They fought one of their own. Sort of. The fringe in the fatigues was Preacher. Doc would have recognized that shaved head, cross-wearing freak of a vampire anywhere. He’d long been on a mission to ‘cleanse’ Mal, but Preacher hadn’t shown himself since their last run-in.
The fourth fringe went up in a cloud of ashes. The last one took off running. Preacher flipped a dagger into him and brought him down, adding a final pile of ashes to the asphalt.
Preacher’s fighting abilities against Mal weren’t so hot, but against fringe he did pretty well. Or had he gotten better? Was he practicing on the fringe to hone his skills to come after Mal? Why kill them off so close to his home, then?
Preacher collected his weapons, crossed himself, and took off in the opposite direction. Doc followed, keeping to the rooftops to avoid being noticed. His leopard mind loved the height almost as much as the chase.
He stayed with the ex-marine until they were deep in Little Havana. Preacher was headed home, if you could call an abandoned Catholic church any kind of home for a vampire. But Preacher wasn’t a typical vampire.
Sure enough, Preacher ducked inside the old cathedral. Doc made his way down to the street level and, staying to the shadows, followed through the same side door Preacher had used. Normal vampires couldn’t enter without searing pain, but fae and varcolai didn’t share that characteristic.
There was plenty of darkness to hide in, but he remained cautious. No matter how strange Preacher was, he was still fringe with all the inherent abilities, including night vision and excellent hearing.
Doc crawled under the pews. Dust tickled his whiskers. His lip curled. He hated being dirty. A strange cry, almost animalistic, reached his ears. He headed toward it, nudging open a door with his broad nose and peering through.
In the room beyond sat a young girl decorated with gold marks like Chrysabelle’s but without the refinement. One of Dominic’s comarré. She smiled at Preacher and he back at her. He bounced in an odd rhythmic way, until he turned and Doc realized what he was doing.
Rocking a baby.
The comarré handed him a bottle of what looked like strawberry milk. For a baby? Preacher shook a couple drops onto the inside of his elbow. Doc inhaled. Not strawberry. Blood.
A chilling thought ripped through him. If that child was Preacher’s and the comarré’s … if it was half vampire … Doc shook his head. That shouldn’t be possible, but why else would they put blood in the milk? He crept backward slowly. No wonder Preacher was killing off fringe left and right. Doc could think of about a million different people who’d like to get their hands on a vampire child. None of them good.
Chapter Forty
Mal could be thankful for two things. One was that Creek had gotten them a ride home. The plane was old but seemed serviceable, much like the man Creek had forcibly persuaded to fly it for them.
The second and most important was that Chrysabelle was still alive. Barely. But she was. Too bad.
Other than that, he wanted to destroy things until the pain he felt over what had been done to her went away. Pain he had caused.
If she hadn’t gone to the Aurelian to find a way out of his curse, she’d be fine, not bleeding out in the back of a cargo plane. All that blood …
And he’d accused her of being selfish and stubborn.
The voices, overjoyed at how close she lay to death, raged in his head until their ranting turned into a sharp, white drone. He shoved it down and did his best to ignore it.
She lay on her stomach on a makeshift bed of tarps and packing blankets. She’d not regained consciousness long enough to do more than ask for water once and mumble something he couldn’t understand when he’d lain down beside her and stroked her hair.
He was only vaguely aware that he wept. He’d been a fool not to tell her how he felt. That he cared for her. Deeply. The confession frightened him. Caring for someone made you vulnerable. Worse, it made them vulnerable, too. And tonight had proved that Chrysabelle’s vulnerability was a very difficult thing for him to endure.
She moaned and opened her mouth, but said nothing. He brushed the hair off her cheek, sticky with sweat. What they’d cut her with, he didn’t know, but the wounds Rennata – because he had no doubt she was the one who’d carved away Chrysabelle’s signum – had left seemed unchanged in the hours they’d been airborne. Not even the slightest sign of healing yet. Chrysabelle was suffering and there was nothing he could do. Nothing. Even after they got back to Paradise City, what then?
Helplessness was not a feeling he enjoyed, but it trumped knowing he was the reason her life was bleeding out of her. The pain she’d endured … he couldn’t imagine it.
He reached down and slipped his fingers through hers. ‘I’m sorry,’ he whispered. He closed his eyes and wished he could pray.
He woke when the plane’s hum deepened. How could he have slept? He lurched upright. Creek sat across from him.
‘How is she?’
Mal listened hard over the plane’s engines. ‘Her breathing is shallow, and her pulse is pretty weak. She’s not doing well.’
Creek frowned, stress lines creasing his face. ‘Good thing we’re landing soon.’
‘How soon?’
‘Half an hour. We’ll need a car.’
‘I’ll find one.’ He’d hot-wire whatever was available. ‘I don’t understand why she isn’t healing.’
‘Has to be from whatever the bastards cut her with.’ Creek stretched, rolling his head from side to side. ‘When we land, you take her home. I’m going to get my grandmother. She’s a healer.’ He shrugged. ‘Can’t hurt.’
Mal nodded, surprised to feel such gratitude toward the slayer. ‘Worth a shot.’
The landing gear dropped with a loud thunk.
Creek grunted. ‘Hold on to her. This may not be the smoothest landing.’
Mal shifted her so she lay braced between his legs, her upper body resting on his thighs, her cheek on his hip. He looped his arms under hers and held on as best he could. Creek held on to her legs. Mal tipped his head back against the metal shell of the plane, letting the vibration rattle through his brain and compete with the voices.
Blood scent pierced every part of him, needling into his senses and burying him in a rock slide of hunger. Her body suffused warmth into his skin, making it impossible to ignore. Eyes shut, eyes open, made no difference. There was no escaping the building need.
And yet, he did, forcing it aside, because a part of him had become stronger than that need. The part of him that cared for her. He would do whatever was necessary to heal her and no matter what the voices whispered, he would protect her. From himself, if necessary.
‘Here we go,’ Creek yelled.
The creak and shudder of the plane touching down felt more like it was coming apart. He held on to her as they jolted onto the tarmac. The tires squealed in protest and the smell of burning rubber permeated the air. They were home.
Night was heavy on the city, dawn hours away. He left her with Creek while he found a limo not far from where they’d landed. It reeked of Tatiana. If she’d destroyed Chrysabelle’s portal, had she meant to trap them in Corvinestri? Maybe she’d already left in pursuit of them. Either way, the vehicle was his now.
The car was unlocked, so he threw it into neutral and yanked the parking brake into place, then he jumped out and wrenched the hood up, tearing the latch off the frame. Using the metal support bar meant to hold the hood open, he touched the solenoid to the positive battery post. Sparks bit his skin, but the engine purred to life.
An hour later, he eased Chrysabelle off the long backseat, carefully putting her over his shoulder. The acrid tang of smoke saturated everything. Velimai ran out to meet him. For once, the wysper didn’t seem to care he was a vampire.
Without understanding her signs, he knew she wanted to know what had happened to Chrysabelle. He carried Chrysabelle into the house without waiting for Velimai’s approval and did his best to explain quickly. ‘She made a portal to go
to the Aurelian. She was punished for bringing me and the slayer with her. The comarré disavowed her and cut away the runes that got her in to see the Aurelian.’ He stopped at the stairs. ‘This way to her room?’
Velimai nodded and went ahead, leading him.
‘Why does it smell like smoke? Did Tatiana try to burn the house down?’
Velimai shook her head, made a sign with her hand like rolling waves.
‘Tatiana burned the boat.’
Velimai nodded.
Which was how she’d closed the portal.
Velimai pushed open a set of double doors. The master suite. She continued through the sitting room, pulling back the linens on a king-size bed.
Before he was close enough to set Chrysabelle down, the wysper signed something and ran into a different part of the suite. He maneuvered Chrysabelle off his shoulder and onto the bed, keeping her on her stomach. She whimpered as he broke contact, so he took her hand. Her eyes flickered open, but they seemed unfocused.
‘Shhh, it’s all right now. You’re home.’
‘Hmmm.’ Her eyes closed, apparently satisfied.
Velimai returned, towels draped over her shoulder, a basin of steaming water in her hands and a pair of scissors dangling off one finger.
‘Good.’ Mal sighed. ‘I guess I should go downstairs and let you clean her up. Creek will be here soon with his grandmother. She’s a healer.’
Velimai shook her head and held out the basin, nodding like he should take it.
‘You want me to help?’ He took the basin and set it on the nightstand.
Velimai put the scissors and the towels on the bed, then clapped her hands and pointed at his arm.
He held it toward her. ‘What about my—’
She swiped her fingers across the palm of his hand. Trails of blood welled up, then faded as his skin healed. She picked up the scissors, handed them to him, and gestured at Chrysabelle.
He’d had no idea wysper skin was so abrasive. ‘You need me to do it.’
She nodded, frowning as her gaze drifted to the unconscious comarré.
‘She’ll be okay.’ He hoped. ‘Scarred maybe, but okay.’ Scars that would be a permanent reminder of what he’d cost her.
With Velimai watching, he cut Chrysabelle’s blood-soaked gown off and began the arduous process of cleaning her wounds without hurting her further. She cried out weakly a few times but never fully woke up. At last, he’d cleaned as much of the blood as he could. He covered her to the waist with the sheet, then pulled a chair to the bedside and sat, waiting. Velimai did the same on the other side. They sat in silence, watching Chrysabelle. He was sure the wysper had as little idea about what else to do as he did.
The ticking of the clock on the nightstand filled the room.
From downstairs, a voice called out, ‘Hello?’
Mal started. ‘That’s Creek. Velimai, will you—’
The wysper was already out the door. A minute later, she was back with Creek and his grandmother.
‘Any change?’ Creek asked.
‘No.’ Mal’s gaze went to the woman beside the KM. Hanks of brightly colored beads surrounded her neck. A loose bun held back her gray hair, and behind thick glasses, her dark eyes watched him intently without a trace of fear or judgment.
Creek took the hint. ‘This is my grandmother, Rosa Mae Jumper. She’s a healer from the Seminole nation.’
‘You can help her?’ Mal asked the woman.
She tilted her head back like she couldn’t see all of him. ‘You live in shadow, dark one.’ She walked past him to the bed and held her hands over Chrysabelle. ‘This one is full of light. Too much light. She is unbalanced.’
‘Can you help her or not? All this mumbo jumbo does nothing—’
‘Watch your tone, vampire.’ Creek rested a hand on his grandmother’s shoulder. ‘Mawmaw, what do we need to do to help her?’
She gave him a look that made him remove his hand, then turned back to Mal. ‘Peace, dark one. I am here to heal, but I cannot do it alone.’
He leaned in. ‘What do you need? Just tell me.’
‘It isn’t what I need. It’s what she needs. Blood. Yours.’ Her eyes were unblinking. ‘Are you willing?’
He straightened. ‘What do you mean?’
‘Your blood can balance the light in her. Your darkness can give her reason to fight. The strength of your blood will heal her wounds and give her a chance to live.’
He took a step toward her. She didn’t move. ‘In English.’
She removed her glasses and cleaned them with the edge of her blouse. ‘Cut yourself. Fill her wounds with your blood. Is that clear enough, blood eater?’
Velimai hissed. Mal backed away, shaking his head. ‘You don’t know what you’re asking.’
She put her glasses back on. ‘Yes, I do.’
Sharing blood with Chrysabelle could change her. She was comarré, she already bore certain characteristics given to her by the presence of vampire saliva in her system. What would blood do to her? He was afraid of the answer.
Creek approached. ‘Are you sure this is safe, Mawmaw?’ Nothing about his demeanor said he thought the old woman’s proposal was a good one. ‘She’s a daughter of light. Putting his blood into her … ’ He scowled.
She sighed. ‘You asked me to help, Thomas. I can only offer what the spirits bring me.’
‘I don’t like it,’ Creek said.
‘You think I do?’ Mal asked.
Rosa Mae walked toward the door. ‘She’s fading, isn’t she? Listen.’
Mal stilled, doing as the woman suggested. Chrysabelle’s pulse was weaker, her heartbeat sluggish. Tired. ‘If this goes poorly, if something happens to her—’
Creek nodded. ‘We both take the blame. We both protect her.’
Mal sighed. Reluctantly, he lifted his wrist to his mouth, tore his fangs across his skin. Blood dripped down his arm. He held it over the first gouge along her spine until the bleeding stopped and he had to open his flesh again. He repeated the process until his blood filled both of the raw grooves in her back.
She shivered as his blood seeped into her body. Her pulse strengthened. The edges of her wounds began to pull together.
‘She will heal,’ Rosa Mae announced.
‘Yes,’ Mal answered. ‘But will she still be herself when she wakes up?’
‘She will be who she is meant to be,’ Rosa Mae said. ‘Take me home, Thomas. Give the blood eater some peace.’
‘I’ll be back,’ Creek said as he escorted her out.
Mal slumped into the chair and settled in to wait for Chrysabelle to wake up. Peace? Not hardly. Never in his life had he had such a bad feeling about something.
He hoped Chrysabelle made it through this unaffected and proved him wrong, but if she didn’t … if he’d turned her … He dropped his head into his hands. She balanced him. Made him feel as close to sane as he’d been in a long while. Turning her into a vampire was unacceptable. There were only so many burdens he could bear.
That was not one of them.
The waning moon shed its pale silver over Aliza’s porch, giving them just enough light to work with.
Evie came out of the house, shutting the sliding door behind her. She’d regained enough strength that their work could go forward. ‘Midnight hour, Ma. At last.’
Aliza smiled. Her daughter was whole again. Her sweet Evie, well and standing beside her. Aliza nodded at her precious child, thankful she held no hard feelings over the length of time it had taken Aliza to free her. ‘So it is.’
‘Did the shifter go through the smoke?’
‘We’ll know soon enough. For now, let’s light the candle and start this new spell.’
Evie struck a match and touched it to the wick, lighting the black anise-scented candle. She placed it in the center of the salt and earth pentagram they’d outlined on the scarred picnic table.
Aliza took the vial of blood from her apron and set it beside a wide strip of willow bark on the table. �
��Hold that flat for me.’
‘I never imagined we’d end up with his blood,’ Evie said, securing the willow at both ends with her fingertips. She twitched, a subtle jerking of her whole body. She’d been doing it since being released. Aliza hoped it would go away. ‘Should be better than Dominic’s, don’t you think?’
‘For sure. Malkolm’s blood holds more dark power.’ And power was exactly what they were after. Had been, ever since the night Evie had turned herself to stone. They’d just never figured it would take them so long to get the blood to make it right. Aliza uncorked the vial and dipped a glass fountain pen into the blood. On the willow bark she wrote the unholy name. ‘This will change everything.’
Evie laughed softly. ‘I want a penthouse in the city.’
‘Child, we will own the city.’ She took the bark and held it over the candle and spoke the simple spell. ‘Ancient spirit, now at rest, heed my call and manifest.’ Slowly, the bark began to burn. Smoke curled off the papery wood until the fire hit the name written in blood. In a flash, the piece flamed brightly, then went to ash in a puff of smoke.
The smoke grew into a cloud, heavy and dense and viciously red. Evie shivered.
‘It’s okay,’ Aliza assured her. ‘The pentagram contains it.’
The smoke spun out and lengthened. Curled into a humanoid shape. Put down hoofed feet. The form towered over them until, at last, the being before them had a voice. ‘Who summons me?’
‘I do,’ Aliza said. ‘I and my daughter.’
Hard red eyes peered back at her. ‘Mortals?’
‘Witches,’ Aliza corrected.
‘Do you know who I am?’ Disgust razed the voice into something like metal against metal.
Flesh And Blood: House of Comarre: Book Two (House of Comarre 2) Page 33