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

by Painter, Kristen

  The slightly musty stench of fringe vampires rose off the asphalt like steam. Considering the blood trail she’d been leaving, it was no wonder she was being tracked. Blood speckled the front of her tunic and the side of her pants. The scent alone must be driving them mad. She bit the inside of her cheek to keep from smiling. A little swordplay was just the thing for her current mood, and if someone got ashed, so much the better. All that solo training was fine, but there was nothing like a little field-work to hone one’s skills.

  The fringe swept closer, dancing in and out of the shadows. She’d done nothing to cover her signum, so they probably knew what she was. Or thought they did. She spun in a slow circle, trying to count how many there were. More laughter. They thought she was easy prey.

  How very, very wrong they were.

  She gave way to the anger coursing through her veins. It bloomed bright and caustic, filling the marrow of her bones with a sense of indestructibility. Comarré were taught to suppress their anger, to banish it. Anger made a fighter vulnerable. Tonight she didn’t care. Comarré rules hadn’t helped her very much lately. All that propriety and sense of duty worked within the confines of noble society, but Paradise City was as far from noble society as heaven was from hell.

  One after the other, the streetlights popped, shattering glass over the sidewalk in frosty shards. Laughter echoed down the empty road, bouncing off the abandoned buildings.

  ‘Come and get it,’ she whispered into the moonlit night.

  Oily fringe-shaped stains leaked out of the shadows and closed in. A tall fringe, his hair a spiky mess, jumped onto the hood of the closest car, denting its hood. His attitude announced him as leader. He planted his hands on his hips and smiled at her. ‘Well, well. Dinner has come to us tonight.’

  A female fringe emerged from the shadows and leaned against the car. She glanced at him, then grinned at Chrysabelle. ‘This one smells sweet, Frankie, like candy.’ She strolled toward Chrysabelle, winding a strand of screaming-red hair around one finger. ‘I like candy.’

  The rest of the crew surrounded Chrysabelle, posturing in their worn leathers and hard-edged grins. At least fifteen of them altogether. Not quite the odds she’d been anticipating, but she’d done nothing but train lately. She was ready for this. Sweat dampened the back of her tunic where the sacre sheaths crossed her spine.

  These were fringe. Not nobles. They were weaker, younger, most definitely less powerful, but that didn’t stop her from sending up a quick prayer. Holy mother, give me strength. Guide my weapons.

  An eerie sense of calm replaced her fear with a boldness that came from years spent in the sparring halls of the Primoris Domus. She’d felt it before when she’d killed the fringe in the Pits and when she’d fought with Tatiana. Comarré training was like a bad habit, only harder to break. Anger coiled in her belly, a live wire snapping and sizzling.

  ‘Wait up, Ruby.’ Frankie jumped off the car and landed beside the female fringe. With their arms slung across each other’s shoulders, the pair approached Chrysabelle. ‘Maybe we’ll keep her as a pet.’ He squeezed Ruby. ‘What do you say, love? Isn’t she pretty the way she glows? Like a sweet, bloody lightning bug.’

  Ruby and the rest of them laughed. The crew tightened the circle around her.

  Fools.

  In a single motion, Chrysabelle lunged her left leg out and reached back to snag the hilts of her blades. They sang out a high, metallic hiss as she freed them from the leather. She straightened her arms and sliced the swords inward, beheading the fringe on either side of her with the sharp sizzle only a hot blade could produce.

  Frankie and Ruby jumped back as the heads of two of their crew thumped wet and solid to the ground, their bodies following right after.

  Frankie snarled, fangs bared. ‘Get her.’

  Hands grabbed at her and fingers wrapped around her upper arms. She jerked one arm free and broke a nose with her elbow. A hand tried to push her head to the side. Teeth grazed her arm. She ducked and flipped the other fringe over the top of her, staking him with her sacre as he tumbled past.

  Ash floated through the air like dirty snow.

  Three down, twelve to go.

  Several of that dozen now brandished weapons of their own. Short blades, mostly. Ruby flipped a butterfly knife through her fingers, opening and closing the weapon with a staccato click-clack, click-clack.

  From behind Chrysabelle, the shush of metal cutting through the air warned her to duck. She did, but the dagger sliced through her tunic just above her elbow and opened a long cut as it sailed past. The gash stung, and as if her body just realized that wasn’t her only wound, the cut on her palm began to burn anew.

  She spun, sacres flying, but the fringe moved out of reach. The element of surprise was gone. Time to get close and personal.

  ‘Give up, comarré?’ Frankie motioned to those behind her.

  ‘Get staked, fringe.’

  Frankie scowled. ‘Been doing a lot of that, have you? Your vampire killing days are over, sweetheart.’

  ‘Really? Because I feel like they’ve just begun.’ Sweet sunlight, she really wanted to take Frankie’s head off next.

  ‘Kill her!’ he yelled. Several vamps jumped her, knocking her down. She dropped her sacres and twisted as she fell, throwing one off, but a large male leaped on top of her. He hissed, spraying saliva, and reared back to strike.

  She palmed one of her bone daggers as something flew overhead and thunked into the female fringe standing over her. The crew member had a half second to glance down at the steel spike protruding out of her chest before she turned into ash. Three more bolts followed, neatly taking down three more surrounding fringe.

  A broad shadow muted the moonlight, and the fringe on top of Chrysabelle got yanked off and tossed aside like a sack of bones. She flipped to her feet. The man who’d pulled the fringe off her leveled his crossbow and took out another retreating vamp.

  Frankie and Ruby were nowhere to be seen. If the man had taken them out, too, she hadn’t seen it. Maybe they’d split at the first sign of trouble.

  Miffed her fun had come to an end so quickly, she brandished her Golgotha dagger at the intruder. The man might be human, but his bronzed skin made her wonder. She’d never seen fae that color, but the feral way he stared back, his icy blue eyes unblinking, reeked of fae bravado. Tiny silver hoops winked from his ears and a short black Mohawk ran down the middle of his shaved skull. His knuckles bore the words HOLD and FAST, and more crudely rendered ink decorated his arms. A harder man she couldn’t imagine. Except maybe Mal.

  ‘Are you fae?’ she asked. His dirty jeans, soot-black T-shirt, and black leather vest clung to a heavily muscled form. She pulled her gaze back to his face. What human had that kind of aim? That kind of weaponry?

  ‘No.’

  ‘What, then?’

  He lifted the brushed titanium crossbow and notched it against his shoulder. ‘Just the guy who pulled your roast out of the fire.’

  His voice sounded like whiskey and wind. ‘My roast was doing just fine, thank you.’

  ‘Didn’t think I should let those vampires make a snack out of you, but maybe I was wrong.’ He racked a slide on the weapon’s underside, and the cross arms snapped in against the stock, then he popped the trigger handle into the stock as well, turning the crossbow into something that looked more like a length of flat-sided pipe. He tucked the whole thing into a chest holster beneath his vest. A matching length of round pipe hung on the other side of his ribs. ‘I know feeding vamps is a big part of the comarré job description, but they didn’t look like paying customers. Excuse me if I interrupted something.’ He gave her a short nod and turned to go.

  Arrogant enough to be nobility but definitely not fae or vampire, yet he knew she was comarré. Few humans knew that term. She called after him. ‘Since you know I’m comarré, you should also know it doesn’t work that way.’

  He stopped and faced her again. He jerked his chin at the blood-spattered front of her tunic.
‘Then maybe you should stop advertising.’ He reached toward his back.

  She lifted the dagger. ‘Try anything and I’ll—’

  ‘Here.’ He pulled out a handkerchief. ‘For your hand.’ He nodded at the weapon. ‘You can put that away. I’m not going to hurt you.’

  She’d like to see him try. ‘Right after you tell me who you are.’

  ‘Creek.’ He held the handkerchief out a little farther. ‘You have a name?’

  ‘Chrysabelle.’ She took the handkerchief. Looked clean. She tucked the dagger away, snapped the handkerchief open, and started wrapping the fabric around her hand. ‘You’re human?’

  He nodded. ‘Most days.’

  A human male. When was the last time she’d had a conversation with one who wasn’t comarré or a noble’s servant? She tied a knot in the makeshift wrap, holding one end of the fabric with her teeth. It smelled faintly of spice and smoke. ‘You just happened to be in this part of town?’

  ‘I live in this part of town. Grew up here.’ His eyes narrowed a bit and made a sweep of her from head to toe. ‘Not the best place for someone like you.’ His gaze went to her sacres, still on the ground. ‘At least you came prepared.’

  She retrieved her swords. ‘Likewise. Your weapons are interesting. For someone like you.’

  ‘They do the job.’ He jerked his thumb over his shoulder. ‘You headed back to Seven?’

  ‘Back to? How do you know that’s where I came from?’ She slipped the sacres into their scabbards, happy for something to do besides gawk at the man before her.

  ‘Where else would a comarré be going? I’m headed that way if you want company.’ He shrugged and took off, a slow easy gait that conveyed more grace than a man of his size should have.

  If he’d meant to hurt her, he could’ve tried something by now. Or not bothered to interfere between her and the fringe. And he wouldn’t have given her the handkerchief. She caught up to him in a few long strides. Better than guessing which direction the club was in. ‘They don’t let humans in, you know.’

  ‘I’m not going to party, I’m going to work.’

  ‘You work at Seven?’ He must be new. Not that she knew every employee, but he had a memorable look. Not traditionally handsome, but interesting. And human, her gut kept reminding her.

  ‘Not yet.’ He slanted a look at her. ‘I take it the comarré don’t socialize with the rest of the employees.’

  ‘I wouldn’t know. I’m not one of those comarré.’ She frowned, instantly wishing she could take the words back. He didn’t need to know who she was or wasn’t. No wonder Maris had never gone out without her signum covered. Wearing your life on your skin left much to be desired. ‘My car is parked there.’

  Beside her, Creek stayed silent, watching her.

  She changed the subject. ‘So you’re looking for a job there.’

  Shifting his gaze back to the street, he shrugged. ‘Gotta pay bills.’

  ‘What do you do?’ Probably anything he wanted.

  He hesitated. ‘Private security.’ He twisted his head around, looking at her sacres. ‘You’re good with those. Where’d you pick that up?’

  ‘Comarré school.’ She was suddenly too tired to make up another answer and well past caring. ‘Where’d you learn to fight?’

  ‘FSP.’

  ‘Is that a local school?’

  ‘It’s a state prison.’

  A long, quiet minute passed. ‘You were a guard?’

  ‘Not exactly.’

  He didn’t look at her, didn’t glance over to see her expression, but she felt the weight of his anticipation to her reaction like a thousand pounds of steel pressing down. If he expected her to freak out because he’d done time, he was going to be disappointed. Living among vampires had a way of tempering the mortal world’s big baddies. ‘How long were you there for?’

  ‘Seven years, twelve days.’

  A long time, but not that long. A serious crime would have meant more. ‘What did you do?’

  He snorted softly. ‘Didn’t your mother teach you it’s not polite to ask an ex-con his crime?’

  ‘She didn’t really get a chance to teach me much. She was murdered.’

  He briefly raised a brow before his face returned to passive stoniness. ‘My father, too.’

  She nodded, knowing that pain and wondering what had happened. They were more alike than she would have imagined. ‘Did they catch who did it?’

  The muscles in his jaw worked. ‘Yes. What about your mother?’

  ‘The person who murdered her is still out there.’ She took a breath, feeling a new strength well up inside. ‘But I’m going to take care of it.’

  He stopped walking. ‘If you’re going to take justice into your own hands, you need to see your opponents better.’

  She faced him, surprised he wasn’t lecturing her about becoming a vigilante. ‘I did fine back there.’

  ‘You got cut.’ Taking a step closer, he lifted his hand toward her arm, then dropped back. He didn’t come closer. ‘You could do better.’

  She didn’t move away. ‘Better how?’

  ‘You watch too closely. This’ – he made a V with his fingers, pointing them at his eyes then at hers – ‘is fine for one-on-one, but with a crowd, you gotta learn the infinite stare.’

  ‘And that would be?’

  ‘Instead of watching your opponent, stare through them. Focus on your peripheral vision, let that do the seeing for you. With practice, it will become second nature. You’ll notice every move.’

  ‘Hard to practice when I don’t have a sparring partner.’

  His mouth twitched. Almost like a smile. ‘Are you asking?’

  Was she? Her heart beat a little faster. Asking him seemed risky for reasons that had nothing to do with his past.

  He held his hands up. ‘It’s cool, don’t worry about it.’ He pointed across the street. ‘Club’s two blocks that way, so your car must be close.’ He gave her a little nod and took off running, leaving her behind before she had a chance to say anything else.

  Chapter Seven

  Creek killed the engine on his customized Harley-Davidson V-Rod, walked it through the cargo door of the old machine shop, and notched the kickstand into place. The bike was a sweet machine, but also a constant reminder of the deal he’d struck. Probably just what the Kubai Mata had intended.

  He slid the door shut and secured it before grabbing a beer from the fridge and heading up to the loft he’d converted into a bedroom. Not the most luxurious place he’d ever lived, but better than a prison cell.

  He climbed the steps in twos, his feet drumming softly on the metal stairs as he thought about the comarré. He couldn’t blame her for refusing his offer to spar. If he’d told her he was KM, would she have accepted it? Would she have even believed him? The Kubai Mata were not supposed to exist. Not according to her education. Not according to the education of many. Had to be that way, though. Couldn’t give the vampire nation any idea what was about to rise up against them.

  Her refusal hadn’t stopped him from tailing her to the gates of Mephisto Island. Her driver was careless and made the task easy. Creek had driven past the gates, given Chrysabelle time to get through, then circled around and entered without too much problem. The guard was some kind of remnant and easily susceptible to the bribe Creek had offered. For a few more bills, he’d learned her house number.

  Scaling the estate’s walls had posed no real obstacle, and after watching the house for an hour or so, he’d gone home. Her security needed tweaking, although he could sense there were wards of some kind protecting the home. He’d come up with some ideas to tighten things and present them to her soon.

  Soon as in right after he found a way to run into her again and explain who he really was. Something he was still figuring out himself. The Kubai Mata were a shadowy group; even the information he’d been given had been very need-to-know. And apparently he didn’t need to know much. They’d commuted his sentence to time served and promised
it would stay that way as long as he did their bidding, but that’s not why he played along. They’d provided his sister, Una, with a full ride to the college of her choice and a monthly stipend for her, his mother, and his grandmother. The women in his life were everything to him. For them, he would do whatever the KM wanted and not worry that the KM were part Freemason, part Templar, part Cosa Nostra, only more dangerous and in charge of some crazy power. Still, Chrysabelle had nothing to fear from him. The KM might make the Illuminati look like the Boy Scouts, but othernaturals and the humans who served them were the only ones who had anything to worry about.

  He climbed out the only window that wasn’t boarded up to sit on the fire-escape steps overlooking the back alley. Few humans lived in this part of Paradise City by choice anymore. It was a vampire/remnant ghetto now, as full of fringe and fae as it was rats. Nothing like it had been when he’d grown up here. He couldn’t imagine a better neighborhood to set up shop in. His sector chief, Argent, should approve whenever he decided to drop in for a visit.

  When he did, he’d find that in the two days Creek had been here, he’d already located a well-established vampire club, sussed out its exits and entrances, started cataloging the regulars, and found the comarré. Not bad for a couple days’ work.

  He took a long draw off the bottle and wished for a nice Cuban. Vampires picked up the smoke too easy, though, and he’d had to give them up for the most part.

  The subtle breeze carried a little salt tang in from the ocean, cutting through the neighborhood’s general oily stench. The combination reminded him of the Glades, where his mother now lived with her mother, out on Seminole land. Both women and Una wanted him to move out there, to reconnect with his Native American heritage, but truth was, he didn’t feel like he belonged there any more than he felt like he belonged anywhere. Maybe when his time with the KM was done. He lay back against the metal stairs, stared up through the lattice of rusted iron and studied the sky. The stars sparkled and shimmered like the signum on the comarré’s skin.