Blood Rights (House of Comarre 1)

by Kristen Painter

  He lifted her hand and dragged his forked tongue over the beads of blood on her hand and arm. ‘Now then, when you have the ring and the sacrifice in hand, this is what you must do … ’

  Chapter Thirty

  Maris inched down the hall, careful not to scrape the heel of her bad leg on the floor. She’d found enough weapons along the way to arm herself with a short dagger and a cutlass. Not her first choices, but those had been the easiest and quietest to remove from their mounts.

  The house reeked of vampire. Not the subtle spice she’d once found so alluring on Dominic, but the pervasive mustiness of death and decay. Like old paper money left too long in a damp place.

  Tatiana had killed in this house. There was no other explanation. Maris’s lip curled in disgust. This Tatiana lived like the world owed her something and she was determined to claim it.

  A noise up ahead sent Maris into a side room. A small guest room, nothing more. No closet either, just an armoire that would cause considerable pain to her hip should she have to climb into it. She pressed her ear to the door and listened as footsteps went by.

  She opened the door a slit and peeked into the hall, gripping the dagger close to her side. A servant disappeared down the corridor. She ducked out. Time to move. She couldn’t expect to remain undetected forever. At some point, someone would realize she was no longer tied to that chair and an alarm would be raised.

  The hall split north and south. The stench grew stronger to the north so she went that way. Assuming Tatiana killed in her quarters was taking a leap of faith, but Maris had nothing else to go on. Step by arduous step, she closed on Tatiana, praying it wasn’t much farther. The beatings had left her bruised and weary, her hip a knot of pain.

  An interior door opened and closed. Frantic to find a hiding place, Maris tried the closest room, but it was locked. Snapping herself against the wall at the side of a large display cabinet, she readied herself to attack. The cutlass blade rested against her cheek, the hilt held snugly by her breast. From here, she could strike out and slice the throat of whoever came by. Maybe even decapitate them.

  Footsteps approached. Soft. Sluggish. Weak. Not the stride of a vampire. At least, not Tatiana. Her steps were much more determined, full of arrogance and carelessness.

  Maris held her weapons, waiting to see … the air changed, the mustiness tempered with a sweeter scent. More like home.

  A comar stumbled past. She couldn’t see his face, but one hand clenched his opposite wrist. Blood stained his gilded fingers. The wound would heal, but his wobbly gait indicated the blood loss had been great. Her heart went out to him for a thousand different reasons, but she had work to do and little time to accomplish it.

  Bittersweet emotion filled her. She now knew where Tatiana was, and that Tatiana had just fed. She would be strong. Hard to defeat. But Tatiana’s careless use of her comar stirred Maris. The vampire needed to die. She was a blight on her own kind.

  Maris swallowed down her fear. She’d lived long enough anyway. When the comar was safely past, she stepped out into the hall and walked as boldly toward the way he’d come as her bad leg would let her. That boldness didn’t mean she’d willfully throw away the element of surprise however.

  She pressed her ear to a flat spot on one of the carved double doors he’d likely exited from. A distant conversation reached her ears, too muted to understand. Sounded like it came from far inside the room. Beyond the room, maybe. She eased the door open and listened again. Definitely another room. Satisfied the first room was empty, she slipped in and closed the door quietly.

  A small salon, well furnished but ill smelling. Another set of double doors. She listened at those and heard more clearly the conversation that had eluded her.

  ‘… after the ring is on your finger’ – a deeply scarred male voice rasped. Maris winced. The voice grated like teeth scraping bone – ‘you will drain your sacrifice to death.’

  ‘Yes, master,’ a female voice replied. Tatiana. ‘I only hope the elder comarré lives long enough to watch me do it.’

  The horrid smell increased and the crack of a slap reverberated in reply. Then the harsh male voice spoke again. ‘Your only hope need be that what I ask of you is done.’

  Holy mother. Her hand went to her mouth. The sudden recognition of whom that odor and voice belonged to sucked the strength out of Maris. Cold fear burrowed into her joints. The weapons in her hands became thousand-pound weights, her own body difficult to support. Her bad leg trembled like a sapling in a stiff breeze.

  If Tatiana was willing to subjugate herself to those ancient evils, there was no limit to what she could do. And whatever this ring was, it was going to bring about something awful. The ring Tatiana believed Chrysabelle had.

  Maris eased her way out of the room, desperate to put distance between herself and the monumental evil in the next room.

  She scanned in both directions. All clear. But which way to go? She scoured her mind for the lessons drilled into her so many years ago. The fog of time lifted and the logical answer showed itself. Now to find a way into the bowels of the estate. She moved in the direction the comar had gone. Something made her think Tatiana had not reserved the best rooms for him.

  Was he the comar Tatiana planned on using for a sacrifice? Herself? Chrysabelle? Holy mother, not Chrysabelle.

  Maris shivered as she hurried down the empty corridor. This revelation changed everything. She had to stay alive long enough to warn Chrysabelle of Tatiana’s dangerous alliance. Maris had done too much and gone too far to allow that wicked blood-sucking autocrat to harm her niece. Tatiana had to be stopped. Permanently.

  After that, Maris would find a way to die usefully. Like covered in the ashes of as many vampires as she could take with her.

  ‘So much for the Trojan horse idea.’ Mal shook his head as he stared into the car. A more loathsome display of innards he could not recall. Even the voices recoiled. It was as though the Nothos had somehow exploded. Fortunately, they were parked on the public road that ran through Corvinestri’s human cemetery. Not much chance of disturbing anyone here.

  Dominic peered in beside him. ‘Mamma mia.’

  ‘I didn’t have a choice,’ Mortalis grumbled. ‘I’ve never tried to possess one for that long. Hell, until yesterday, I’d never possessed one at all.’ He scraped his hands along his arms, depositing big sticky clumps of Nothos remains onto the limo floor.

  Doc stuck his head over the car door and wrinkled his nose. ‘That’s just nasty.’ He smirked at Dominic. ‘Glad I’m not paying that cleaning bill.’

  Dominic smirked back. ‘As if you could.’

  ‘Enough,’ Mal said. Chrysabelle approached, but he held up his hands. ‘Stay over there with Fi and Solomon. You don’t want to see this. Or get any closer to the smell.’

  Shreds of Nothos plastered the car’s interior. Pools of yellow blood soaked the carpet. Strings of sinew and tendons hung from the bar. Rusty black bones lay strewn about. Lots and lots of bones. Mal’s eyes watered from the stench. Too bad it’s not you.

  ‘I’m sure I’ve seen worse. And I can already smell it.’ She stopped next to Mal, blinking hard. ‘Wow, that is nasty.’

  ‘Yes, thanks for pointing that out again.’ Mortalis wiped more entrails off his face.

  Chrysabelle poked at a lump of flesh on the interior door handle. ‘Wonder why it didn’t turn to ash?’

  Mortalis tapped the tip of one filigreed horn. ‘Too much silver contact, maybe.’

  The driver pushed his door open and rushed behind a marble monument. The sounds of vomiting followed. Mal lifted a brow. Stepping off the public road and onto the hallowed cemetery ground would be like walking on razor blades. Maybe fringe didn’t feel it as strongly as the noble-blooded. Or maybe the driver thought getting sick in front of everyone else was worse. Mal had never seen a vampire – even a fringe – lose his accounts over a little gore. He looked back at the car’s interior. Okay, more than a little gore.

  The driver hurried
back to the road. Wisps of smoke curled off his skin. No way was stepping foot on that soil better than puking in front of people.

  Mal grimaced, then turned back to Mortalis. ‘What did you do to it exactly?’

  ‘I turned it inside out.’ Mortalis climbed out. Everyone backed up. ‘Trust me, it was halfway there on its own trying to get at me.’

  Dominic cursed in Italian. ‘Now what? That Nothos was our way in.’

  Mal shut the car door. ‘We’ll figure out a different plan.’ Maybe they could force their way in?

  ‘We’re wasting time,’ Dominic said. ‘Marissa could be dying. There’s no telling what Tatiana will do to her.’ He patted his chest and glass clanked from his breast pocket. ‘I came prepared to blast us in if need be.’

  Mal snorted. ‘So much for subtlety.’

  Dominic scowled. ‘You have a better idea?’

  ‘I know another way in.’ Chrysabelle squinted and rubbed her forehead as though a headache pounded the back of her eyes. ‘There are underground tunnels that connect the major estates. I can get us in, so Solomon can stay behind.’

  ‘You’ve known this all along?’ Anger flickered in Dominic’s eyes. ‘Why didn’t you say something sooner?’

  Chrysabelle’s hands went to her hips and the pulse in her neck jumped. ‘You of all people should understand about comarré keeping secrets.’

  ‘Stupido.’ Dominic threw his hands in the air. ‘Apologize, Dominic.’ Mal’s temper flared hot beneath his skin. The beast lifted its head. He understood Dominic had a personal stake in this, but Mal would not abide Chrysabelle being disrespected. ‘Talk to her like that again and I’ll break your neck. Or she can do it herself.’

  Looking less than penitent, Dominic sketched a shallow bow. ‘Scusi.’ Blowhard. The vampire must have been a real joy before he turned anathema. What had Chrysabelle’s aunt ever seen in him? More than Chrysabelle will ever see in you.

  Mortalis flicked a piece of skin off one of his horns. ‘Well, I’m out. There’s no way I can go in there smelling like this. They’ll scent me immediately.’

  Mal pointed at him. ‘You stay here and protect Fi and Solomon. Solomon, cyphers can set wards as well as break them, correct?’

  Solomon bowed his head. ‘Yes, of course.’

  ‘Then set one around this perimeter. Chrysabelle, I assume you know how to get to these tunnels from here?’

  Her eyes stayed on the ground. Clearly, she was not happy to have revealed this secret to so many. ‘I can guide us in from the village sewers.’

  ‘Good.’ Mal glanced at Doc. ‘You and Dominic need to put the past behind you for tonight.’

  Dominic stood at the edge of the road, staring into the head-stones and monuments. He looked back and shrugged one shoulder. ‘For Marissa, of course.’

  Doc nodded. ‘So long as I get to kill something.’

  ‘All right then, Mortalis, you’re in charge here. You’ve got the map Chrysabelle drew. Get the car in the proximity of the estate in an hour.’ Mal glanced at the others as they gathered around him. ‘Let’s go.’

  A half hour later and the four of them slogged through ankle-high brown water and debris that Mal didn’t want to look too closely at. Weak solars spaced every few yards offered little light and dripping water echoed through the dim tunnels.

  He was surprised Chrysabelle could see to lead them as well as she was. She hadn’t faltered once, only slowed. A rat scurried past along the pipes bolted to the wall, squeaking its displeasure at the strange intruders.

  Doc’s stomach rumbled. Mal shot him a look.

  Doc shook his head. ‘Don’t go there with me, vampire. You drink blood.’

  ‘Quiet.’ Chrysabelle held her hand up and stopped before a fork in the tunnel. Both sides of the divergence were gated. ‘I need better ears. Do you hear voices coming from either of these tunnels?’

  Mal heard a lot of things – the buzz in his head, the pleasurable hum of her pulse, the drip and splash of the water, the patter of vermin feet – but he listened past all that and focused on what the paths held. Faintly, like rain falling on a distant window, the drone of conversation reached him. He nodded. ‘I hear voices coming from both.’

  She frowned. ‘That means they’ve kept the staff on at Algernon’s. I thought they’d have shut the house up.’

  ‘Do you know which direction or not?’ Dominic asked.

  ‘Chill, man. Let the girl do her thing.’ Doc flicked open his switchblade and began cleaning under his nails, carefully avoiding Mal’s direction since he’d obviously violated the temporary peace treaty.

  Dominic muttered in Italian.

  She ignored both of them and asked Mal, ‘Can you smell death from either direction? Algernon’s house should carry that odor. Tatiana’s … hopefully not.’

  Mal inhaled. The sewer stank, but nothing like the exploded Nothos. Again he nodded. ‘I smell death.’ You should know.

  ‘In which direction?’

  He hated his answer. ‘Both.’

  Her face crumpled for a brief moment, then steeled. ‘Very well. I will have to guess – no, wait. Is the scent of comarré mixed with either one? Maybe more strongly than another?’

  He pulled the air in, unraveling the layers of scent as if they were intertwined strands of thread. The honeyed perfume of comarré was strong in both, but only one tunnel carried the particularly sweet fragrance he’d come to know as Chrysabelle. The other carried an oddly familiar scent. Not completely unpleasant. It reminded him of something or someone from his past. The noise in his head ticked up. He sniffed again. The scent was familiar, but also different. Off. He ignored it for the moment. Chrysabelle needed him to get this right.

  ‘There.’ He pointed to the left. ‘That way carries your scent.’

  She offered him a sliver of a smile before shifting her gaze to the other tunnel. ‘Then we go right.’

  Mal stepped in behind her but grabbed Doc’s arm. ‘Keep it civil with Dominic. I mean it.’

  Doc flipped the switchblade closed and tucked it away. ‘Noted.’

  She turned to face them all. ‘From here on in, no talking. If you can hear them, they can hear you. Understood?’

  Apparently satisfied with their nods, Chrysabelle walked up to the locked gate and stood very still in front of it. A moment later, a small snick signaled the gate had unlocked. She pushed it open, stepped over the raised threshold and headed into the tunnel. Mal stayed close to her, with Dominic and Doc keeping some distance from each other.

  ‘How did you unlock that?’ he whispered.

  She just shook her head and kept her silence. Another comarré secret?

  As the minutes ticked by, the path descended lower and lower and the tunnel narrowed. Water rushed by. The solars disappeared, replaced by gently pulsing phosphorescence that reminded Mal of the hallways that led to the Pits at Seven. The subtle sounds of occupation strengthened deeper in, and the soft voices of servants penetrated the thick barrier of stone between them and the residence. A few times, Chrysabelle’s eyes shifted upward. Could she hear them? Or was she thinking of her aunt and what the next few hours might bring?

  At last, when they were somewhere in the dark underbelly of Corvinestri, they came to a four-way split. The path directly across from them led into a small, dark room. Chrysabelle motioned them in.

  The empty space was carved from the surrounding rock and still bore the marks of whatever tools had hewn it. Moisture seeped from the walls. Nothing denoted the room as anything special and, more interesting, there was no way out except the way they’d come in. He glanced up. Nothing on the ceiling either. Judging by the look of frustration on Dominic’s face, he’d figured that out too. If this was the way into Tatiana’s estate, they were going to need dynamite, shovels, or magic. He held his hands out to Chrysabelle in question.

  Exasperation thinned Chrysabelle’s mouth. She splayed her fingers, pushing her palm toward the floor. Mal nodded. She wanted them to wait, be patient. He could d
o that. He’d waited this long to exact his revenge on the nobles who’d cursed him, he could wait a little longer.

  She positioned herself in front of the back wall and off to one side.

  He tried not to stare, but even in the gloom, she shimmered with the soft glow only a comarré could produce. Her braid bared the sides of her face, revealing the delicate gold lacework tattooed there, and despite the twinkling silver body armor covering her neck, the ache in his gums made him bite down until his fangs jutted into his lower lip. Not the time. Always the time.

  She pushed up her tunic sleeves to roll the silver mesh back past her elbows, exposing her signum, then bending her arms, she locked them together vertically in front of her face like a shield, fists facing inward, the flats of her forearms facing the wall. She closed her eyes and mouthed words. He couldn’t see her lips, but it seemed like she was praying.

  Dominic sighed. Mal glared at him. If he didn’t shut up, Mal would give him a bloody reason to. He turned back in time to see the wall shimmer in front of Chrysabelle. She opened her eyes as it wavered for another second then melted away to reveal a doorway into an extensive wine cellar. Weak light spilled into the space.

  The cellar held more than wine bottles.

  Near the back of the room, amid the racks and oak casks, another older comarré limped toward them. Her clothes were dirty and torn, her face bruised and bloodied, her weapons raised in a fighting stance. Her eyes widened and her mouth fell open as she took in the group of them.

  Dominic rushed forward. ‘Marissa!’

  ‘Holy mother,’ Chrysabelle whispered, reaching for the wall. ‘You can walk?’

  Chapter Thirty-one

  Fi wandered the cemetery, reading names and dates as best she could by the light of the moon. How many of these people owed their death to a vampire like she did? She traced the carving on one headstone, her fingers catching on the weathered stone as she glanced back toward the cars. She would have felt better if Doc had stayed. Hanging out with the fae was fine, but the drivers were still vamps. Vamps she didn’t know. Friendly or not, she wanted some distance. Especially since one of the drivers, Leo, had managed a few minutes on hallowed ground to toss his cookies, even if he had come out smoking like a burned pot roast.