Blood Rights hoc-1

by Kristen Painter

  ‘What would turn out the way it did?’ Silent tears trailed down Chrysabelle’s cheeks. Her heart ached. Her mother. All these years of not knowing—

  ‘Algernon.’ Her hand slipped from Chrysabelle’s wrist. ‘Forgive me.’

  ‘There’s nothing to forgive.’ Maris had nothing to do with Algernon becoming Chrysabelle’s patron, but if talking kept her from dying, Chrysabelle would talk for as long as it took to get help. ‘Algernon was a good patron. Kind, considerate—’

  ‘The Century Ball. I was there … to bring you home.’ Maris’s eyes slipped shut. ‘He refused your freedom.’

  ‘Don’t,’ Chrysabelle pleaded. The word snagged in her throat.

  ‘So I killed him,’ she breathed. Her head lolled back, her voice a dying whisper. ‘To free you when he wouldn’t.’

  The pulse beneath Chrysabelle’s fingers disappeared.

  Chapter Thirty-four

  The burst of power locked Mal’s voices down hard and fast, shoving their ever-present hum into the recesses of his mind and locking the beast back in its dark cage. He shook his head, blinking to clear the black haze clouding his vision.

  The sight before him wasn’t any better. Pandemonium ruled the room. Two fringe guards leaped to their feet and leveled their swords at him. ‘Move and you die,’ one snarled.

  He almost laughed until he saw Chrysabelle crumpled on the floor a short distance away. She held her aunt in her arms while trying to staunch the flow of blood from a gash in Maris’s neck. It was a losing cause. The woman’s heartbeat slowed with each passing second as her life ebbed. Behind them, Sha— Tatiana, blood smeared across her mouth, unsheathed a stiletto and took aim.

  Anger fueled his speed. He cracked the guards’ heads together and dropped their bodies to the floor. A second later, he pinned Tatiana to the table behind her by her lying throat. ‘Not so fast.’ Her pulse hammered his palm, her smooth skin as warm as the last time he’d bedded her. Life thrummed within her. Life she’d gained from Maris’s blood.

  ‘You’re not mad about that little dungeon incident, are you, lover?’ She laughed, sweet and coy, tipping her head back. A gold locket slipped into the hollow of her throat. The locket he’d given her with the portrait of Sofia inside.

  Could it be the same one? He’d spent a fortune on that trinket, but he’d loved her then. That time was gone. ‘Undo the curse and we’ll talk about that.’

  ‘I have nothing to say to you. Except that you should have withered up and died down there.’ She swiped at him, slicing the stiletto toward his face and catching his forehead.

  Blood trickled into his eye, but already he felt the wound knitting closed, the sting fading. He grabbed both her wrists, immobilizing them against the table. ‘Then I’ll have to kill you and see if that removes the curse.’

  ‘It won’t,’ Mikkel answered. Across the room, he pushed a blade up under Fi’s chin. A thin line of red oozed down her pale skin. ‘But if you kill her, the kine dies too.’

  One of Fi’s eyes was swollen shut, the bruise surrounding it melding into another on her cheek. She smiled bravely. ‘Stake her, Mal. For me.’

  ‘No,’ Doc yelled. He strained against the shackles and the guards holding him on either side. The muscles in his neck corded with the effort. He hadn’t shifted even slightly. Those restraints must be silver-lined.

  Maris’s heartbeat went silent. Chrysabelle shuddered, exhaling a soft sob as she clutched her aunt to her. The guilt and sorrow flooding the comarré’s soul was a palpable thing.

  New rage burned in Mal’s gut. He summoned a little of the beast’s darkness into his eyes and stared Mikkel down. ‘Kill her and you both die.’

  ‘Go ahead and try it.’ Tatiana laughed. ‘But if you fail, I’m going to drain your little blood whore dry.’ She shimmered and suddenly he was holding Chrysabelle prisoner. Somehow Tatiana had become Chrysabelle. She winked at him. ‘I see how you look at her. How you crave her.’

  He jerked back out of shock. Tatiana shed Chrysabelle’s image and scissored her legs up, trying to catch him around the head.

  Mal ducked but kept her hands pinned to the table as she flipped over it. Her wrists snapped with a resounding crunch as she twisted to get her feet under her. The stiletto fell from her useless fingers. Mal released her. He had to save Fi.

  ‘Bloody hell,’ Tatiana yowled in pain. ‘Kill her, Mikkel. Now.’

  Doc roared, hissing and spitting and slamming himself into the guards holding him as Mikkel ran his blade across Fi’s fragile mortal skin.

  Mal arrived in time to catch her body. Mikkel dropped the bloody dagger and ran for Tatiana, but Mal caught his leg and jerked him back, slamming him into the far wall.

  Fi collapsed over Mal’s shoulder. Blood bubbled from the gash in her throat, soaking through the ruined seams of his jacket and warming his skin. Holding her with one arm, he reached for the dagger in his boot, but a bone dagger whipped past him and into the guard on Doc’s left. The fringe burst into ash. A set of keys dropped to the floor next to the blade.

  Mikkel staggered to his feet, one arm dangling from a shoulder knocked out of joint.

  Mal staked the second guard to ash, then scooped up the keys and unlocked Doc’s restraints. The minute he was free, he pulled Fi into his arms. The grief on his face almost undid Mal. ‘Get her out of here. I’ll take care of Mikkel.’

  ‘Stay with me, baby,’ Doc whispered. Eyes like glowing embers, he cradled Fi against him and closed his hand over the wound. She was dying and they both knew it. He caught Mal’s gaze for a second. ‘Make it hurt.’

  Mal nodded and Doc took off with Fi. On the other side of the room, Chrysabelle held Tatiana at the end of her sacre, but she wasn’t much of a challenge at the moment. Broken bones took time to mend even for a vampire like Tatiana. Mal unsheathed his long sword as he turned and beckoned to Mikkel. ‘Time to die, vampire.’

  Chrysabelle moved on instinct built up from years of repetitive training. She clung to it, because she had nothing else left besides the pain that tightened her skin across her muscles and made her ache to inflict that same pain on the one responsible for her mother’s death. Her sacre buzzed with the need to taste cold flesh. It struck out like a deadly extension of Chrysabelle’s rage, biting at Tatiana, leaving bloody cuts that sizzled into scars.

  Tatiana clutched her arms to her chest, her hands hanging limp like rags, the bitter flash of the gold ring taunting Chrysabelle every time Tatiana avoided the blade. ‘Whore,’ she spat. ‘You’ll never get out of here alive.’

  ‘That’s not one of my concerns.’

  Tatiana tried to retrieve a dagger off the table, her face gnarling in pain as she failed, but already one wrist had begun to straighten as the bones mended.

  Chrysabelle took advantage of the opening, thrusting fast and notching the sacre’s point against Tatiana’s chest. ‘Tell Mikkel to reverse Mal’s curse. It’s his magic. Make him remove it and I’ll let you live,’ she lied.

  ‘Never.’ A wisp of smoke coiled off Tatiana’s skin. A few more rose up behind her, coalescing into a larger shape. The stench of brimstone and decaying flesh filled the room.

  The Castus was returning.

  Tatiana’s nostrils flared and an insidious smile curved her mouth. She laughed like a child. ‘When the master is through with you, I’m going to present your body to the council as proof of your guilt.’

  Dominic stirred with a soft moan. He eased the dagger from his belly, rolled to his side, and vomited. The smell of bile and heady, sweet laudanum drifted through the room.

  The Castus solidified behind Tatiana. Chrysabelle backed up. Tatiana moved to the side and the fiery-eyed Castus stepped forward, its cloven hooves cutting through the rug and digging into the wood floor. The room darkened as his shadowy presence filled it.

  The blood in the handle of her sacre boiled. A switch inside her clicked and a new boldness overtook the numbing fear coursing through her. She raised her sword, fully aware it was likely
for the last time. ‘Stay where you are, hell spawn.’

  The Castus stilled. Then threw its horned head back and howled with laughter. Tatiana joined in until tears rolled down her face.

  The sound of metal singing through the air shut her up. Chrysabelle followed Tatiana’s horrified gaze.

  Mikkel fell to his knees, eyes wide, mouth open, his body riddled with cuts that seemed in no hurry to heal. Then his head slid off his shoulders and rolled toward Dominic. A second later, all of him went to ash. Blood dripped from Mal’s sword.

  ‘Molto bene,’ Dominic murmured. ‘You still have the touch.’

  Tatiana shoved one useless hand toward Chrysabelle. ‘Kill her,’ she commanded the Castus.

  The Castus turned. ‘How dare you order me—’

  ‘No,’ Tatiana backpedaled, ‘I didn’t mean—’

  Chrysabelle whipped her Golgotha dagger into the demon’s temple. The blade sank deep, bursting into flames.

  Screeching, the Castus stumbled backward. It latched on to Tatiana’s outstretched arm, yanking her forward, its body wavering like it might vanish again. ‘The ring is mine. I will find another to wear it.’

  ‘Chrysabelle,’ Mal yelled.

  Double-handing her sacre, she swept the blade in a wide downward arc, severing Tatiana’s broken wrist. The hot blade passed through the shadowy Castus but seared Tatiana’s flesh. The hand – and the ring – dropped to the floor intact.

  The Castus vanished.

  With a head-splitting wail, Tatiana scattered into a swarm of black wasps, obviously attempting one last attack before escaping. Mal, blood covering the side of his face and neck, stabbed the hand with his sword, plucking it up like a piece of refuse. The wasps dove after him, stinging relentlessly.

  Dominic reached into his suit jacket and retrieved a vial. He threw it into the empty fireplace, smashing it. Smoke billowed up toward the ceiling, sending the wasps flying from the room.

  Mal held the sword out toward Chrysabelle. She freed the ring from Tatiana’s dead finger, then stuffed it into her vest pocket. Mal flicked the hand off his blade.

  Suddenly, he jerked, his gaze going to his arm. He pushed his jacket sleeve back and exposed a strange bare spot among the names. ‘She’s gone.’

  ‘Who’s gone?’ Chrysabelle asked.

  ‘Fi,’ he answered. ‘Her name isn’t on me anymore.’ He let the sleeve slide back into place. ‘I can’t sense her.’

  Shouts rang from down the hall. Dominic got to his feet, his face twisting at the sight of Maris. He tugged her lifeless body into his arms, cradling her and whispering low in Italian.

  Mal pointed his sword toward the doors. ‘You know the way to the front door?’

  ‘Mostly.’

  He turned to Dominic. ‘You with us?’

  ‘Si,’ Dominic answered softly. ‘I will carry her home.’

  ‘Then let’s get the hell out of Dodge.’

  Chapter Thirty-five

  Paradise City had a few evenings every autumn when the cooler temperatures brought a chill to the skin, the winds cleared the lingering smog, and the stars twinkled more brightly. In the first of her journals, Maris had written about those nights and called them ‘a gift of nature.’

  Nothing about this night felt like a gift.

  Chrysabelle stared at the lies carved into her mother’s granite headstone. The real dates of her birth and death would remain the private knowledge of those who’d known her and loved her. The human world would not understand a life lived over such a span of time, not yet anyway. Maybe they would once the snarling, creeping darkness of the covenant’s dissolution saturated their lives and their nightmares walked among them. Maybe then the human world could grasp something more.

  The human world. She shook her head. The world belonged to the othernaturals now. It might be slow at first, but wars would erupt. Vendettas would be played out. Power seized. Unless humans rose to the challenge, they would become collateral damage. Pawns. Prey.

  Already the news broadcast stories of strange sightings. How much longer before mortal kind fully understood their new reality? Another week? A month?

  A blanket of white roses covered the grave. Dominic’s doing. Any doubts she’d had about the vampire’s feelings for Maris had vanished watching him grieve. He seemed lost. Like part of him had died along with her.

  In her own way, Chrysabelle knew how that felt. Maris had been her beacon of hope for a normal life in a normal world. Now all of that had been ripped away by Tatiana’s greed.

  A jacket settled over her shoulders. ‘You looked cold,’ Doc said.

  ‘Thank you,’ she said, nodding at the still-grieving varcolai. Fiona had died in his arms, sighing out her last breath, then vanishing into nothing. Doc held out hope she would return in her ghostly form and Chrysabelle prayed he was right. Not just to ease his pain, but because Chrysabelle felt responsible for what had happened. Fi didn’t deserve the lot she’d been handed, and Doc didn’t deserve the sorrow etched into his body like a million tiny scars.

  The sun had set hours ago, but Doc kept his black wraparound sunglasses on. ‘I can pick you up later, if you want more time.’

  As far as she knew, this was only the second occasion he’d left the ship in the week since they’d returned. Maybe he thought Fi might show up here. The other time he’d left the freighter, he’d come by the house to see how Chrysabelle was doing. And to tell her Mal had yet to drink the blood she’d sent.

  She understood Mal’s anger, but she hadn’t forgotten her responsibility or her promise to help him. Although with Fiona gone, Chrysabelle didn’t know what that meant for her blood rights. Did Mal still own them? And what if Fi did come back? What then? The comarré rule book didn’t really cover these kinds of circumstances. Most likely, he was still her patron. Which meant they were still connected, whether either of them liked it or not.

  ‘No, I’m ready.’ She placed the single rose she’d been rolling in her fingers onto the grave and turned to walk to the car, the hilts of the double sacres on her back clinking softly together. ‘Any sign of her?’

  ‘Not yet.’ Doc shook his head, kept his eyes straight ahead. Chrysabelle gave his arm a squeeze. ‘I’m so sorry.’

  Up ahead, the devil himself leaned against the passenger door, keeping well off the cemetery’s hallowed ground. Mal’s arms were crossed, face a blank mask. The moonlight cut across the hollow of his cheek and sank his eyes in shadow, but still she could tell he looked past her, not at her. What she couldn’t tell for sure was if the darkness flickering over his skin was more shadow or the beast trying to rear its head.

  An uncomfortable mix of guilt and longing washed through her. She wanted to ask him for time, for patience. To understand her side of things. Words hadn’t come easily between them since Corvinestri, but there was plenty that needed to be said. Mostly from her.

  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.