Bad Blood

by Kristen Painter

  The mayor’s brow unfurrowed. “Tomorrow, then, first thing. My office. Eight a.m.”

  Creek nodded. “I’ll be there.”

  He started to slip away, but the bodyguard blocked his path. “You don’t show and I’ll hunt you down, understand?” He smiled, showing larger-than-human teeth. “I’m very good at hunting.”

  Creek squared his shoulders and wished he could see through the guy’s shades. “Most wolves are.”

  The bodyguard’s jaw went slack. Without a backward glance, Creek disappeared into the crowd and away from the scene. Normally, his ratty jeans and hoodie made a great disguise for blending in, but not with bloodstains covering them. Maybe he’d grab a shower, then take another crack at seeing Chrysabelle. She had to let him in sometime, right?

  A block away and the little hairs on the back of his neck went up. A heavy sense of foreboding pressed down on him, along with the stench of brimstone and putrid flesh. His first thought was Nothos. Since bringing Chrysabelle back from Corvinestri he’d run into two, probably left behind by Tatiana’s hasty departure. With the blood scent he was leaving, they could probably track him with their eyes closed.

  He kept his senses open as he maintained his pace. No sound of footsteps. The weight increased and the KM brands on his back began to itch. If this was Nothos, it was a new breed.

  Water pooled in his mouth as nausea threatened to bring his dinner up. He took the next right, ducked into an alley, and crouched behind a Dumpster. A second later, his halm was out and fully extended, ready to take down whatever stalked him.

  Seconds flowed into minutes and nothing happened. The pressure and smell stayed constant. His stalker must be at the mouth of the alley, waiting for him to make the first move.

  Quietly, he grabbed a discarded beer bottle and pitched it toward the back of the alley. Something shot past, a ripple of heat over asphalt on a summer day.

  He lunged, plunging the halm through the center of the thing, only to be thrown back against the wall. A rib cracked, but he held onto his weapon. The shimmer of movement turned toward him and solidified into a creature that Creek had only ever seen before in drawings. Castus Sanguis. The ancient ones.

  Callous red eyes, hands with scythe claws, and skin that oozed foul fluid. The Castus was everything he’d been described as, but seeing him in person was infinitely worse.

  Fear, something that not even the Nothos made him feel, stuck its cold hand into Creek’s chest and squeezed. The brightest KM minds had yet to come up with a way to destroy the Castus. They were reportedly undefeatable.

  The demon’s hooves scraped the ground as he charged. Creek feinted, rolling beneath the outstretched arms and stabbing his halm through the demon’s side as he came up. The creature howled, seemingly more out of anger than pain.

  “You dare strike me, mortal?” The demon struck out again, and again Creek escaped the blow within a hairsbreadth.

  He didn’t bother answering. Instead he took aim and let the halm fly straight toward the heart of the beast.

  The demon swatted the titanium quarterstaff away. It clattered to the ground far beyond Creek’s reach. Behind him, the alley went a few more feet, then ended in a tall building without windows or fire escapes. He was trapped in a concrete canyon.

  With a blood-freezing laugh, the demon stalked forward. “Too bad the witchling wants you alive. Maybe just a taste…”

  A blur of red filled Creek’s vision, knocking him to the ground. Acid pain tore through his shoulder. Fangs hit bone, tore flesh, snapped sinew. Blood gushed over his body, soaking his clothes. Then heat. And light. And the keening wail of a creature in pain.

  Creek opened his eyes, forcing himself to his feet. His arm hung limp. The Castus staggered backward, his body a flickering wick of fire. He clawed at his maw and belly where the flames concentrated. His arm shot out, his hooked finger pointing. “Kubai Mata,” he snarled.

  “Damn straight,” Creek answered. He took a step toward his halm. Maybe he could finish this demon off after all. His hand stretched toward his weapon. The earth tilted, throwing him to the ground again. His vision tunneled down to nothing, and the press of asphalt faded as his body went numb.

  Chapter Four

  The wait to get into Seven was ridiculous. Despite Mal’s presence, every vampire in the crowd around Chrysabelle had scoped her out at least twice. Even if she hadn’t seen the shifting eyes and flaring nostrils, she would have known something was up by the silver glazing Mal’s gaze. The attention was no surprise. The perfume of her blood was unmatched by Dominic’s fakes. Most fringe had probably never smelled anything like her before.

  Someone brushed her from behind. Mal growled as she turned to see who it was. A fringe vamp raised his hands in surrender and scurried off. After the news she’d given Mal, his fuse must be very short indeed.

  She couldn’t think about that now. Or how just seeing him had made her want to forgive what he’d done. Her body was weak, her emotions weaker. She must be strong. Must focus on what she needed to accomplish.

  Like seeing Dominic and getting his blessing to use his signumist’s services. A bolder fringe bumped into her, his hands finding her arm and waist. Mal snarled like a rabid dog, snapping his jaw as all traces of humanity disappeared from his face. The guilty fringe disappeared into the crowd, and a moat of personal space opened around them, but more heads turned to ogle the genuine comarré and rare noble vampire. Mal shifted back to his human face, but that did nothing to quell the staring.

  She sighed. She preferred the private entrance to Seven, but the ground between her and Dominic was unsure after what had happened at the witches’ house. He might not want to see her at all. She’d threatened him with the same thing herself, but he hadn’t carried through his plan of killing Doc and had agreed things were even after Mal had given his blood to the witches in exchange for them returning Dominic’s. Things should be square between them, but with a vampire like Dominic… who knew? It was probably a good thing Mal was with her.

  The line surged a few steps forward. Speaking of the hulking, broody, rarely pleasant anathema vampire currently glued to her side, part of her was happy Mal had inserted himself back into her life. The same part that was grateful to still be alive. But the rest of her wasn’t so sure. Yes, she was alive, but at what cost? She had vampire blood in her veins now. Every time she remembered that, a wave of shock washed through her. Vampire blood. In a comarré. Although Mal was technically right about the latter. She wasn’t truly comarré anymore.

  Thanks to him.

  And so went the circle of thinking. Which was why it was time to stop thinking and start acting. Her fingers drummed the handle of the cane at her side. A cane she didn’t exactly need but one that served its purpose. She wasn’t ready to let anyone know just how healed she was. The wounds on her back should have kept her bedridden for weeks. But two days after Mal’s infusion, she’d managed a painful half hour in the gym. Not the hardest training she’d had, but training nonetheless.

  All that remained were the vicious scars streaking down her back like lightning strikes from shoulder blades to tailbone. And the pain. But pain she could deal with so long as she didn’t overdo it and ended the day with a good hot soak. The scars worried her. She prayed to the holy mother they wouldn’t prevent the signumist from replacing the signum taken from her. If Dominic’s signumist was for real and not just a glorified tattooist.

  The crowd moved forward, at last depositing them at the head of the line. The wolf-shifter at the door eyed them both but unclicked the rope from its stanchion anyway. He held his other hand out. “Fifty each.”

  Mal’s lip curled. “What? Like hell—”

  “Here.” Chrysabelle slipped the plastic bills into the varcolai’s palm before grabbing Mal’s elbow and pushing him forward.

  He glanced over his shoulder. “Dominic’s got a lot of nerve charging that kind of cover.”

  “You’re not even supposed to be here. That means you don’t get
to complain.” She leaned heavily on the cane and exhaled like she was more winded than she actually was. It refocused him nicely.

  “And you should be home in bed.”

  The response that filled her mouth brought such heat to her skin she looked away in case the evidence showed on her face. Since being disavowed, she’d become wickedly aware that her precious chastity no longer held much currency. Maybe it was the cursed blood coursing through her system, maybe it was the fever brought on by the healing, but her dreams these last eight days had been filled with heated visions of Mal and Creek in situations she’d never before entertained.

  Another reason not to think.

  Mal held the red and gold dragon double doors open for her. Music poured over them as they entered the main room of Seven. Seemed the cover charge wasn’t the only thing that had changed. She caught the attention of the first server that went by. “Excuse me, I need—”

  “You need something, you talk to Katsumi or Jacqueline.” The young man, a fae-varcolai remnant by the looks of him, was clearly perturbed she’d stopped him. “You comarré don’t run this place, you know. I have paying customers to take care of.”

  He took a step toward the bar he’d been headed for. Mal clamped a hand on his arm, stopping him cold. The server lifted his head to stare at the vampire towering over him. “Can I help you, sir?”

  “Yes.” The silver glow in Mal’s eyes marked him as noble, something the server had probably never seen before except on Dominic. And now, of course, Katsumi. The appropriate fear registered in the server’s eyes. “You can start by never talking to her in that tone of voice again. She’s not one of Dominic’s fake comarré—she’s the real thing and she deserves your respect, understand?”

  He swallowed. “Yes, sir. My deepest apologies.”

  The show was touching but unnecessary. “Mal, it’s fine. Really.”

  But he didn’t let go of the server. “Tell Dominic Chrysabelle is here to see him.”

  “Yes, sir.” The server glanced down at Mal’s hand. Mal moved it and the server dashed off.

  Chrysabelle folded her arms. “I love when you’re all sweetness and light.”

  “Kid’s a punk.” He spoke without looking at her, his head swiveling to take in the crowd. “I don’t see Katsumi.”

  “Good. Which reminds me, has Ronan ever shown up? Or is it pretty much assumed he bought it in the swamp?”

  “Not sure, but you shouldn’t assume anything when it comes to Ronan.”

  “Or any vampire for that matter,” she muttered.

  “I heard that.”

  The server returned, practically jogging. “Dominic’s in his office. He says for you to come up.”

  “Thank you.” Chrysabelle smiled as pleasantly as she could.

  The server stayed put. “Anything else, sir?”

  Mal shook his head. “You’re dismissed.”

  The server took off as Chrysabelle shot Mal a look. “You’re dismissed?” She rolled her eyes. “C’mon, let’s go see Dominic.”

  At his office door, she knocked twice before he called for them to enter. Was that a sign he wasn’t happy to see her? She went in, Mal behind her, and relaxed slightly to see Dominic on the phone. He held up a finger, then motioned for them to sit.

  He continued on for a moment in Italian. “Si, si. Buono.” He nodded a few times, shook his hand at the heavens, then finally, “Devo andare. Ciao, Luciano.” And hung up. “Scusi, but I had to take care of that.” He came out from behind the desk to take Chrysabelle’s hand between his. He leaned in and kissed her on both cheeks. “It is good to see you, cara mia. I know of your troubles. My heart aches for you. This woman, Rennata…” He scowled. “If you wish, I can have her dealt with.”

  “As much as I appreciate the offer, no thank you.” Apparently she’d worried for nothing.

  “You are feeling better now, though, eh?”

  “I’m doing well enough.”

  His gaze traveled to the cane at her side. “And this? What is this?”

  “I still have a little pain.” Not a lie, except for the little part. Sometimes she could feel the knives cutting her skin as fresh as the moment it had happened. The phantom echoes of those blades woke her at night.

  “Malkolm, I trust you are well also?”

  “I’m fine.” Mal paused, like he was unsure why Dominic was being so cordial. She wondered that herself. “The club is busy. Business must be good.”

  Dominic sat on the front edge of his caramel-swirled marble desktop. “It’s very good, actually. So good I’m bringing my nephew Luciano in. Many times removed, of course, but the blood is there. And with Ronan gone…” He shrugged.

  Chrysabelle leaned forward. “Is Katsumi no longer here?”

  “She’s here. There’s just so much to take care of. The comarré business alone takes most of her time.”

  “That’s partly why I’m here.” Chrysabelle took a breath. “I would like to speak to your signumist.”

  Dominic tilted his head. “May I ask why?”

  Her thumb rubbed the cane’s pearl handle. “I need some new signum.”

  He smiled gently. “New signum? Cara mia, you have no room.”

  “I do. On my back.” The signumist would tell him anyway. “I need to replace the signum that was stripped from me.”

  The smile vanished as he stood up. “What? Why? I know what it is to undergo such a thing. Your mother took the last of her signum the first year of our affair. The pain was more than I thought a human could bear.”

  “Dominic, I know very well what the pain is like.” She opened her arms, twisting her hands to flash a few of the numerous signum she still bore. “I need to get back to the Aurelian.”

  “What for?”

  “I have unfinished business with her.”

  He snorted, throwing a hand in the air. “You are just like your mother. Ostinato.”

  “Sometimes stubborn is good. Will you let me talk to him?”

  His mouth leveled into a thin, hard line. “No. It is not for the best.”

  “Tell him,” Mal urged her.

  She responded with a look she hoped said no.

  “Tell me what?” Dominic asked.

  She exhaled. “Maris had a son. My brother. I need to see the Aurelian to find out everything I can about him. So I can locate him.”

  Dominic’s mouth slowly parted. “Another child?” He shook his head. “I still don’t like it, but I will think on it.” He checked his watch. “There is something I need of you as well.”

  Which might explain why he’d been so nice. “What might that be?”

  After a quick glance at Mal, he continued. “I have two comarré here. A comarré and a comar, actually. They cannot stay here.”

  “Why not? You’ve got plenty of space. Where do the rest of your comarré stay?”

  “Except for a few special cases, they live in their own homes. But these are not my comarré. They are Primoris Domus comarré.”

  She sat back, surprise flooding her. “How on earth did you get ahold of them?”

  “They came to me. Escaped from Tatiana.” He lifted his shoulders. “They saw one of mine in the street and followed her here. Begged asylum. What was I to do? Throw them out to the Nothos? Let the fringe devour them?” He walked around to his chair and sat. “I am not an unkind man, Chrysabelle. Despite what you may think of me.”

  “I don’t think that.” She did, however, think he was prone to unreasonable decisions, hasty judgments, and bouts of temper. “Still, I don’t understand why they can’t stay here. I’m sure they’d be willing to exchange blood for room and board, that sort of thing.”

  “Perhaps, but I have yet to broach that subject with them. They are… a bit timid around me. And I cannot keep them here because I cannot protect them the way you can. Your house is warded, and no vampire can enter without an invite.”

  Mal shook his head. “Tatiana doesn’t need any more reason to come after Chrysabelle. It’s a bad idea.
”

  The tiniest bit of silver sparked in Dominic’s eyes. “I would never put Chrysabelle in harm’s way. I will assign guards to the house.”

  She stared at the carved, gilded legs of his desk. She had no desire to add to her household, especially not two comarré who would remind her every day of her past and what had been stripped from her, but neither did she wish to get on Dominic’s bad side. She sighed slowly. “I’m still recovering, you know.”

  He clutched at his long-dead heart. “Bella, I would do nothing I thought might hinder you returning to full health. They will be quiet as mice.”

  “They can move in on three conditions. One, I want to meet with the signumist tonight. Two, I want you or Mortalis to move them in—no one else comes onto the property. And three, I don’t want to see them. Not right now. Make sure they know that. My hospitality is not to be mistaken for an invitation to be friends.”

  “Perhaps you are more stubborn than your mother.” He nodded, fingers steepled against his chin. “Agreed. It will be done.” He pressed a button on a small silver device resting on his desktop. “I’ll have Mortalis take you to the signumist. That doesn’t mean I support what you’re doing.”

  “Understood. Thank you.”

  A few moments later, Mortalis entered. “Chrysabelle, good to see you up and about. Mal.” He nodded in greeting before addressing Dominic. “You need me?”

  “Take Chrysabelle to Atticus.”

  His brows lifted a centimeter or two, but it was his only reaction. He turned to her, gesturing toward the door. “Follow me.”

  The throbbing woke Creek. It radiated from his shoulder into the rest of his body like a raging infection, cutting through the fog of medication in his blood.

  “You’re awake. Good.”

  He opened his eyes but knew who’d spoken just by the scent of wolf filling his nose. He blinked as the green-walled room and the man standing over him came into focus. “Shouldn’t you be guarding the mayor?”

  “That’s being taken care of. Right now, you’re her first priority. Anything you know about what happened to her daughter matters most.” LED panels on the ceiling framed the varcolai in bright white light. He leaned closer, still wearing the dark shades. “How are you not dead? Your wounds would have killed most mortals.”