Pits were always crowded. He couldn’t be expected to know the name of every lowlife who’d ever seen him fight.
The fringe stayed put. ‘Looks like you’ve got yourself a pet.’ He tipped his head, smiled, and ran his tongue over his fangs. ‘What have we got here? A new flavor of comarré? Dominic’s been holding out on us.’
Three rows deep into the crowd all eyes were on them. ‘I said move. I won’t say it again.’ Beneath his fingers, Chrysabelle’s pulse smoothed out. His gut told him that was a signal. Of what, he didn’t know.
He figured it out when her fingers brushed his knuckles on the way to her sword. He snagged her pinkie with his and brought her face around. ‘I will deal with this.’
For a moment, her lips ground against each other in a thin line. ‘As you wish.’ Her hand slipped back to her side, but her eyes held deadly intent.
The fringe laughed softly and dug a wad of worn plastic bills from his pocket. ‘How much for a taste?’
The sudden urge to reassure Chrysabelle, to tell her everything would be all right, staggered Mal. The voices, barely audible over the din, moaned. This was not the time to contemplate the meaning of such thoughts. Keeping Chrysabelle on his right, he ignored the fringe and pushed past him.
‘I asked you a question, Malkolm.’
Some fringe didn’t know when to give up. Mal kept Chrysabelle headed for the door. The air on his left shifted, telegraphing the fringe’s move. Mal feinted to avoid the fist as it shot past, then grabbed the fringe’s arm and snapped it cleanly.
The fringe howled. The crowd closed in around them. Damn. Maybe the holding cells would have been a better choice. Too late now. He held up his free hand, his other still securely fastened to Chrysabelle’s neck and burning like fire from being so close to her blade. ‘Back up and let us through and no one gets ashed.’
The crowd went still. A second later, familiar laughter broke the silence. Bodies parted and Katsumi, fringe vamp and former wife of a yakuza boss, strode through shaking her head. When she stood apart from the crowd, she stopped and smoothed the high-necked, long-sleeved black gown that hid a full body suit of tattoos. ‘Malkolm.’
‘Ane-san.’ Little sister, once a yakuza term of respect, now he used it
to needle her. Back in the day, Katsumi had made mountains of yen off Mal’s fights. So much so that she’d shared a portion of her take with him. Enough to keep his strength up. Enough to keep him fighting.
She clicked nine long crimson nails together, the pinkie on her left hand missing from the last knuckle, a yakuza ritual done to atone. For what, Mal didn’t know. ‘Have you come back to fight?’
‘No.’
Her nails stopped. ‘You’re sure? Not even one?’
‘No.’
‘Pity. What then?’
‘Not your business.’ He took his hand from Chrysabelle’s neck to move in front of her. Katsumi was not known for delaying her gratification.
She smiled, mouth closed. ‘No, I suppose it isn’t.’ Turning back into the crowd, she waved her pinkieless hand in the air as if stirring an already boiling pot. ‘Kill him then.’
The roar deafened, the surge of bodies like a crashing wall of fangs and fists. A high, piercing cry cut through the bedlam. Chrysabelle. She leaped into position next to him, wielding her sword one-handed. Her other hand found his, pressed a bone dagger into his palm.
‘Take it.’
It stung, but he didn’t argue. There would be time later, when the killing was done and Chrysabelle was safe.
The fringe with the broken arm came at them first, sneering at Chrysabelle. A distant look glazed her face. Like she’d detached. That could be very bad. She tossed her sword into the air, reversed her grip on the hilt as it came down, then rammed the blade into the fringe’s heart. His sneer vanished into ash. Maybe detached was good. Depending on which side you were on.
She flipped her grip on the weapon again, this time waving the blade at the suddenly hesitant crowd. ‘Who’s next?’
Mal eyed her with new appreciation. She hadn’t flinched at killing the fringe. More than that, she’d done it with a steady hand and an unnerving grace. Maybe she deserved a little more credit for her training.
‘No one is next.’ The words echoed in the new silence, reverberating threat and menace.
Blood Rights Page 21
