Flesh And Blood: House of Comarre: Book Two (House of Comarre 2)

by Painter, Kristen

  Lines of irritation bracketed his mouth. His hands tightened painfully on her hips and he leaned in as silver tarnished his pupils. ‘Calling your sire weak is rash, even for you, gypsy.’

  She hated that name and all it reminded her of, but she robbed him of that satisfaction and smiled sweetly instead. ‘I would never call you weak, my lord.’ She stroked his cheek with her flesh hand. ‘Would I have accepted your offer if I hadn’t seen how strong and capable a leader you are?’ Her palm trailed down to his chest, her fingers sliding beneath the placket of his shirt to caress his hard, muscled chest. ‘Of course not, my lord.’

  ‘Good.’ The silver in his gaze diminished and a guarded smile returned to his mouth. He lifted her right arm and squinted at the metal prosthesis. ‘Otherwise, I might find it necessary to remove the gift I procured for you.’ He dropped her arm. ‘I assured you I would find someone to fix what had been done to you without anyone else knowing. There was no need to kill Zafir.’

  ‘I didn’t kill him, my lord,’ she lied, knowing he meant to catch her. ‘As I told you, he made unwelcome advances. I pushed him away and a lamp broke. I was lucky to escape that fire myself.’

  He eyed her suspiciously. ‘And what of your missing hand? Any luck finding that yet?’

  ‘No.’ She and Octavian had searched every centimeter of the room where the comarré whore had cut off her hand and every possible escape route but had found nothing. She could only assume the girl had taken it. Or perhaps Malkolm had – but she’d never imagined her former husband the sentimental type. ‘Do you think she’ll use it against me?’

  ‘It’s not her I worry about but her friends. They are an unsavory lot.’ His smile came fully alive and he lifted her chin with his fingers, kissed her firmly, then shook his head. ‘The path ahead will not be an easy one.’

  Was anything she’d done for him? Or anything in her life for that matter? She caressed the Tepes star that dangled from a thick gold chain around his neck. She could see herself in the bold ruby square at its center, a beast of a gem compared to the chip that decorated her locket. ‘Nothing worth having ever is.’

  He laughed. ‘That’s my Tatiana. Not afraid of anything, are you, love?’

  ‘No. Nothing.’ Nothing he’d ever find out about. Nothing that would ever happen again. She forced a smile as the dulcet tones of Sofia’s little-girl laugh echoed in her memory. ‘Shall we discuss your plan of action?’

  He slipped his arm around her waist and led her toward the door. She knew instantly what he wanted. Since Mikkel’s death, Ivan had become exceedingly amorous. If he hoped to woo her as a means to keep her loyal, he was dead wrong. ‘Yes, but not just now.’ His fangs extended, his face shedding its humanity to reveal his true visage. ‘It will make for wonderful pillow talk afterward, I assure you.’

  ‘I look forward to it, my lord.’ She laughed, fluttering her lashes, leaning into him and savoring the moment she’d be able to walk over his ashes on the way toward leading the vampire nation into a new age of domination.

  Sweaty and miserable, Doc stumbled into the hold that had been modified into a gym and collapsed to his hands and knees on the mats. He gave in and quit fighting the inevitable. By now, the need to mentally command his body to change was gone. Instinct took over and a moment later he found release in his animal form. If you could call the pitiful house cat that was his only option a true form. It wasn’t. Not to him. Or any other straight-up shifter.

  Never would be either. Even if he had to live with this hellacious curse for the rest of his unnatural life.

  He sprawled on his side, panting with the effort of holding off the shift for so long. He lifted a paw. The claws were tiny pinpoints. He hated this form. Just like he hated that for at least one night a month, he had to assume the shape of a creature so small and lame compared to his true self.

  Varcolai were not humans born with the ability to shift into animal forms; they were animals born with the ability to take on human shape. Being Doc the human wasn’t any more difficult than breathing, and it was a damn sight less humiliating than walking around looking like a house pet. Except when nature sank her full-moon teeth deep and reminded him what he really was under that smooth, vulnerable skin.

  Then being human became virtually impossible. So he gave in, shifted to his lesser form and hid from the world.

  His pride leader, Sinjin, had cast him out as soon as Doc had told him about the curse. What good was a house cat to a pride of big cats? His cursed form wasn’t the only reason Sinjin had ordered the pride to shun him. He closed his eyes against the truth, but that didn’t stop it from staring back at him.

  There was the little matter of what he’d done to get cursed. He’d dealt in certain pharmaceuticals. Not street drugs, but the kind of amped-up concoctions that othernaturals paid big for. Really big. Hell, that kind of scratch let a player make the rules of the game. But with big rewards came big risk. He’d known that.

  Just like he’d known the risk in working for Sinjin’s enemy.

  With good reason, Sinjin had a major beef with Dominic – owner of the nightclub Seven, powerful alchemist, and New Florida’s leading drug lord. Sinjin had owned Seven long before Dominic had come to town, back when the club had been a broken-down scum hole of a joint, but then Sinjin lost the building and the business to Dominic in a poker game. To this day, Sinjin swore Dominic had used his alchemy to win. Dominic denied it, of course, but that hadn’t stopped Sinjin from declaring Seven off-limits to the pride. Anyone who went there was subject to pride law.

  The other major varcolai clan in Paradise City, the wolf pack, were under no such orders. Their members worked at Seven and benefited from the cash and perks Dominic freely doled out. Doc wondered if it wasn’t the anathema’s way of punishing Sinjin and his pride a little more.

  Damn vampires. Doc hissed because he couldn’t curse, but the anger leaked out of him like air from a punctured tire. He might hate Dominic, but he didn’t feel that way about Mal. As screwed up as Mal was, he’d saved Doc’s life. Brought his torn and broken body home and given him to Fi, who’d nursed him back to health after a pack of street dogs had treated him like a chew toy. Sure, Fi had thought he was her new pet, but once they’d gotten past that little surprise … He bent his head in grief. Cripes, he missed her. If he’d been able to go leopard, he might have saved her life.

  Evie, the witch he’d sold the juice to, was to blame. If she hadn’t insisted on testing the goods before he split, none of this would have happened. How was he supposed to know Dominic’s drugs would turn her to stone? How was that his fault? Talk about killing the messenger. He lifted his back foot to scratch behind his ear.

  If only he’d rolled out of there before Aliza, Evie’s mother, had figured out what went down. If only, if only, if only …

  Damn that albino freak and her whacked-out daughter.

  He rolled over and stretched. House cat or not, it felt good to be in animal form. He yawned. He should find a spot to curl up in and sleep until the sun rose.

  The stitching along the edge of the mat was frayed, leaving a tail of string right out in the open. He looked over his shoulder. Not like anyone was around anyway.

  Satisfied, he bounced to his feet and swatted at it, then sat back on his haunches. This body came with some damn foolish urges, that was for sure.

  A small, dark streak sped through the corner of his vision. The musky, meaty smell of rat filled his nostrils. The quivering anticipation of the hunt ran through him hot and electric. Hell, why fight it? With a soft chirp of anticipation, he was on his feet and moving.

  The rat darted out into the narrow corridor. Even without the overhead solars, Doc’s night vision was on point. He chased after the rodent, eager, hungry, saliva pooling for the kill.

  Passageways and stairs disappeared beneath Doc’s padded feet. Whiskers brushed metal as he rounded corners and ducked pipes. All that mattered was the long-tailed meal and where it went next.

  The passage
way ahead angled through the heart of the freighter and into the belly of the main hold. The solars grew weaker, dimming as the game took him in deeper. Squealing, the rat slipped between a couple empty boxcars, two of many that formed a maze through the ship’s gut.

  Doc pursued, turning the corner so sharply his ribs grazed the hard edge of the first container. He barreled through, the scent tangible on his tongue, the kill moments away. He exploded out into the open and skidded to a dead stop. The sight on the other side erased all thoughts of the rat and the hunt.

  A familiar shape walked among the boxcars. Long dark hair, backpack tucked over her shoulders, flashlight in hand. What little light there was passed through her translucent form.

  Numb recognition froze Doc.

  The circle of her flashlight beam pinpointed something. She walked toward it, stared at it for a moment, then nudged it with her foot.

  In a flash, a thin, dark shape lunged up and grabbed her. Her mouth opened in a silent scream. The flashlight tumbled from her hand and landed with the beam pointed at her. The shape was human, bones with a little skin stretched over them. It clung to her. Fangs, white in the flashlight’s beam, tore into her throat. Blood spattered, soaking the front of her sweatshirt. The creature gorged itself as the fight drained out of the girl’s body. Her fists stopped battering. Her feet stopped kicking.

  The creature raised its face and stared with cloudy eyes into the light. A remnant of flesh hung from its scrawny jaw.

  The creature was Malkolm. The girl was Fiona.

  The image flickered and disappeared.

  Chapter Three

  Chrysabelle smiled with the satisfaction of another day well spent and a new night well begun. Nothing like a long, hot shower after an intense day of training. She tucked her damp hair behind her ears and pulled her white terry robe closer. It would be a long time before she broke the habit of wearing white, but why should she? It was as natural for a comarré as breathing.

  The delicious smell of whatever Velimai was making in the kitchen wafted up from the first floor. Chrysabelle leaned on the countertop and stared into the bathroom mirror. Every day, every night the same. She’d wake up, train, shower, eat dinner, and read Maris’s journals, looking for an advantage against Tatiana. She was in a rut. Did it matter? She was happy. Mostly. Free to do what she wanted. At least until Tatiana came knocking again. Unless Chrysabelle got to her first. But that would take planning, and so far, she’d yet to come up with anything.

  She sighed as the niggling reminder of Mal’s unpaid debt wormed through her consciousness again. Something else to be dealt with in time. Not now, but soon. She reached for one of Maris’s journals and carried it downstairs to read until dinner was ready.

  This journal dealt with the time leading up to Maris’s decision to claim libertas, the comarré ritual in which a comarré might fight her patron for her freedom. If the comarré lost, the patron was granted a new comarré. If the comarré won, she went free. Either way, the loser ended up dead.

  Maris had won, but the ritual had left her crippled, unable to walk until years of secret rehabilitation enabled her to regain some mobility. It had also freed her from her patron and allowed her and Dominic, her vampire lover, to leave the noble realm and live a somewhat normal life. At least until Maris had left Dominic. Why she’d done that, Chrysabelle had yet to uncover.

  Maris had been exceptional at keeping secrets. Even Dominic hadn’t known that she’d regained her ability to walk over the years. In the end, that secret had made it possible for her to kill Chrysabelle’s patron and escape without detection, all in an effort to free Chrysabelle so she might live a life beyond the servitude of the comarré world, something Chrysabelle had long wanted.

  Maris had gotten her wish. But at what price? Even Dominic had paid highly. His noble family, the house of St. Germain, had declared him anathema for loving the comarré of one of his peers and causing that comarré to claim libertas, during which her patron had been killed. The council had blamed him for the patron’s death. And although killing another vampire was an unforgivable sin, he had escaped with his life because he had only been the cause and hadn’t actually dealt the killing blow. Not that Dominic was suffering now.

  His nightclub, Seven, seemed to be doing very well. The man wore expensive suits, had his own plane. Once a week, he laid a blanket of white roses on Maris’s grave. And he might indulge in some things that were not exactly above board, but Chrysabelle couldn’t help but feel some affection for the man who still obviously loved her mother.

  She returned to the journal but had read only a few pages when the intercom chimed twice, indicating the guard at the main gates was calling.

  Velimai came out from the kitchen, wiping her hands on a towel. She threw it over her shoulder and signed, Are you expecting someone?

  ‘No, but that’s okay. I’ll get it.’ Chrysabelle got up to answer the intercom. ‘Yes?’

  ‘Ms. Lapointe, there is a visitor here, but they’re not on your list. Should I let them in?’

  ‘Who is it?’

  After a brief pause, the guard responded. ‘He says he works for Mr. Scarnato and has a message from him.’

  She chewed her bottom lip. If someone meant her harm, why would they bother stopping at the guard shack? Why not find another way in? Although using Dominic’s name was a pretty good ruse. ‘He’s alone?’

  ‘Yes, ma’am.’

  ‘Let him through.’

  ‘Very good, ma’am.’

  She checked the closed-circuit monitor that showed the gates into the property. Those gates had to be opened manually, which would give her time to react if whoever was in that vehicle was up to something. Instinctively, she felt for her wrist blades, but she wasn’t in the habit of rearming herself once she’d gotten ready for bed. Perhaps that would have to change. She turned. ‘Velimai, could you get my—’

  Velimai stood behind her, Chrysabelle’s sacre in her upraised hands.

  ‘Sword.’ Smiling, Chrysabelle took the weapon, careful not to touch the wysper’s sandpaper skin. ‘Thanks.’

  Should I get Maris’s sacre as well? she signed.

  ‘No. I plan on keeping her rule of no vampires in the house, so whoever this is won’t be coming in.’ She slipped her arm through the red leather strap on the sheath and hung the sacre over her shoulder. ‘Assuming it’s a vamp.’

  Good, Velimai signed. I’ll be in the kitchen. Call if you need me.

  ‘Will do.’

  As Velimai headed into the other room, Chrysabelle turned back to the monitor. A sleek black car stopped outside the gates. The window tinting prevented seeing into the vehicle, but the driver put the window down and leaned out, presumably to let her get a good look at him. She recognized him as one of the fringe vamps who had piloted Dominic’s plane to Corvinestri on the trip to save Maris. What was his name? Leo? Yes, that was it.

  He pressed the intercom button. ‘Evening, Ms. Lapointe. I’m alone.’

  She leaned on the wall and pushed the button to be heard. ‘Good evening, Leo. Get out of the car and walk in. I’ll buzz the pedestrian gate.’

  He gave a thumbs-up, got out of the car, and walked to the left where a smaller gate allowed pedestrians to come and go.

  She punched the buzzer. He pushed through and headed toward the house. She kept tabs on him via the monitor on his way to the front door. She opened it before he could knock.

  ‘Here you are.’ Leo handed her a sealed envelope.

  She took it. ‘Be right back.’

  ‘I’ll just stay here.’ He backed away but stayed within the pale glow cast by the entrance lights.

  Yes, she thought, you will. She shut the door and ran her nail beneath the seal. It occurred to her as she read the note within that she had no way of knowing if the handwriting belonged to Dominic or not.

  Buonasera, dearest Chrysabelle,

  I am sorry to approach you this way, but I find the events of the past few weeks have weakened me more than
I anticipated. My heart seems incapable of healing, and my body has followed suit. Please, bella, it shames me to ask, but if you could provide me with the nourishment to return to my full strength, I would consider it a great boon and be indebted to you for my eternity. I know well the value of what you can provide, so if you are not so inclined, I understand and hold no ill will.

  Ciao,

  Dominic Scarnato

  She stared at the note. Then read it again. It meant exactly what she thought it did. Dominic wanted blood. Her blood. Well, what he wanted was comarré blood. She couldn’t blame him. Comarré blood meant power and strength unlike anything human blood could provide. Dominic had been through so much and had done so much for her. After they’d returned from Corvinestri, he’d sent his cypher fae, Solomon, to the house to prepare a special ward to erase the house’s location from Tatiana’s memory. How he’d done that exactly, she didn’t know, but Dominic’s alchemy was strong. He was a good man at heart. She would give him the blood. After all, Malkolm didn’t want it. Maybe she could even get Dominic to go with her to fight Tatiana. No doubt he wanted her dead as much as Chrysabelle.

  The sacre no longer necessary, she unhooked the sword from her shoulder and rested it against one of the large Oriental vases flanking the foyer entrance. She opened the door. ‘I’ll be right back with a package for Dominic.’

  The fringe nodded. ‘Very good.’

  She went to the kitchen and placed two containers of blood from the fridge into the cryopack she’d previously used to send blood to Mal. He’d sent the pack back empty, but she knew full well he hadn’t drunk the blood. Fine. He could be a child. She wasn’t going to allow herself to revisit the hurt she’d felt over his rejection. Wasn’t going to dwell on the fact that comarré rule held such a rejection to be akin to human divorce. Now Dominic would benefit from what she had to offer. Better than it going to waste. Of course, if Mal did still hold her blood rights, giving blood to another vampire was … very wrong, to put it plainly. She shoved down the proper comarré thoughts and did her best to ignore the nagging urges of her past.