Mal wanted more than blood from her. She knew that. Understood it more than he probably realized. He wanted his freedom.
Freedom she’d hinted she could provide by way of the Aurelian, but she’d yet to contact the ancient historian. She would. Just not yet. She couldn’t return to Corvinestri while Tatiana still lived. Chrysabelle wasn’t even sure if the Primoris Domus would open its doors to her again after the rules she’d broken and secrets she’d revealed. Did they even still consider her comarré?
With Mikkel dead, a visit to the Aurelian might be the only way to find out how to remove Mal’s curse. He’d upheld his end of their bargain, now she owed him to uphold hers.
Her fingers strayed to the ring hanging on the chain around her neck. If Tatiana didn’t find a way to kill her first, Chrysabelle would pay that debt.
Someday.
Soon.
Glossary
Anathema: a noble vampire who has been cast out of noble society for some reason.
Aurelian: the comarré historian.
Castus Sanguis: the fallen angels, from which the othernatural races descend.
Comarré/comar: a human hybrid species especially bred to serve the blood needs of the noble vampire race.
Dominus: the ruling head of a noble vampire family.
Elder: the second in command to a Dominus.
Fae: a race of othernatural beings descended from fallen angels and nature.
Fringe vampires: a race of lesser vampires descended from the cursed Judas Iscariot.
Kine: an archaic vampire term for humans.
Libertas: the ritual in which a comarré can fight for their independence. Ends in death of comarré or patron.
Navitas: the ritual in which a vampire can be resired by another, to change family lines or turn a fringe noble.
Noble vampires: a powerful race of vampires descended from fallen angels.
Nothos: hellhounds.
Patronus/patron: a noble vampire who purchases a comarré’s blood rights.
Remnant: a hybrid of different species of fae and/or varcolai.
Sacre: the ceremonial sword of the comarré.
Signum: the inlaid gold tattoos or marks put into comarré skin to purify their blood.
Vampling: a newly turned or young vampire.
Varcolai: a race of shifters descended from fallen angels and animals.
Acknowledgments
I must thank my brother, Matt, for letting me pick his brain about ships; my mom and dad for their unwavering support and constant checking of my writing progress; my agent, Elaine, for her tremendous belief in me and general awesomeness; my friend Laura, whose encouragement and insistence that my agent actually see this book even though I told her I was only writing it to amuse myself were instrumental in its publication; Carrie, Carolyn, Leigh, Briana, and Dayna for reading some of the early versions and pronouncing it worthy; Alessandro and Kimberly Menozzi for their Italian translations; Bob Rivera for his Latin translations; Maria for her medical help; the staff at Romance Divas for keeping things going when I was in my writing cave; and the fabulous duo of Rocki and Louisa, who keep me going, and keep me sane. All writers should be blessed with such friends and family as I have.
Also, great thanks to my editor, Devi, her assistant, Jennifer, and the entire publishing team at Orbit, without whom this book would not have seen the light of day, nor would it have been graced with such an amazing cover. You are a pretty awesome group.
Lastly, the biggest thanks of all goes to my husband, Rick, for understanding that deadlines sometimes mean dinner comes from the drive-thru and the cleaning must be done by an outside source. You’re my hero in so many ways. I love you.
extras
about the author
Kristen Painter’s writing résumé boasts multiple Golden Heart nominations and advance praise from a handful of bestselling authors, including Gena Showalter and Roxanne St. Claire. Having lived in New York and now in Florida, Kristen has a wealth of fascinating experiences from which to flavor her stories, including time spent working in fashion for Christian Dior and as a maître d’ for Wolfgang Puck. Her website is at kristenpainter.com and on twitter @Kristen_Painter.
Find out more about Kristen Painter and other Orbit authors by registering for the free monthly news -letter at www.orbitbooks.net
interview
Have you always been a writer?
I’ve dabbled in art, advertising, the food industry, modeling, teaching, you name it, I probably did it as a summer job. Despite those other jobs, I have always been a writer. Maybe not with the same proliferation that I have now, but I’ve never been far from pen and paper, keyboard and monitor. It’s just part of who I am, a storyteller. Of course, I’ve gone from telling stories about my cats and pinecones that come to life and moved on to characters I hope people find a little more interesting.
How did you come up for the idea of the comarré?
Years ago – like college years ago – I had this idea about a mysterious girl with a gold butterfly tattoo that marked her as an assassin. But it was just an idea, strong enough to stick with me but not enough to turn into a book. It wasn’t until the rest of the story hit me many years later that I could truly see who she was and what her world was like. Chrysabelle and Mal grew out of those first tendrils of thought, eventually taking over in a way that surprised even me. And now, to see Chrysabelle realized on the cover in such a stunning way … I have to say that’s the realization of a dream.
Why Paradise City?
I knew I wanted to set the book in Florida since I live here and I love the area, but I didn’t want to set it in an existing city. I decided to reimagine Miami, a Miami of the future where things weren’t as bright as they were once upon a time. Paradise City seems like a place that is trying very hard to be something more than it is, trying to live up to its name and struggling with that just a little. The perfect place to loose the kind of chaos that makes urban fantasy such a fun read.
What do you do when you’re not writing?
This is that ‘free time’ thing people are always talking about, isn’t it? Besides struggling to get some kind of regular exercise, I do a few other things that aren’t writing. It probably goes without saying that I love to read, but I also love to cook. I make jewelry too – I find it’s really nice to do something different with my hands than rap on a keyboard all day. I’ve been known to spend entire days watching movies too. As a writer, I think it’s really important to refill the creative well through a variety of sources, whether that be walking on the beach, playing with my cats, or challenging my husband to some Wii. Or shopping. Retail therapy can be very good for the writer’s soul.
How much of you is in your characters?
That’s an interesting question. Is there anyone who doesn’t know the pain of loss? The shiver of fear? The joy of victory? I like to think my characters draw on all human experiences, not just my own, but of course, my experiences are going to shape them to some extent. Not entirely though. I mean, I’ve never killed someone, but that hasn’t stopped me from offing people in my books. Is it wrong to say I find that rather enjoyable?
Have you ever wanted to be a vampire?
On the one hand, it would be ridiculously cool to be able to scatter, to have some kind of inherent power and be basically invincible. On the other, in real life the sight of blood makes my eyes roll back into my head, so no. (My husband has several stories about how ineffectual a paramedic I am in the face of gushing wounds, something he seems capable of producing on a regular basis.) I do think it would be awesome to have an actual gold tattoo though. So long as getting it was fairly painless.
Which of your characters would you most like to hang out with?
Doc. In leopard form. I’ve always wanted to be on a first-name basis with a big cat. At least until he got hungry, then maybe I’d go over to Chrysabelle. Mal scares me a little. Mostly because, like Doc, there’s a good chance he’d bite me.
What’s next
for Mal and Chrysabelle?
I don’t want to give anything away, but their lives won’t be getting any easier for some time …
if you enjoyed
BLOOD RIGHTS
look out for
RED-HEADED
STEPCHILD
Jaye Wells
1
Digging graves is hell on a manicure, but I was taught good vampires clean up after every meal. So I ignored the chipped onyx polish. I ignored the dirt caked under my nails. I ignored my palms, rubbed raw and blistering. And when a snapping twig announced David’s arrival, I ignored him too.
He said nothing, just stood off behind a thicket of trees waiting for me to acknowledge him. Despite his silence, I could feel hot waves of disapproval flying in my direction.
At last, the final scoop of earth fell onto the grave. Stalling, I leaned on the shovel handle and restored order to my hair. Next I brushed flecks of dirt from my cashmere sweater. Not the first choice of digging attire for some, but I always believed manual labor was no excuse for sloppiness. Besides, the sweater was black, so it went well with the haphazard funerary rites.
The Harvest Moon, a glowing orange sphere, still loomed in the sky. Plenty of time before sunrise. In the distance, traffic hummed like white noise in the City of Angels. I took a moment to appreciate the calm.
Memory of the phone call from my grandmother intruded. When she told me the target of my latest assignment, an icy chill spread through my veins. I’d almost hung up, unable to believe what she was asking me to do. But when she told me David was working with Clovis Trakiya, white-hot anger replaced the chill. I called up that anger now to spur my resolve. I clenched my teeth and ignored the cold stone sitting in my stomach. My own feelings about David were irrelevant now. The minute he decided to work with one of the Dominae’s enemies – a glorified cult leader who wanted to overthrow their power – he’d signed his death warrant.
Unable to put it off any longer, I turned to him. ‘What’s up?’ David stalked out of his hiding place, a frown marring the perfect planes of his face. ‘Do you want to tell me why you’re burying a body?’
‘Who, me?’ I asked, tossing the shovel to the ground. My palms were already healing. I wish I could say the same for my guilty conscience. If David thought I should apologize for feeding from a human, I didn’t want to know what he was going to say in about five minutes.
‘Cut the shit, Sabina. You’ve been hunting again.’ His eyes glowed with accusation. ‘What happened to the synthetic blood I gave you?’
‘That stuff tastes like shit,’ I said. ‘It’s like nonalcoholic beer. What’s the point?’
‘Regardless, it’s wrong to feed from humans.’
It’s also wrong to betray your race, I thought. If there was one thing about David that always got my back up, it was his holier-than-thou attitude. Where were his morals when he made the decision to sell out?
Keep it together, Sabina. It will all be over in a few minutes.
‘Oh, come on. It was just a stupid drug dealer,’ I said, forcing myself to keep up the banter. ‘If it makes you feel any better, he was selling to kids.’
David crossed his arms and said nothing. ‘Though I have to say nothing beats Type O mixed with a little cannabis.’
A muscle worked in David’s jaw. ‘You’re stoned?’
‘Not really,’ I said. ‘Though I do have a strange craving for pizza. Extra garlic.’
He took a deep breath. ‘What am I going to do with you?’ His lips quirked despite his harsh tone.
‘First of all, no more lectures. We’re vampires, David. Mortal codes of good and evil don’t apply to us.’
He arched a brow. ‘Don’t they?’
‘Whatever,’ I said. ‘Can we just skip the philosophical debates for once?’
He shook his head. ‘Okay then, why don’t you tell me why we’re meeting way out here?’
Heaving a deep sigh, I pulled my weapon. David’s eyes widened as I aimed the custom-made pistol between them.
His eyes pivoted from the gun to me. I hoped he didn’t notice the slight tremor in my hands.
‘I should have known when you called me,’ he said. ‘You never do that.’
‘Aren’t you going to ask me why?’ His calm unsettled me.
‘I know why.’ He crossed his arms and regarded me closely. ‘The question is, do you?’
My eye twitched. ‘I know enough. How could you betray the Dominae?’
He didn’t flinch. ‘One of these days your blind obedience to the Dominae is going to be your downfall.’
I rolled my eyes. ‘Don’t waste your final words on another lecture.’
He lunged before the last word left my lips. He plowed into me, knocking the breath out of my chest and the gun from my hand. We landed in a tangle of limbs on the fresh grave. Dirt and fists flew as we each struggled to gain advantage. He grabbed my hair and whacked my head into the dirt. Soil tunneled up my nose and rage blurred my vision.
My hands curled into claws and dug into his eyes. Distracted by pain, he covered them with his palms. Gaining the advantage fueled my adrenaline as I flipped him onto his back. My knees straddled his hips, and I belted him in the nose with the base of my hand. Blood spurted from his nostrils, streaking his lips and chin.
‘Bitch!’ Like an animal, he sank his fangs into the fleshy part of my palm. I shrieked, backhanding him across the cheek with my uninjured hand. He growled and shoved me. I flew back several feet, landing on my ass with a thud.
Before I could catch my breath, his weight pinned me down again. Only this time, my gun stared back at me with its unblinking eye.
‘How does it feel, Sabina?’ His face was close to mine as he whispered. His breath stunk of blood and fury. ‘How does it feel to be on the other end of the gun?’
‘It sucks, actually.’ Despite my tough talk, my heart hammered against my ribs. I glanced to the right and saw the shovel I’d used earlier lying about five feet away. ‘Listen—’
‘Shut up.’ His eyes were wild. ‘You know what the worst part is? I came here tonight to come clean with you. Was going to warn you about the Dominae and Clovis—’
‘Warn me?’
David jammed the cold steel into my skull – tattooing me with his rage. ‘That’s the irony isn’t it? Do you even know what’s at stake here?’ He cocked the hammer. Obviously, the question had been rhetorical.
One second, two, ticked by before the sound of flapping wings and a loud hoot filled the clearing. David glanced away, distracted. I punched him in the throat. He fell back, gasping and sputtering. I hauled ass to the shovel.
Time slowed. Spinning, I slashed the shovel in a wide arc. A bullet ricocheted off the metal, causing a spark. David pulled himself up to shoot again, but I lunged forward, swinging like Babe Ruth. The metal hit David’s skull with a sickening thud. He collapsed in a heap.
He wouldn’t stay down long. I grabbed the gun from his limp hand and aimed it at his chest.
I was about to pull the trigger when his eyes crept open. ‘Sabina.’
He lay on the ground, covered in blood and dirt. The goose egg on his forehead was already losing its mass. Knowledge of the inevitable filled his gaze. I paused, watching him.
At one time, I’d looked up to this male, counted him as a friend. And now he’d betrayed everything I held sacred by selling out to the enemy. I hated him for his treachery. I hated the Dominae for choosing me as executioner. But most of all, I hated myself for what I was about to do.
He raised a hand toward me – imploring me to listen. My insides felt coated in acid as I watched him struggle to sit up.
‘Don’t trust—’
His final words were lost in the gun’s blast. David’s body exploded into flames, caused by the metaphysical friction of his soul leaving his flesh.
My whole body spasmed. The heat from the fire couldn’t stop the shaking in my limbs. Collapsing to the dirt, I wiped a quivering hand down my face.
The gu
n felt like a branding iron in my hand. I dropped it, but my hand still throbbed. A moment later, I changed my mind and picked it up again. Pulling out the clip, I removed one of the bullets. Holding one up for inspection, I wondered what David felt when the casing exploded and a dose of the toxic juice robbed him of his immortality.
I glanced over at the smoldering pile that was once my friend. Had he suffered? Or did death bring instant relief from the burdens of immortality? Or had I just damned his soul to a worse fate? I shook myself. His work here was done. Mine wasn’t.
My shirt was caked with smears of soot, dirt, and drying blood – David’s blood mixed with mine. I sucked in a lungful of air, hoping to ease the tightness in my chest.
The fire had died, leaving a charred, smoking mass of ash and bone. Great, I thought, now I have to dig another grave.
I used the shovel to pull myself up. A blur of white flew through the clearing. The owl called out again before flying over the trees. I stilled, wondering if I was hearing things. It called again and this time I was sure it screeched, ‘Sabina.’
Maybe the smoke and fatigue were playing tricks on me. Maybe it had really said my name. I wasn’t sure, but I didn’t have time to worry about that. I had a body to bury.
As I dug in, my eyes started to sting. I tried to convince myself it was merely a reaction to the smoke, but a voice in my head whispered ‘guilt.’ With ruthless determination, I shoved my conscience down, compressing it into a tiny knot and shoving it into a dark corner of myself. Maybe later I’d pull it out and examine it. Or maybe not.
Good assassins dispose of problems without remorse. Even if the problem was a friend.
Blood Rights Page 33
