Last Blood hoc-5

by Kristen Painter

  Fi snorted. “You don’t like your brother very much, do you? What’s up with that?”

  Augustine’s green-gray eyes darkened like a storm cloud. “He’s been the source of a lot of misery in my life.”

  “Like what?” Fi asked.

  Jerem laughed. Fi sure didn’t give up easy.

  Augustine took a deep breath and sat back like he was trying to calm himself. Then he arched like a cat in the sun and a languid smile spread across his face as he answered her. “Anyone ever tell you you remind them of a young Olivia Goodwin? She was a real looker back in the day.” He shook his head and made a “mmm-mmm” sound. “They say there wasn’t a mortal man alive who could refuse her charms.”

  Fi’s mouth opened a little. “No, I, uh, no one’s ever, I mean, no.”

  He continued. “ ’Course Livie had an unfair advantage with those couple percentage points of fae blood running in her veins.” He lifted his chin at Fi, his lids suddenly too heavy to keep wide open. “You got any fae in you, pretty thing?”

  She shook her head slowly, her gaze never leaving him.

  His smile crooked up a little higher on one side. “You want some?”

  “That’s a married woman you’re talking to,” Chrysabelle told him. “And her husband’s the leader of the Paradise City pride, so unless you want two hundred and some pounds of leopard hunting you through the streets of New Orleans, you should probably save your flirting for a woman who’s actually available.”

  Fi swallowed. “Yeah.” She twisted around to face the windshield, but the color in her cheeks was undeniable.

  Augustine shrugged, clearly unrepentant. “No harm in talking.”

  “That’s all you do, isn’t it? Talk?” She huffed out a breath. “Jerem, how soon can we drop Augustine off?”

  “We’ll be there in a few more minutes.”

  She stared out the window at the beautiful, charmed homes lining the streets and spoke softly to herself. “I should have known Mortalis would be right. He always is. He said there’d be no help here, and sure enough—”

  “All right,” Augustine said. “I get it. You’re trying to spin me up, make me prove my brother was wrong. Well you know what? He wasn’t. I’m everything he said I was and more.”

  She looked at him, using whatever comarré charm she could muster. If that would even work on him. “You could change that. Just help me. Do this one thing and he can’t say he knows what you’re like anymore.” She rested one hand on her belly. “Please. I don’t want my child to grow up without a father.”

  “I had one. Occasionally. It’s not all it’s cracked up to be.”

  Chrysabelle stared at him. “I guess that explains it.”

  He stared back. “Explains what?”

  Chrysabelle raised her brows. “Why you don’t know how to be a man when the situation calls for it.”

  “Oh, burn,” Fi whispered.

  Augustine’s scowl melted into something close to pain. He closed his eyes, tipped his head against the back of the seat, and bounced it off the headrest. “I know how to be a man. My father didn’t. But I do.”

  Chrysabelle’s insides went soft with hope. “Does that mean you’re going to help me?”

  “Damn it. Yes.” He kept his eyes closed. “Make sure you tell Mortalis how wrong he was.”

  “I will.” She wanted to grab him and hug him. Instead she smiled calmly. “Thank you.”

  He opened his eyes and slanted them at her. “Don’t thank me until it’s over.”

  She nodded, but inside she was ecstatic. And nervous enough to faint. “What do we need to do? Do you have time to stop by the hotel? I need my sacres. Those are comarré swords.” Now she was just babbling. She shut her mouth.

  “I know what sacres are. And yes, the hotel’s fine. We can do it there. I don’t want any of this traceable back to Livie.” He sighed like he couldn’t believe what he’d agreed to.

  “I wouldn’t want that either.” She leaned forward and put her hand on Jerem’s shoulder. “To the hotel.”

  He flipped on the signal to turn around. “Got it.”

  Chrysabelle sat back. “How soon can we do this?”

  “Best time to pull a human through to the fae plane is twilight. Things get… thinner then.” He studied her, all traces of his blithe attitude gone. The serious lines of his face spoke of pain and experiences beyond anything she could imagine. What had happened in his life? With his father? Between him and Mortalis? “I will take you to the entrance, but you’re on your own from there.”

  “I’m going with her,” Fi announced.

  “Suit yourself.” He cracked his head to one side. “You’ll have an hour to do what you need to do. More than that and things get sticky. Getting you out gets harder the longer you’re there. And trust me, you do not want to spend more time in the Claustrum than you have to.”

  “What’s it like?” Fi asked.

  He stayed quiet for a breath. “It’s where the fae keep those of our own kind too horrible to be free.” He smiled, but there was no charm in it. “It’s where we keep the things that scare us.”

  Chapter Twenty-two

  Son of a priest.” Mal rubbed his throbbing head, wondering how much of it was from Creek’s drugs and how much was because the sun was still an hour from setting. How many times was he going to wake up from daysleep feeling like he’d been on a bender? Enough was enough. What had the KM said? That he should thank Chrysabelle the next time he saw her.

  Mal snorted. He planned on seeing her very soon, but thanking her wasn’t on his agenda. Stupid git. If she knew what was good for her, she would have told Creek to bury that bolt in his heart.

  He grabbed one of the protruding metal seams on the corridor wall and hauled himself to his feet. His right thigh ached where the KM’s bolt had landed and his jeans were torn and crusted in blood. If he went out like that, he’d have every fringe in the neighborhood sniffing after him. He headed for the shower to clean up. He changed clothes when he was done, returning to his room long enough to tuck a short blade into one of his boots. The locket he’d taken off Tatiana sat on the small table by his reading chair. He didn’t need to carry that reminder. He knew whose picture it held. More bad memories. That’s all it was.

  He strode down the hall toward the deck. The closer he got, the thicker the smell of blood grew. The voices went crazy as he stopped and splayed his hand on the door. Hot as blazes. Damnation, the smell of blood was strong. More than strong, it was making clear thought impossible. He had to have blood. No. He shook his head. Blood blood blood. He had no intention of drinking whatever was out there waiting for him, no matter how hard the voices pushed. Thanks to Tatiana, he was wise to Chrysabelle’s ways. Who else would send him tainted blood? What else but the knowledge that he was incapacitated would embolden her to visit him? Kill her drain her.

  Tonight he would be done with her once and for all, and then he’d take Dominic’s plane and head to Corvinestri for retribution. Everything that had been taken from him would be restored. And if Tatiana broke her word, he’d kill her too.

  The tingle of anticipation that signaled the sun had set washed over him. He pulled the door open. A container sat there, waiting. Fresh blood scent rolled over him, stirring the voices into a pitched frenzy. Maybe just a little sip…

  No. With great effort to ignore the desire to feed, he hoisted the whole lot over the side of the freighter and was rewarded with a very satisfying splash. Nothing would keep him from his mission tonight.

  Halfway down the gangplank he started to run. He was hungry and there was only one kind of blood that would quench his thirst.

  Comarré.

  “What do you mean she’s not here?” Doc stood at Chrysabelle’s front door. “I sent Fi here to keep her safe.”

  Damian nodded. “She’s safe, I promise. She’s with Chrysabelle in New Orleans. Come in if you want.”

  Doc walked in and looked at Mortalis, who sat on the sofa playing cards with Velimai a
nd a comarré he didn’t recognize. “You know about this?”

  “A little. Fi will be all right, I’m sure. What Chrysabelle went there to do… she won’t let Fi get hurt.”

  Doc rubbed a hand over his shaved scalp. “That doesn’t make me feel any better. What did she go there to do?”

  Mortalis set his cards down and took a breath. “She went to find someone to give her access to the fae that stole Mal’s emotion.”

  Doc sat in the chair closest to Mortalis. “And do what? Reason with it?”

  The shadeux shook his head. “Kill it.”

  Warmth built along Doc’s bones. He dropped his head and pressed his forehead into his palm. He counted backward, one of the methods Barasa had taught him to help keep the fire at bay. “That sounds safe.” After a deep breath, he looked at Mortalis again. “I’m not leaving this house until Fi gets back. And if anything happens to her, I’m holding you personally responsible. Why didn’t you go with Chrysabelle? This doesn’t sound like something she should do alone.”

  “I couldn’t go. What she asked of me… I couldn’t do.”

  “For real? Why?”

  “Because if I took her where she needs to go and it came to light that I was involved, the elektos would sentence me to death.” He glared back. “I have Nyssa to think of, you know.”

  “A death sentence? And Fi’s with her.” Doc’s jaw went slack and the warmth returned as building heat. “Where the hell did she need to go?”

  “The Claustrum.”

  Nothing Mortalis was saying was making Doc feel any better. “Which is?”

  Velimai signed something.

  Doc nodded at her. “What did she say?”

  Mortalis lifted one shoulder. “She said it’s not a great place.”

  Sparks snapped across Doc’s fingers. “What. Did. She. Say.”

  Lifting his chin, Mortalis answered, “She said it’s hell. On a bad day.”

  Only Fi and Jerem had eaten dinner. Chrysabelle’s appetite was nonexistent, so she’d sat in the suite’s living room, polishing her sacres and praying. She glanced outside. The sun would set in less than ten minutes. The time for prayer was over. Setting her swords aside, she walked onto the balcony where Augustine was.

  He leaned against the railing, staring into the city. His lanky musculature reminded her so much of Mortalis. Pale red smoke trailed off a crude black cigarette tucked between his fingers, scenting the air with the aroma of burned fruit.

  “Ready?” she asked.

  He took a puff of the cigarette, then blew out the smoke before turning to face her. “Let’s light this candle.” He motioned in front of him. “Stand here.”

  She moved into place. He crouched down and sucked on the cigarette again, this time blowing the smoke at her feet.

  “What are you doing?”

  He finished his exhale. “Covering your scent. The last thing you want to do is walk into the Claustrum stinking like a human. I’ll need to do Fi, too. I know she’s going in ghost form, but I don’t want to take a chance.”

  “Humans stink?”

  Smiling, he shook his head. “No. In fact, I happen to love the way humans smell. The women anyway.” He closed his eyes. “All earthy softness and flowers and sex.” Looking a little lost in some old memory, he opened his eyes. “But you walking into a place that’s never known the slightest hint of human would be like dropping a spot of ink onto a white sheet. You won’t go unnoticed. I’m trying to give you a little advantage.”

  “Thank you.” She stood while he bathed her in smoke, the burned fruit smell getting stronger. “What is that? Not tobacco, obviously.”

  Before he could answer, Fi walked onto the balcony. “What’s going on out here?”

  Chrysabelle turned her head. “He’s covering my human scent. You’re next.”

  Fi settled into one of the deck chairs and stuck her feet up on the railing. “Mortalis was smoking that stuff. What’s it called? Nekram?”

  “Nequam,” he said between breaths. “Mention my brother one more time and I’ll find a reason not to do this.” Chrysabelle stared down at him. Through his shaggy hair, the stubs of his horns darkened. “Turn,” he said to Chrysabelle.

  Fi grimaced. “Sorry.” She watched him for a moment. “Are your horns changing color? Hard to tell with them all short like that. Why do they do that?”

  The red smoke curled around the front of Chrysabelle as he worked behind her.

  Augustine’s tone was cool and clipped. “I’m part smokesinger fae.”

  “Never heard of that kind,” Fi said. “What else can smokesingers do?”

  “Done,” he said to Chrysabelle. She turned as he pointed to Fi. “You’re up.”

  Fi took Chrysabelle’s place. “You didn’t answer my question.”

  “Fi,” Chrysabelle admonished. “Augustine’s a little busy.” And clearly didn’t want to answer anyway.

  She sighed. “Aren’t you at least a little bit curious? I’ve never met a smokesinger before. Especially not one as interesting as Augie.”

  Augustine smiled as he blew smoke over Fi. When he finished, he said, “Let me take care of this, and then I’ll show you something.”

  “Cool.” Fi looked at Chrysabelle. “See? Never hurts to ask.”

  With a shake of her head, Chrysabelle went back into the suite to strap on her sacres. As she left the bedroom, Jerem called out from the kitchen where he was washing up from dinner.

  “Hey. You sure you don’t want me to go with you? I will. Gladly. Just say the word.”

  “Thanks, I appreciate that, but your coming to help with transportation was enough. Besides, according to Augustine someone needs to stay here to guard the mirror in case the elektos figure out what’s going on and try to do something.” She leaned against the counter. “Not to mention I don’t want to endanger anyone else if I can avoid it.”

  He racked a wet plate to dry. “Understood. No one will touch that mirror, I promise.” He lifted his chin toward the balcony. “I don’t think Augustine’s as much of a slacker as he makes himself out to be. Covering you with that smoke? He knows what he’s doing.”

  She looked out where Augustine and Fi were finishing up. Jerem’s assessment made her feel a little better. “Too bad I don’t.”

  “Just remember why you’re doing this.” Jerem drained the sink. “When I was in the military, focusing on my reasons for being there was what always got me through. You’re strong and capable and you’ve faced tougher obstacles.” A flicker of his inner bear danced golden in his eyes. “If anyone can do this, it’s you.”

  She smiled. “You give a good pep talk.”

  The balcony door slid open and Fi and Augustine came back inside. Fi was almost bouncing with excitement. “Okay, let’s see your trick.”

  “It’s not a trick,” he said. Still, he waited until Chrysabelle and Jerem came over. “I’m doing this only once.”

  Fi nodded, almost gleeful. “Do we need to stand back?”

  “No. Just watch.” He put his hands together, fingertip to fingertip, then slowly drew them apart. Tiny gray threads spun out between them. Then Chrysabelle realized it wasn’t thread, but wisps of smoke.

  “Holy crap, that’s cool.” Fi leaned in.

  The lines of smoke began to twist and curl between Augustine’s fingers until the shape became recognizable.

  “A rose,” Fi breathed in awe.

  The form solidified further, and then Augustine flicked his wrist, breaking the connection. With that free hand, he grasped the stem. The moment he touched it, the stem went green and deep lavender filled its petals. He handed it to Fi. “Now you know something a smokesinger can do.”

  While she sniffed it, he looked at Chrysabelle. “Are you ready?”

  “Yes.”

  “Good.” He pulled a mirror off the wall and set it on the floor in front of them. “All right.” He held a hand out to her and Fi. “Take my hands.”

  They did. Chrysabelle was surprised at how rough
his skin was for someone who supposedly did nothing.

  “Here we go.” He stepped onto the mirror and pulled them through.

  Chapter Twenty-three

  Tatiana paced. Back and forth, back and forth, across the Persian carpet of her sitting room until she saw nothing but the problem in front of her. Mal should have been here by now, shouldn’t he? Maybe. Maybe not. Maybe he wasn’t coming at all. That meant she’d have to find a way to kill Lilith on her own. Was that even possible? The only ones who might know were the Castus, but would they tell her?

  There was only one way to find out.

  “Samael, my liege,” she whispered. “If you can hear me, come to me alone. Please.” Just saying the word grated her nerves, but fear overruled all else. She sank to the floor, her hands clasped in her lap, and spoke the words again. “Please, Samael, I need you and only you.”

  The room darkened with encroaching shadows and filled with the stench of brimstone. Never before had something so vile filled her with such relief.

  He appeared before her, smaller than she’d ever seen him. More like the height of a man than the lord of darkness. His horrible visage, once a mask of terror, seemed… aged somehow. Tired. “What?” he snapped.

  “Thank you for coming, my lord. Are you alone?” She looked behind him. There was no sign of Lilith, but that might not mean anything.

  “Yes. Briefly. What do you want?” The skirt of shadows that draped him from the waist down bore none of the usual faces or reaching hands.

  “It’s about—”

  “Don’t say her name.” He reached a hand out and placed it on Tatiana’s head, weighing her down like a lead weight. I know of whom you speak.

  His words echoed in her head. She stared at him. I can hear you. In my head.

  And I you. What would you ask me of Lilith? I know that’s why you’ve called me.

  Tatiana nodded as best she could with his taloned fingers pressing into her scalp. She… scares me, my liege. She killed one of my best soldiers without provocation. Do you mean for her to take my place? If so, I ask that you spare my life. I will leave without argument, just let me live.