Bad Blood

by Kristen Painter

  Unlike his woman, sleep eluded him. Even after making love. Fine with him. He didn’t want to relive that damn dream again, but he couldn’t just lie here either, thinking about what it all might mean.

  He crept out of their room and eased the door shut behind him, praying the whirring fan covered the door’s telltale squeak. He’d meant to oil that about three hundred days ago. Waiting several seconds, he listened, but there was no sound from Fi.

  Only a few hours until dawn. The solars were depleted this late, leaving the narrow passages on the old abandoned freighter completely dark. He made his way by memory, catching a shadow here and there where a solar had a hint of power left in it.

  The last door took him onto the ship’s main deck. The smell of salt water, oily refuse, and fish greeted him. The smell of home since Mal had found him and nursed him back to health. He stretched, the ache in his body matching the ache in his soul. He needed to run. Every night since he’d regained his ability to shift into his natural, animal form of a leopard, the urge to run had pressed on him like a junkie’s craving for a hit.

  He chalked it up to the years he’d spent with no other outlet than the form of a house cat. Who wouldn’t want to run after that?

  In a fluid move, he leaped across the deck, shifting in midair and landing on all fours in his natural state. The world opened up to him, the scents and colors and sounds intensifying, automatically categorized and processed by his animal brain. Which one to follow? Which one to ignore? He flipped off his human half and let his leopard side take over.

  The evening breeze brought the subtlest hint of something new and unnamable. His ears twitched forward, his whiskers quivered, and every muscle in his body flexed in anticipation.

  The hunt was afoot.

  He followed the scent for miles, dashing over broken streets and through abandoned lots, past burned out cars and down littered alleyways, mindful of nothing but the chase. The force of it was almost physical, pushing him forward as if something else drove him.

  Halfway down a new street, his human memories kicked in and reminded him he’d been here not long ago. The familiar smell of blood slowed him down. He went a few more blocks, keeping to the darkest parts of the sidewalk. Few people were out at this time, but self-preservation was a strong instinct.

  A spire rose against the bleak downtown skyline, outlined by the faint nudge of dawn just as it had been in his night terror.

  Fear clawed at him. He should go, get back to Fi. His brain decided otherwise, shifting him into human form to break the desire to run. He hadn’t intended to, but seeing this through might be the only way to ditch the bad dreams. He stalked forward, found a way into the dilapidated church, and crept quietly through the sanctuary. In the mask of shadows, he listened and found what he was looking for. A heartbeat.

  Using it as a beacon, he continued through the maze of rooms until he came to the one he’d peeked in on before. The door was open, a single hand-cranked light giving the room a soft glow.

  Preacher sat in a rocker, a baby cradled in his arms, silent tears wetting his face. He rocked slowly, singing a lullaby. Or a hymn.

  Doc couldn’t take his eyes off the sight. He felt glued to the spot, even though his instincts told him enough was enough.

  A breath of wind sighed past Doc, enough to carry his scent. Preacher’s eyes opened. He tensed, nostrils flaring. “Who’s there?” he called out, shielding the child with his arms.

  The words broke Doc’s concentration and he backed up, searching for a way out that wouldn’t put him in Preacher’s direct sight line. There was none. He sank into the shadows. He’d have to run for it. A few sounds came from the room Preacher was in—the rocking chair squeaked, the child shifted and yawned, fabric brushed over fabric, metal hissed as it was removed from leather. Preacher was preparing to fight.

  “I know there’s a shifter out there,” Preacher said. “If you’re the one who killed Julia, so help me God, I’ll turn your hide into a rug.”

  Footsteps approached. Doc darted back out to the sanctuary. Was Julia the comarré Doc had seen here before? The girl who was one of Dominic’s comarré. The same girl he’d been dreaming about. Dammit. Was that who Preacher had had the baby with? Doc ducked behind a pew as Preacher skidded into the open. A knife sank into the wood above him.

  “Come out, shifter. Face your end like a man. I’ll kill you fast and painless and you can go to hell where you belong.”

  “I don’t know anything about Julia,” Doc answered, trying to buy time. From his spot in a low crouch on the floor, he kept track of Preacher’s position while inching backward under the pews and toward the door. If he could just get outside, he could shift and put enough distance between them to be safe.

  “Doesn’t matter. You’ve seen the child. You have to die.”

  “I don’t care about the kid.” Although he knew a lot of people would. A half-vampire child, especially one whose vampire father could daywalk—the black market potential for the child’s blood alone was astronomical. An urge rose up in him to see the child again.

  Preacher edged down one side. “Your words mean nothing.”

  Doc pushed out from underneath the pews and crawled to the main aisle, opposite where Preacher stood. The double doors he’d come in were closed. A car drove by, lights shining through what remained of one stained-glass window. It was about the only one that wasn’t boarded up. Hopefully he could shift and jump through it before Preacher recognized him. Doc didn’t need him showing up at the freighter with his threats and crazy talk.

  Doc took a deep breath and leaped, shifting in midair as he had on the freighter. He ducked his broad head to protect his soft nose. Glass shattered, most of it glancing off his sleek furred body. A sharp stinging in his flank made him yowl. He hit the sidewalk and his rear leg went out from under him. Preacher’s blade had found its target.

  He twisted to yank the dagger out with his teeth, then, limping, set off as fast as he could. If the coming dawn was enough to keep the trail of blood he was leaving from attracting fringe vampires, he just might make it home.

  Chapter Eight

  Mal paced outside of the signumist’s apartments while Chrysabelle made her final arrangements and said good-bye. The hall disappeared in a haze of anger and screaming voices until all that remained were two jagged white lines. His hands fisted, his body tensed like piano wire.

  Those scars on her back were his fault. Yes. His. Not Creek’s. No. She’d gone to the Aurelian to get an answer for him, not the Kubai Mata. You almost got her killed. Monster. Rage boiled up in Mal. For once the voices were right. Barely quelling a howl, he punched the wall. Concrete crumbled, lines cracking out from the impact. He pulled his fist away, mindless to the pain, mindless to the crunch of broken bones as he flexed his fingers. The voices laughed. Mindless to everything except the hard, ridged flesh streaking alongside Chrysabelle’s spine.

  Because of his arrogance, she’d paid. His blood may have saved her life, but it had done nothing to preserve the perfection of her body, nothing to save her from all that pain. He punched the wall a second time, leaving blood on the concrete.

  She was right to hate him. He hated himself. Who doesn’t hate you?

  The exterior door whooshed open and Chrysabelle emerged. It slid shut and became part of the wall again. She pointed her prop cane toward the crumbling hole across from him. “What happened?”

  “Nothing.” Liar liar liar.

  “Oh good. I was afraid it was something else for me to deal with. Happy to hear everything’s fine. Should probably tell Dominic his walls are leaking blood.” She twisted away and headed down the corridor, her cane lightly tapping the floor.

  Son of a priest. He went after her. “Sorry isn’t good enough for what I did to you, but I am sorry. If there is anything I can do to make it up to you—”

  She stopped. “There isn’t.” Her gaze dropped to a spot between them. “Except for helping me get through these next few days.” Her head li
fted and she met his eyes again. “Without drama, without threats, without making me wish I’d said no.”

  “I can do that.” No, you can’t. In theory. He’d been who he was for five centuries. Five hundred years of killing and terrorizing. Changing now wasn’t exactly as easy as putting on a different T-shirt. But if it meant being at her side and being able to protect her, he’d find a way. Even if it killed him. If only.

  “Can you?”

  “Yes.” Liar liar liar.

  “All right, then. I just need to speak to Mortalis and then we can go.” She started walking again.

  He matched her stride. “Anything I can help with?”

  “No.” She kept silent a few moments. “It doesn’t matter now, so you might as well know. He’s been keeping the ring safe for me.”

  Mal just nodded.

  “No comment?” she asked.

  “No.”

  Her brows lifted, but her mouth thinned with obvious disbelief. “How quickly the leopard changes its spots.”

  He slanted his eyes at her. “The spots might change, but the teeth are still as sharp.” Show her.

  “So noted.”

  Little more passed between them until they emerged on the main floor of Seven. They found Mortalis in Greed dealing with a gambling dispute. They waited until he was finished, then she motioned him over. “I need what you’re holding for me.”

  He glanced at Mal, then back at her. “I’ll get it as soon as I can. Hopefully by tomorrow night.”

  “Fine. Do you want me to meet you back here?”

  “No. Too dangerous. I’ll come to your house.”

  She nodded. “I’ll be there. Thank you.”

  “You’re welcome.” His gaze went back to Mal. “Sun’s coming up. Need a car?”

  “It’s taken care of,” Chrysabelle replied before he could answer. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

  Taken care of? Mal kept his mouth shut with great effort, despite the voices’ pestering.

  “Good night, then.”

  As Mortalis went back to work, they made a quick exit. The driver Chrysabelle had hired, a varcolai named Jerem, had the car idling one street over. He jumped out and opened her door before she could reach for the handle.

  When the door shut, Mal spoke. “I appreciate the ride home, but I could have let Mortalis take care of it. You should be home, resting.”

  She tapped her cane. “This is just for show, remember? And I’m not giving you a ride home. Not to your home anyway.”

  “You’re not?” He sat back. “Where am I going, then?”

  “My house.” She sank deeper into her seat and stared out the window like she’d said something about the weather or how pretty the sky was or wasn’t it nice to see Mortalis again.

  Her house. Maybe she’s going to try to kill you at last. Was this one of those times he should shut up and let things happen, or should he ask? Ask. Damn, this new-leaf business was hard work.

  Minutes ticked by before she said anything. “No questions? My, my, you are giving this your all, aren’t you?” She looked at him, a wicked smile bending her lush mouth. “How are you not hyperventilating?”

  “I’ve never hyperventilated. I don’t even breathe, for crying out loud.” Hades on a cracker, he wanted to kiss her in the worst way. Literally. With fang. Bite her. Drain her. Kill her.

  “You know what I mean.”

  He shrugged and took his own turn looking through the helioglazed windows. The best games had two players. “I’m doing what you asked. Is that a problem?”

  “No.”

  They rode the rest of the way to her house in silence, Mal dying to know what was going on in her head because he knew what was going on in his. Torturous thoughts about why she might be taking him to her house. Most of which started with them undressing each other and ended with him kissing the scars he’d caused before spending the day memorizing every silky, golden inch of her, making her writhe with pleasure and pant his name. He tried to exhale the heat building in his body.

  That couldn’t be the reason she was taking him home.

  Could it?

  Chrysabelle’s enjoyment of Mal’s discomfort turned to real concern as they pulled through the gates of her estate. He leaned forward with a hard gasp.

  She laid a hand on his back before she realized that she’d touched him. She pulled her hand away. “What’s wrong?”

  “Dominic moves fast. Your new guests are moved in.” Glints of silver danced in his eyes as he straightened. “The scent of comarré blood is thick as smoke. I wasn’t prepared for it.”

  Indeed, the lights in the guesthouse were on. “Fast is right. He must have really wanted rid of them.” She shook her head, sighing. “I truly don’t need the company right now.”

  “You should have taken me home.”

  “I didn’t mean you.” But when she looked back at him, she understood. His eyes were still silver-tinged, his fangs jutting past his lip. He needed blood. “I know what you want. We’ll take care of it.”

  “I’m fine.”

  “I’m fine. You’re a bad liar. I’m perfectly capable of providing you with blood.”

  “I don’t need—”

  “Remember how you were going to leave the arguing and the drama behind?”

  Hardening his mouth into a narrow line, he crossed his arms and leaned back.

  She slid closer. “I know you’re dying to say something.” Maybe as much as she was dying to be in his arms. No matter what had passed between them, no matter that he made her mad enough to punch a few walls herself, something about him felt like a safe place to her.

  He nodded toward the house. “Creek’s here.”

  “Nice change of subject. I saw his motorcycle parked by the gate when we drove through.”

  Creek’s lean, shadowy form sat on the base of the fountain in the center of the circular drive. Even in silhouette, there was a lethal energy to the Kubai Mata. It was one of the things he shared with Mal. Like the way both men made her body tighten in anticipation. Of what, she refused to acknowledge. She smoothed the edge of her tunic. Anything not to look at either of them for a moment.

  Jerem parked the car on the curve closest to the front of the house and came around to open her door. She glanced over her shoulder at Mal before she got out. “Relax. You’re the only one spending the night.” So far, anyway.

  She turned away before his shocked expression caused her to laugh. If Mal wanted to be with her, he would do so under her terms.

  Creek walked toward her, his face twisted in a mix of concern, upset, and longing. His hands flexed like he wanted to touch her. “You look pretty good for someone who didn’t have the strength to take visitors for the last eight days.”

  She leaned on her cane. “I had my reasons for not seeing you.” But the anger she’d worked up toward him was fading fast, just like it had with Mal. It was hard to blame them when they so clearly wanted what was best for her. Not that she’d asked them to take on that concern.

  He jerked his chin toward something behind her. “But not Mal?”

  “No, me too.” Mal walked up to stand beside her. “She’s mad at both of us.”

  Creek nodded, his big, fight-scarred hands clenched so that the words hold and fast tattooed across his knuckles stood out. “I figured that. Would’ve been nice to have the chance to apologize, though.”

  “Is that what you’re here for now?” she asked. He wasn’t getting off so easy, no matter how much she was cooling down about the whole thing.

  “Yes. But that’s not all.”

  “Come in, then,” she said. “We’ll discuss it inside.” Creek might as well find out now what was going on. It would save Mal the trouble of filling him in later. Velimai opened the door before Chrysabelle got two feet on the landing.

  Are they both coming in? she signed.

  “Yes.” Trying to keep them out at this point was a waste of energy, something Chrysabelle was losing quickly. Twinges of pain danced along her spine,
small torments of what would come later. Maybe the excursion to Seven had been more than she was ready for. It was her first trip out of the house since the incident.

  Velimai’s fingers kept going. You look tired. I can send them home.

  No, Chrysabelle signed back, keeping the conversation private. I’m well enough to do what needs to be done. I need some sugar, something to get my energy up.

  Velimai nodded and glided off to the kitchen. Chrysabelle made her way into the living room and eased onto one of the leather chairs so neither Creek nor Mal would try to sit by her. A little distance would help hide her weakness. The last thing she wanted was Mal and Creek freaking out and adopting some ridiculous protective stance. They did that well enough without her giving them an excuse. She gestured with the cane at the couches as the two men entered the room. “Sit.”

  Mal narrowed his eyes, giving Creek a look. “Be warned. She’s gotten bossy. Bossier.”

  Creek snorted, his icy-blue eyes sparkling. “I like bossy women.” Was he that happy she’d let him in? Or just happy to see her again?

  “Not enough to listen to them,” Chrysabelle shot back, earning a half smile from Mal.

  Creek settled onto one of the sofas. “Point taken.”

  She waited until Mal took the other sofa. The juicer whirred to life in the kitchen. “What’s on your mind, Creek?”

  “Besides how good it is to see you healed up?” He leaned forward, elbows on his knees. “Where to start?” He stared past her, his mouth tight. “One of Dominic’s comarré was murdered tonight.”

  Mal shifted forward. “How do you know?”

  “I found the body.” Creek shook his head as if the image were stuck in his brain. “Real mess. Whoever did it stripped the gold out of her skin. Or tried to. Blood everywhere. Place was crawling with fringe.”

  Chrysabelle forgot her aching back. “Holy mother.”

  Velimai came in carrying a glass of pineapple juice. Her eyes held a thousand questions as she handed the juice to Chrysabelle.

  “One of Dominic’s comarré was killed,” Chrysabelle filled her in. “Stay if you want.” She tipped her head to the empty end of the sofa Creek occupied. Velimai sat, tucking her feet underneath her slim form. Chrysabelle took a long swallow of the juice.