Mal’s beast, as they’d named this curse-born rage state, crouched overtop Chrysabelle, looking at her like she was an allyou-can-eat buffet. He must have scratched her, because blood stained the fabric of her pajama pants. Not a good sign. Neither was the way Chrysabelle’s fingers were tightening around the handle of a nearby sword.
‘Doc, get the weapon.’
‘I think it’s fine where it is.’
‘You’re such a help.’ Fi realized Doc had probably never seen this side of Mal. She turned her attention to the beast. ‘I said, get off. Now.’ Mal had enough voices in his warped brain without adding another one. Plus there was the whole question of what might happen to her corporeal status if Chrysabelle lost hers. Or if Chrysabelle put that sword through his neck. As much as Fi hated being dead, being really dead would be worse.
Mal’s beast growled, his jaws inches from Chrysabelle’s face, but his words were aimed at Fi. ‘You’re not one of us anymore, mortal.’
‘Crap.’ That was exactly what Fi had been afraid of. In the past, she’d been able to talk to him from the inside, calm him down before the rage engulfed him and the beast took over. Being corporeal via Chrysabelle’s blood seemed to have rectified that. At least Fi didn’t have to hear those other voices anymore. They were enough to drive a person crazy. Obviously.
‘Everything’s fine,’ Chrysabelle whispered as she worked her fingers around the sword’s hilt.
‘Girl, you do not want to do that,’ Doc whispered back.
The beast dragged a clawed finger down her cheek and bared his fangs in a wicked snarl. ‘Everything is fine, isn’t it? You won’t like our version of fine, though.’
Fi edged closer. ‘Mal, I know you’re in there. Fight the voices. You can do it, you’ve done it before.’
His head whipped toward her. An eerie grin spread across his mutated face. ‘Malkolm is dead.’
‘No kidding, he’s a vampire. It’s a big part of the job description.’ Fi motioned behind her back for Doc to move in. She had to distract Mal enough to get him away from Chrysabelle before she took a swipe at him with that sword. ‘What are you after? Blood? I’ve got tons of that now.’
Mal shook his head. ‘This one needs to die.’
Fi caught Chrysabelle’s gaze, held up three fingers, and hoped to high heaven the comarré could take a hint. ‘What makes you so afraid of her, huh? She’s just a measly mortal, like me. Do you really want her in your head too?’
Doc was at her side now. She pressed against him and reached for the switchblade he kept hooked on his belt. She tapped his back three times. He nodded slightly as she took the blade, then moved away.
She flicked it open and streaked the edge across her palm. Pain and a line of red welled up. Mal’s black gaze narrowed on the new blood.
Memories painted a haze around Fi’s vision. Memories of when Mal had attacked her. The way his fangs had torn through her skin. She swallowed and, for a moment, thought she saw a flicker of silver in those eyes. ‘C’mon, Mal. You know you want it. You can smell it, can’t you? Pure mortal blood, untainted by all that gold. You know what it tastes like, don’t you? This blood saved your life one time before. It can do it again.’
Fear rounded Doc’s eyes, probably because he knew as well as she did that if Mal reached her in his current state, he’d tear her arm from her body to get what he wanted. Or worse. If everything went according to the quickly sketched plan in her head, that wouldn’t happen. Probably.
Her heart thudded hard in her chest. The room seemed darker. More like the ruins.
Mal swallowed and flicked his tongue over his lips. With a shuddering breath, Fi squeezed her hand into a fist and let the blood drip onto the mats. The shroud of names on his skin began to waver and separate. Doc slowly shifted around behind Mal, hefting the crossbow into position. ‘That’s it,’ she cajoled, sending the next signal. ‘The two of us can do this together.’
Mal inched forward and Fi yelled, ‘Three!’
Chrysabelle bucked Mal into the air. Doc squeezed the trigger. The bolt caught Mal in the shoulder and thrust him away. A multitude of voices cried out in rage as he fell to the ground at Fi’s feet. She got out of the way as Chrysabelle flipped to a crouched position, her chest heaving, sword in hand and pointed at Mal. Frozen with tenuous relief, the three stared at him, waiting to see what would happen next.
Thankfully, the blackness bled away into the familiar pattern of names. Mal lay prone for a moment, then reached back and yanked out the bolt with a grunt. He tossed it without lifting his face off the mat. Blood oozed from the wound. ‘Leave me. Now.’
Doc looked at Fi, then Mal. He shifted to his other foot. ‘Sorry, bro, I didn’t know what else—’
‘Get out.’ Shame made Mal’s words quiet and still. Fi understood, and new emotion filled her. Elation that she’d survived. Sorrow that she hadn’t been as successful the first time. But not the hatred that usually welled up. Pity had taken its place. Pity that Mal would never want to know about. The curse was a mammoth burden to bear. She knew what a horror show went on in that head of his. A lesser creature would have killed himself long before now. Not just thought about it or tried it but done it.
Doc thrust his lower jaw forward. ‘You would have torn Fi’s arm off.’
‘Get. Out.’
‘Doc … ’ Fi tried to catch Doc’s eyes but he was intently staring daggers at Mal’s prostrate form. Doc might be cursed too, but his was nothing like Mal’s. Chrysabelle quietly set the sword down and pushed to her feet.
‘Not you, comarré.’ Mal eased to his knees. The oozing blood turned into a thin trickle as he stood. His fists clenched tight to his sides. The voices must be tearing his head to pieces. Chrysabelle glanced at Fi.
Fi shuddered, then caught Doc’s gaze. His pupils were down to slits. He’d been ready to attack on her behalf. ‘C’mon, let’s get out of here.’ If Mal wanted to talk to Chrysabelle, Fi wasn’t about to stand in his way. Whatever he needed to discuss with the comarré, he was in decent shape to do it now. And hopefully, a more sane frame of mind. Fi knew that her survival depended on his. No matter how much strange blood ran through her system, how long could she last without Mal?
Doc walked out with her, his hand comfortably on the small of her back. Ever since she’d gotten fully corporeal, the varcolai’s attitude toward her had changed a little. He’d gotten sweeter, more demonstrative, and not just when they were alone either. She tucked his switchblade back into his belt and, giving his side a little pinch, whispered, ‘Thanks.’
They went single file up the narrow stairs to the next deck, coming side by side again when the passage widened. Doc’s hand returned to rest on the waistband of her jeans. ‘We need to bandage that hand of yours, but leaving them alone is a bad idea.’
‘They’ll be fine. My hand too.’ She was sure about her hand, not so much about Mal and Chrysabelle, but this was Mal’s problem and he had to deal with it or it was likely to happen again. Her uninjured hand slid up Doc’s back to rest at the nape of his neck, about as far as she could reach without going onto her toes. The man was sleek, hard muscle from stem to stern. Too bad about his curse. Just once she’d like to see him in his true form. She’d love to snuggle up next to a big black leopard. Not that she’d ever admit that to him while his curse prevented it. Curse or not, she was never leaving him.
Doc opened his mouth, most likely to talk her into going back to check on them, but her fingers drifted over his back, her nails scratching lazily at his skin. His lids drooped, drugged by her caresses. ‘That’s cheating,’ he mumbled.
Sometimes a girl had to do what a girl had to do. Especially when the joy in her life centered on the subject at hand. How lucky was she that Mal had decided she needed a cat? How lucky was Doc that Mal had decided to save him from those mangy street mutts? Everything happened for a reason, even if those reasons didn’t always make sense at the time. ‘I just thought my kitty cat needed a little reward for his help.’
‘Hush now. Unless you’d rather sleep alone?’ Fi dug her nails in a little more, dragging them over his body with purpose. His mouth stayed open, but the words stopped, replaced by the low undercurrent of a motor running. He shook his head like a drunken man. Drunk on pleasure.
‘I thought so.’ She laughed softly. Dead or alive, she’d never felt this way about a man before. Made her want to hold on to life more than ever.
Chapter Seventeen
Mal waited to speak until Doc and Fi had left and shut the door behind them. His eyes stung with the need for sleep, his shoulder burned from the puncture wound, and humiliation shredded his gut. He’d lost control. Weakling. Let the voices best him. Obey us. For a creature who’d once been so feared, he was now as helpless as a child. Impotent. Doc had done what was necessary. Too bad that bolt hadn’t found his heart. Things would be so much easier that way. ‘You see now why I can’t help you.’
‘No.’ Thinly veiled anger lowered Chrysabelle’s voice.
‘I almost killed you.’
‘And I you. But neither of us did.’ She sighed. ‘Besides, that wasn’t really you.’
‘It was me.’ He turned, tired of her eyes watching the wound on his back not heal. ‘I can’t control the curse when it takes over.’
‘You could stop it from taking over.’
‘No, I can’t.’ Powerless, powerless, powerless. He wanted to be alone, not to stand here and explain himself to a woman-child who knew nothing but privilege and pampering. Unless that was a disguise to mask who she really was. She had fought well. Surprised him. But there was time for figuring that out tomorrow. ‘I’m going to bed.’
‘If you fed properly—’
‘Enough.’ The word came out in an angry rumble, and she had the good sense to flinch. Then her good sense disappeared.
She walked toward him, her face a mask of determination. Foolish woman. She opened her mouth, but he held his palms up, forcing her to stop. ‘Go home. To your aunt’s. Wherever. Just leave.’
‘You own my—’
‘I don’t give a damn about your blood rights. I don’t want them. Or you.’ He spun and walked toward the door and away from the lie he’d just told. He could be in bed in minutes, asleep seconds after that. To sleep, perchance to nightmare …
Again, she started after him. Desperation and self-loathing wafted off her, souring her alluring scent. Of course. When had a comarré ever chased an anathema? It must be torture for her to need the help of someone so far beneath her. ‘They’ll kill us both, my aunt and me. Do you want that on your head?’
‘As long as you don’t come back to haunt me, I’m okay with it.’ She’d definitely end up dead if she stayed here. Yes, yes, yes.
‘You don’t mean that.’
He kept walking.
‘You said you’d help me if I proved my fight training to you.’
‘I lied. You should understand that.’
Anger must have cleared her mind of all reasonable thought, because she charged after him, tackling him and taking them both to the ground. ‘You need me, you stupid man. Don’t you see that?’
He pushed her off and rolled on top of her, pinning her to the floor. Kill her, drain her. ‘I don’t need anyone.’ Except maybe Doc. And occasionally Fi. Not that Mal would admit that on point of death.
‘Help me, and I’ll give you blood.’
‘By blood rights, it’s mine anyway, isn’t it?’ Take, take it all.
Her mouth bent into a frown, her hair splayed out around her head like rays of light. ‘I don’t want to be around you any more than you want to be around me, but as much as I’d like to get on with my vampire-free life, I can’t until I’m cleared of this murder. And you, unfortunately, are my best chance of that. My means to an end.’ She turned her face away, exposing her neck. ‘Take the blood in payment if it makes you feel better.’
‘It wouldn’t.’ He leaned down, erasing the space between them. The voices thrashed at the sweetness of her perfume. ‘I don’t want your blood. Not ever. Understand? The only thing I need is to get these voices out of my head.’ He jumped up, earning himself a stab of pain from his wounded shoulder, and stalked off.
Of course, she followed.
He needed air. And space. Anything to separate himself from the blood scent filling the gym. With a speed she couldn’t duplicate, he raced to the nearest deck that overlooked the sea. Right after making this ship his home, he’d discovered that even the somewhat polluted mix of night air and salt tang helped subdue the voices.
‘You can’t lose me that easily.’ Her chest rose and fell with the effort of chasing him. Good. She needed to know she was not his equal. He stared out at the black water. If she expected him to hold up his end of the conversation, she was going to be heartily disappointed.
She wasn’t quiet long. ‘What if I said I might know a way to break your curse? You know, it’s kind of pretty out here.’
He whipped around. ‘How? Break it how?’
She gazed toward the sea. Past the wharf and the now-dark tenements beyond it, expensive lights pocked the curve of shoreline where the homes of wealthy mortals sat like temples of excess. The crescent moon’s reflection shattered on the dark, rippling water, and its weak light outlined the corpses of the other abandoned ships. Pretty was not a word he’d use to describe this landscape.
She wrested a piece of hair from the night breeze and tucked it behind her ear as she faced him. Even in the thin light, her signum glittered and her skin glowed. Hell. There was no denying she affected him. Who wouldn’t be affected by a beautiful woman who effervesced light and life? Except she couldn’t give him either of those things. No one could. And all he could offer her was darkness and death. Not that he was offering her anything. Or even thinking about it.
‘I might know a way to break your curse. Or at least, know someone who might know.’
‘Who?’
She crossed her arms and leaned against the rail. ‘The comarré have a kind of historian who keeps our records. The Aurelian.’
‘I don’t need a librarian.’ Books he could go through on his own. Just as he had been since he’d gotten free of the ruins and found a thread of sanity.
Chrysabelle uncrossed her arms and inched closer, one hand wrapping the railing. ‘She’s more than that. She’s an annalist, a keeper of spells, an ancient mind, a source of knowledge that goes beyond the books she keeps.’
‘A witch.’
Her face remained impassive. ‘She’s been called that.’
‘What makes you think she’d know something about what was done to me?’
‘Your legend says your second curse was placed upon you by nobility.’
‘I wasn’t aware anyone knew that.’ Maybe the source of that information was the source of his curse. Who else would know but someone connected?
She shrugged. ‘Comarré know a lot of things that aren’t common knowledge. Our scribes document anything that involves the vampire nation. And the Aurelian knows all of it.’
He snorted air through his nose. ‘Basic vampire history isn’t hard to find if you know where to look.’ And he did. Because he had.
She shook her head. ‘It’s so much more than basic vampire history. It’s legends, ancient texts, prophecies—’
‘I get it.’ He held up his palm. ‘I’ve been through all those books.’
‘No, you haven’t.’ Her hand slid toward his on the railing. ‘And those books in your room and your office are worthless.’
He scowled, then wondered if she could see his expression in the dim light.
‘Don’t look at me that way.’
Question answered. ‘What makes you think those books are worthless?’
Her eyes widened in mock disbelief as she shook her head and sighed. ‘You’re still cursed, Einstein.’
Maybe he’d just kill her a little. ‘There are
some I haven’t read yet.’
‘Don’t bother. Unless you like wasting your time.’ She stepped onto the lowest rung of the railing, leaned her torso over, and inhaled with her eyes closed, as though the smell of the sea was something special. Maybe it was, but not here where the rainbow sheen of leaking oil clogged most life into a decaying mess.
‘Why would your Aurelian have anything different?’
She hopped back onto the deck. ‘There are books, scrolls really, long lost to the vampire histories.’
‘I doubt that. Vampire history goes back to the beginning of time. To the Castus Sang—’
‘Quiet. Never say that name out loud.’ Fear flared in her eyes. She glanced from side to side, as if expecting the ancient creatures to come rushing in and swoop her up.
‘I don’t think they’re much concerned with anathema these days.’
She glared at him. ‘Really? Are you willing to test that theory?’
In truth, no. ‘What about these long-lost scrolls? How does the vampire nation not have them?’
The shift in subject seemed to calm her down. She exhaled and twisted the hem of her T-shirt around her fingers. His T-shirt. The black fabric swallowed her. Like you should. ‘The vampire nation doesn’t have them, because the comarré have kept them hidden. Over the years, we’ve plucked every existing copy we could find from the libraries of our patrons.’ The hem tore in her fingers. ‘These are secrets even some lesser comarré don’t know. I shouldn’t be telling you, of all people.’
‘But you are.’
She shook her head, tucking her chin against her chest, and went quiet for a long minute. ‘Things will never be okay again, will they?’
The question threw him. He didn’t know what to say, how to answer. ‘Things change.’ Yeah, that was brilliant. A real epiphany for the ages.
‘I just wanted to be free. Now that may never happen.’ She lifted the hem to her face and wiped her eyes.
The smooth gold-inscribed expanse of her stomach distracted him, and too late he realized she was trying to hide tears. Son of a priest. ‘Look, don’t do that. Everything will be … fine.’
Blood Rights (House of Comarre 1) Page 15