She canted her head to one side. “About what?”
“About the inappropriate use of feminine wiles.”
She smiled and, damn it, he liked it. “That’s a yes, then?”
He nodded. Doc was right. Love had made him soft. And stupid.
“Do you want me to sit on your lap?”
“No.” The word came out louder and sharper than he’d intended, but her question had driven home just how intimate an act they were about to partake of in front of Mortalis. Mal had never been an exhibitionist, and he wasn’t about to start now. “Just sit where you are. Give me your wrist.”
Her frown morphed into a more understanding look, and she extended her arm. Without another glance at Mortalis, Mal rested his hands beneath her wrist. The flesh there was unadorned, the signum scrolling away from the spot where the veins showed through her pale skin. He closed his eyes as he took her scent into his body. Son of a priest, she undid him, and despite the fae’s presence, Mal let out a soft sigh of pleasure.
Her heat traveled through his fingertips, urging him on. His face shifted and his fangs dropped. Lifting her wrist higher, he pressed his mouth to her skin and bit down.
She inhaled, a half gasp, half laugh that shot straight to his remaining humanity and reminded him what it felt like to be a breathing, daywalking, warm-blooded man who had once known the pleasure of a woman.
The voices drowned that feeling in seconds, their cries and whimpers filling his head until the chaos scratched at his skull. He sucked at the bloodstream harder, wanting this over before the inability to stop overpowered him.
As if called, the beast lifted its head. The names scrambled across his skin like rats, colliding and gnashing their teeth. Still drinking, he focused less on the blood and more on his control, but the voices began to fade and the beast’s raging grew no worse.
Before any of that changed, he released Chrysabelle. He wasn’t quite sated, but the victory of being able to stop was satisfaction enough.
He dropped her arm and pressed back into the seat as the hot-cold power of her blood struck him, shooting jolts of pain through his bones and tightening his muscles. The pain vanished seconds later, leaving him with a euphoric sense of well-being, a beating heart, and the need to breathe.
He let out a long breath. “I can’t believe I just did that.” He straightened, the pounding of his heart exaggerated by the rush of what had just happened. “How was that even possible? Could my curse be broken?”
“I don’t think so.” Chrysabelle cradled her arm to her chest. “More like it’s the ring’s power, protecting me.” She glanced at Mortalis. “As soon as we get back, you’re going to make that meeting happen, right?”
He nodded. “Amery has already agreed to help me.”
Barely listening to anything but the rush of blood in his ears, Mal rolled his shoulders as a fresh charge of power coursed through him, buoyed by the release of no longer being enslaved by the curse. The voices had gone oddly quiet. Not silent so much as hushed. As if they were trying not to be heard.
Slowly, the whispers filtered through the sound of his breathing and his pulse. He stood as comprehension struck him. He grabbed hold of the bulkhead. “I need to go lie down.” Without waiting for a response, he made his way toward the back of the jet.
He shut the bedroom door, locked it, and dropped onto the bed. The voices grew louder. He squeezed his head between his hands, trying to shut them up, but still they raged. The beast joined them and the maelstrom of mental pressure increased tenfold.
The torture seared his brain. He rocked back and forth, still holding his head, wondering if it would split in his hands from the pain.
Chrysabelle might be safe, but the next human to cross his path wouldn’t be. Drinking from her had reignited a fury in the voices unlike anything he’d experienced before. They sank their teeth into him, chewing through his resolve, weakening his control.
The question was not if he’d ever kill again, but when.
Chapter Thirty-Five
Let her go,” Creek snarled as he lunged for his grandmother. Yahla was closer, grabbing Mawmaw up and using her like a shield. Now she hung limp in Yahla’s arms, only the rise and fall of her chest an indicator that his grandmother still lived. And somewhere in the night, Annika was out there, hopefully coming up with a better plan.
“You tried to kill me.” Yahla’s eyes narrowed to slits of bottomless black.
“You used me. Took control of me. I think we’re even.” He took a step forward. “Put my grandmother down and I won’t try to kill you again.”
“You lie.” Yahla slanted her head back and coughed, expelling a raven that flew at Creek.
He grabbed the bird as it dove toward him, wrung its neck, and tossed it off the porch. In his peripheral vision, it disappeared in a cloud of dust before it touched the ground.
In the distance, a dog barked. Creek hoped it was Pip. If Yahla had done anything to that dog, Mawmaw would kill her, then find a way to bring her back from the dead just so she could kill her a second time. Yahla’s feathers flew out around her, lifted by an unseen wind. “You have no respect.”
“You’ve given me no reason to respect you.” A tiny movement near the back of the porch caught his attention. Annika. What was she planning?
Yahla tossed her feather hair. “I am done speaking to you. I only waited until you arrived to take this woman’s soul. To let you see what you had caused.” She squatted, taking Mawmaw to the porch floor; then Yahla opened her mouth in the same unnaturally wide way she had when she’d killed Argent.
With no idea what Annika was up to, Creek couldn’t wait any longer. He leaped forward, grabbing fistfuls of Yahla’s feathers and hurtling them both through the side railing. Splinters flew as wood cracked and they hit the ground.
Squawking with fury, Yahla swiped at him, slicing his cheek and forehead with a handful of talons. Blood trickled into his eye. He pulled her close enough to pin her arms and caught sight of Annika crouched against the lattice that covered the house’s stilts.
“Face her to me and shut your eyes,” Annika yelled over Yahla’s cawing.
Creek rolled onto his side, hugging the squirming Yahla tight. She was half woman, half bird now and pecking furiously at his face and chest. Each time she connected, she took a hunk of flesh. Shutting off the pain as best he could, Creek flipped over, landing hard on Yahla.
The move had the desired effect. She gasped, stunned. He quickly turned her in his arms so she faced Annika.
“Close your eyes,” Annika called again, her fingers hovering near her temple.
He squeezed them shut, forcing more blood into his field of vision, and waited for the struggling woman in his grasp to go to stone.
Annika swore softly and he opened his eyes. Yahla’s beak pierced his forearm. He glared at Annika, her shades firmly in place. “What the hell?”
“She won’t look at me!”
Yahla smashed her head back and broke his nose. “Let go of me,” she squawked.
With a curse, he angled his arms across her body so he could grab a handful of feathers and keep her head still; then he wrapped his legs around hers and immobilized her.
A small figure rose behind the porch’s broken railing. Mawmaw. She hugged the closest four-by-four, using it for support. “Squeeze her tighter, Tommy.”
Creek did as he grandmother asked. Yahla screeched like a banshee, almost drowning the sound of an approaching truck engine.
“Tighter,” Mawmaw said.
Creek squeezed as hard as he could. The woman in his arms gave way to a cawing, scratching flock of ravens. They burst out of his grasp and flew into formation above him like they might dive at any moment.
“Now, basilisk, now.” Mawmaw pointed at the ravens, then threw her arm over her face. “Creek, your eyes.”
He closed them again. A few seconds later, heavy objects began pelting him. Eyes still closed, he got to his feet and ran out of the shower of stone ravens. H
e collided with someone, knocking them down. He opened his eyes to see his grandmother’s neighbor lying on the ground. “Martin.”
The man picked his hat up and stuck it back on his head. “Thomas.” He looked past Creek. “Looks like one’s getting away.”
Creek turned to see the side yard littered with frozen birds. A solitary raven flew toward them. The whoosh of air beneath its wings beat defeat into Creek’s soul. One bird would be enough to bring Yahla back.
“Pip,” Mawmaw yelled, pointing beyond where Creek and Martin lay.
Creek followed the line of her finger. Pip stood in the back of Martin’s truck, his pink tongue lolling out of his mouth. At Mawmaw’s command, Pip jumped into the air and caught the raven, landing with a thunk and disappearing behind the truck bed walls.
On his feet and running before another command came, Creek raced to the truck. Pip yelped as Creek got there. Blood covered the dog’s nose. He grabbed the raven, which instantly turned on him, striking hard. Creek grabbed Pip’s collar with his free hand and held the dog down behind the truck bed, then lifted the bird and closed his eyes. “Annika!”
“Eyes,” she yelled back. A moment later, the raven in Creek’s hand stopped fluttering.
Yahla was dead.
The plan hadn’t worked. With a spray of sand, Heaven, in jaguar form, had turned in time to keep from tumbling through Fi’s ghost form and out of the ring. Fi couldn’t tell how long the fight had been going on; neither she nor Heaven, still in jaguar form, had landed a blow. As long as Fi stayed in ghost form, Heaven never would either. They circled each other, like they’d been doing continuously. Once in a while, when they were near the center of the ring, Heaven would make a move, but every time she leaped, she passed straight through Fi just like she had the first time. The crowd hated it, but as far as Fi was concerned, they could all get stuffed.
Finally, Fi sat down cross-legged in the sand. What was the point of pretending to fight? Heaven couldn’t touch her.
Across the arena, the jaguar snarled. Fi stuck her tongue out at the animal. “What’s the matter? Rather be shopping?”
With another, weaker snarl, the jaguar sat.
Maybe they’d call it a draw and have to decide this marriage thing another way. Fi almost laughed at how it was turning out. She’d freaked out for nothing. No one was going to get hurt or even—
An ominous clanging rang out, silencing the boos and jeers of the crowd. Both she and the jaguar looked toward the sound.
A voice boomed from the overhead speakers. “Due to the nature of the combatants, only human forms will be allowed. The first combatant to shift out of human form will be declared the loser.”
Fi stood as the jaguar across from her became Heaven once again. “What? That’s not fair.”
Heaven laughed. “What’s not fair is how short this fight is going to be.”
Fi materialized and started backing away. Every move she’d learned from Omur and Barasa tumbled through her head in a mishmash sequence that no longer made sense. Crap. Think, think. She wished Mal were here, fighting for her. With all that time he’d spent in the Pits, he’d know exactly what to do, how to find Heaven’s weaknesses and exploit them.
She tried to think like him. What would his first move be? She knew it wouldn’t be to let Heaven make the first move. Gathering her courage, Fi launched at the other woman. She knocked Heaven into the sand and began whaling on her.
Heaven dodged the first blow, but the second caught her cheek and split her lip. At the taste of blood, Heaven’s eyes went green-gold.
“Now, now,” Fi said. “First to shift loses.”
Heaven’s eyes went back to human. She bucked Fi off with enough power to throw her several feet away. Fi landed hard but rolled to her feet immediately and faced her challenger once again.
Drawing first blood felt good. Fi grinned. Now she wanted second blood as well. And if she’d learned anything from Mal, it was to never back down. She threw herself at Heaven again, grabbing Heaven’s wrists as she raised her fists. Together they went into the sand.
Fi’s jumpsuit was full of it by now, so Heaven’s must be, too. Sand might make the blood easier to clean up, but it also aggravated the crap out of the fighters. Maybe that was part of the point.
Heaven slapped Fi across the face and Fi tasted blood. She smashed her head into Heaven’s chin and was rewarded with a loud cry.
“Vaca.” Heaven dropped her and spat out a mouthful of blood, sand, and possibly a small piece of tongue. “You’re going to pay for that, human.”
“Blah, blah, blah,” Fi mouthed back. “Empty words, fleabag.”
They began circling each other, arms out, ready to strike. Heaven stumbled once as her ankle twisted, but she quickly righted herself. She shook herself and blinked a couple of times.
With a frustrated yell, Heaven attacked, her petite figure charging with all the power of her varcolai heritage. She took Fi to the sand hard enough that she lost her breath for a few frightening seconds. In that brief span, her eyes connected with Doc’s in the audience. She’d never seen him so afraid. Did he think she was going to lose? What little confidence she had drained into the sand beneath her.
Heaven jumped on top of Fi and punched her in the side of the head. Stars shot through Fi’s vision and the world wobbled. If she hadn’t already been down, she would have fallen over.
Shot after shot to Fi’s head and body pushed her deeper into the sand. She twisted away, earning herself a couple whacks to the ribs. Something cracked and pain radiated through her body with every breath. She clawed at the sand, trying to find purchase, trying to pull herself out of Heaven’s reach. Desperate to stop the punishment, she flung handfuls of sand at Heaven.
The shifter caught the first one square in the mouth. She coughed out the sand she’d inhaled, gagging and spitting. Fi dug her elbows in and dragged her aching body a few inches away.
The sand clung to Heaven’s sweaty face. She wiped a forearm across her eyes but only made it worse. Blinking hard, she crawled after Fi. Barely an inch remained on either of them that wasn’t caked with sand or sweat. Under the intense lighting, their crusted skin glittered.
Fi kicked, catching Heaven in the collarbone. Something snapped and Heaven howled, the sound eerily unhuman. Her eyes yellowed and she flung herself on top of Fi.
Panting and growling, she landed multiple shots. Fi curled into a ball. The stars swimming across her field of vision became black spots. Swelling shut her left eye almost entirely and her body burned with pain.
She shoved both feet out with what little strength she had left, but Heaven dodged the effort. The shifter grabbed Fi by the hair and yanked back, then shoved Fi’s face into the sand.
Fi jabbed an elbow back, catching Heaven hard, but the varcolai didn’t let up. Grit clogged Fi’s nose and throat with each hopeless breath. Heaven was going to kill her. The only way out was…
“Mercy,” Fi whispered.
Heaven tugged Fi’s head out of the sand and leaned in close enough that their cheeks touched. “What did you say, human?”
“Mercy.” The word tasted worse than the metallic tang coating her tongue.
“Hah!” Heaven flung Fi’s head back down.
Fi twisted enough to breathe clean air. Somewhat unsteady, Heaven pushed to her feet and slogged toward the edge of the arena. She brushed herself off, then raised her hands. The crowd went nuts, whether or not they understood what had just happened.
A sob tore through Fi’s chest. She couldn’t look at Doc. Couldn’t stand to see the disappointment in his eyes. Tears spilled down her face and she let them. At least they washed the sand from her eyes.
Heaven fell onto one knee, then tumbled onto her side. She rose slowly, leaning on her hands. She shook her head like she was clearing cobwebs and struggled to get up. Again, she fell.
This time she shifted to her jaguar form.
The crowd went still. Omur and Barasa ran into the arena and kneeled beside He
aven. Omur put a hand to her throat as he bent over her, his ear to her muzzle. He righted himself and gave Barasa a serious look. With a nod, Barasa jumped up and ran to Fi.
He brought her to a sitting position, then pulled her arm around his neck and lifted her to her feet. “Raise your hand.”
She bit down to keep from crying out in pain. Through gritted teeth, she asked, “Why? What happened?”
He reached around, grabbed her elbow, and forced her arm into the air, all the while walking her toward the exit. The crowd stayed silent, their stares amplifying her discomfort. Then he answered. “You won. Heaven’s dead.”
Chapter Thirty-Six
Lola hesitated. Her body wanted to lunge forward, to grab the comar before her and sink her teeth into his flesh without a second thought, but what was left of her heart and humanity kept her feet planted. She’d sworn she wouldn’t become a monster. “I don’t know if I can do this.”
Luciano frowned. “You can and you will or you will die. Permanently this time.”
The comar stepped forward. “It’s okay, my lady. My purpose is to provide you blood.”
Luciano nodded. “Listen to the pulse of his heart. It beats with excitement, not fear. He is here to serve. He wants to do this.”
A refocusing of her senses and she actually could hear the comar’s heart. The sound was vaguely reassuring. Her mouth watered and the muscles in her thighs twitched, trying to move her forward. “Maybe… I should do this alone.” She glanced at Luciano.
He settled into the club chair. “No, cara mia. You are a vampling. The chance that you would drink too much and harm the comar is too great. I stay.”
“Oh.” That possibility had never occurred to her. “That’s a good idea, then.” She sat on the bench at the end of the bed and patted the spot next to her. “Please,” she said to the comar. “Come sit.”
With a smile, the comar joined her. His scent was intoxicating. She closed her eyes slightly as she inhaled. The fragrance was rich and heady, like the finest rum. “You smell delicious.”
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