Bad Blood

by Kristen Painter

  She would find her mother. She glanced back in the direction of the demon. If anything had happened to Ma, anything at all, Evie would bring hellfire down upon the person responsible.

  At the sound of Laurent walking toward the dining room, Tatiana bent over the dossier he’d left splayed out on the table, fixing her face as though she were intently studying the detailed notes. She had every intention of getting through the next few hours as quickly as possible. Giving Laurent no reason to question his wife’s knowledge of Tatiana’s information would go a long way in that direction.

  “Evening, my pet.” He kissed the top of her head. “No need to wear yourself out memorizing all this information.” He scooped the papers away from her and into the leather portfolio. “I know the dossier inside and out. I should have no trouble apprehending the comarré at her home this evening, then we’ll return to Corvinestri tonight. Tatiana will be pleased, don’t you think?”

  “Very.” Tatiana smiled, and for once it wasn’t forced.

  He tucked the portfolio under his arm. “Not sure why she couldn’t accomplish this herself the first time she was here. Doesn’t say much about her as a leader.”

  Her smile vanished. “Do you think it’s wise to speak of her so boldly?”

  He laughed. “What? You think this house has ears?” He shrugged. “I don’t worry about such things and neither should you. She’s a dangerous woman, yes, but one who relies more on muscle than brains.”

  Tatiana knew her eyes must be silvering but didn’t care. She shivered with the force of repressed anger, playing it off as fear. “You risk what I wouldn’t.”

  He chucked a knuckle under her chin with more force than seem warranted for such a gesture. “That’s why I’m the man and you’re the woman.” He glanced around. “You have the satchel of supplies she sent?”

  How did Daciana stomach this buffoon? “Yes.” Tatiana touched the small pouch tucked into her interior jacket pocket.

  “Then let’s go. This place wears on me. It has no character, no sense of history. I’ll be happy to leave it behind and return to Corvinestri to claim my new position.”

  That makes two of us, Tatiana thought. But if she could help it, only one of them would be returning. And it would not be Laurent.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Just from watching the subtle play between Mal and Chrysabelle in the car, Creek knew she’d made her choice and it wasn’t him. He was okay with that. Not happy. But okay. The more he got to know Mal, the more Creek understood the vampire wasn’t the monster he believed himself to be. He clearly cared for Chrysabelle and would do anything to protect her. Creek could respect that. Didn’t mean he wasn’t going to watch out for her, too.

  The guards at the mayor’s gate had let them pass but not the car, so now the car was parked on the street and the three of them strolled toward the front door of the mayor’s house. Havoc stood on the porch waiting for them. From the expression the shifter wore, it was clear he hadn’t expected Creek to actually show up with a vampire and a comarré.

  “Havoc.” Creek nodded, knowing his smug look wouldn’t help the already-icy relations between them, but proving people wrong felt damn good. Not as good as walking out of the Florida State Pen, but close.

  “Creek.” He lifted his chin, indicating Mal and Chrysabelle. “I take it these are the guests you promised the mayor?”

  “That’s right.” Like Havoc didn’t already know that. What varcolai couldn’t identify a vampire? And Chrysabelle, hell, anyone who saw those signum would know she was something special.

  “Gotta be frisked.”

  Chrysabelle shook her head. “Touch me and you’ll sing soprano, wolfie.”

  Creek and Mal looked at each other simultaneously. The new Chrysabelle was a real kick in the pants. Creek stepped up to defuse the situation as best he could. “She’s got blades on her, nothing else. Same for the vampire. I’ve got my halm and crossbow. None of us will use the weapons. Especially not them.” He nodded at Mal and Chrysabelle. “They’re here to help me.”

  “Doesn’t matter. They don’t get in to see the mayor carrying anything sharper than a button.” He put one hand on his hip, sliding his leather jacket back enough to reveal the piece holstered on his side.

  Mal snorted.

  Creek’s brows pulled together. “You really think that’s going to stop a vampire or a comarré?” Or a KM for that matter, but no point in giving away more than necessary.

  Havoc’s face registered no emotion. “The bullets are hollow-tipped silver, quenched in holy water. So hot I can’t load them without gloves.” Creek glanced at Chrysabelle. Her sacre were also hot, made to do lasting damage to the undead. “They may not stop the vampire, but they sure will tickle. The comarré I’m not concerned with.”

  Mal laughed. “Then you clearly haven’t met one before.” He turned to Creek. “Look, we showed up. Did our part. I’m ready to go—”

  The door behind Havoc opened a few inches, spilling light and the mayor’s familiar flowery-limey scent into the evening air. “Is there a problem, John?”

  Without taking his eyes off them, he leaned back. “Ma’am, Creek’s back with the alleged vampire and comarré, but they’re armed and refuse to give up their weapons.”

  “Armed with what?”

  “Blades only.”

  After a brief pause, she spoke again. “Let them in, but you stay with them. Now. I’m tired of waiting and not knowing.”

  “Madam Mayor,” Creek said. “The vampire needs to be invited inside.”

  Realization lit Havoc’s eyes. He tipped his head toward the mayor again. “I don’t think that’s such a great idea, ma’am. Perhaps you could meet them in your office at city hall.”

  Before she could answer, Chrysabelle spoke up. “We meet now or not at all. I have other business to take care of this evening.”

  A small snort of disbelief answered them, followed by, “Fine. You are all invited in. John, keep a close watch.”

  He jerked his head in a quick acknowledgment. “Yes, ma’am.” The door shut. “You heard her. But one move I don’t like and I’ll ask after I shoot. Got it?”

  Chrysabelle stood at Creek’s side. “Yes, we get it. Let’s go. Filling the mayor in on what goes bump in the night isn’t my evening’s top priority. I want this over with as much as you do.”

  Creek walked to the door and opened it. “You heard the lady.”

  Havoc kept Chrysabelle at his side as he guided them through the house and into the living room Creek had been in the night before. The mayor sat facing them, a tablet PC balanced on her knees. Creek caught the dull gleam of nickel-plated metal tucked behind the pillow under her elbow. A gun. Probably the same one he’d suspected her of having earlier.

  The mayor waved her hand over the PC, darkening the screen, then set it beside her chair and looked at him expectantly. “These are the people you told me about.”

  “Yes.” Creek held his palm toward Chrysabelle. “Chrysabelle Lapointe. She is a comarré. One of the originals, not a…” He searched for the right word, one that wouldn’t offend the mayor.

  “Not a counterfeit like your daughter,” Chrysabelle supplied. “I am very sorry to hear about her death. My sympathies.”

  But the sincerity sounded thin in her words. Creek understood Chrysabelle had a lot on her mind, but the mayor might not get that.

  The mayor’s mouth bent a little and she nodded. “Thank you.” Her reply was as falsely genuine as Chrysabelle’s. At least both women were on the same page. “Lapointe. Any relation to Maris Lapointe? Her cosmetics company makes its headquarters here.”

  “She was my mother. I am the figurehead CEO of Lapointe Cosmetics now.”

  The mayor tipped her head slightly to the side. “Was your mother?”

  “She died about a month ago.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that. Your mother was a very generous woman.”

  Chrysabelle’s body stiffened. “You knew her?”

  �
��I had the pleasure of meeting her a few times at various fund-raisers.”

  Chrysabelle nodded and seemed to retreat within herself. Memories, maybe. Questions more likely. Creek cleared his throat and pointed at Mal. “This is Malkolm Bourreau. He’s a noble vampire. The nobility are considered a superior class to fringe vampires, which are mostly what live in this city and the rest of the continental U.S. Or what’s left of it. The nobility prefer Europe and the Middle East.”

  The mayor’s gaze narrowed on Mal with laserlike focus. “Noble vampire? Seems like an oxymoron to me.”

  “Doesn’t it, though?” Mal stared back just as hard. “You should know I’m not nobility anymore. I’m anathema. An outcast.”

  “Why is that?” the mayor asked.

  Mal waited the space of a breath. “I killed my sire.”

  Something they had in common, Creek thought. “I’m sure you’d like to hear about the comarré, Madam Mayor.”

  Ignoring Creek, the mayor stood, walked around the coffee table that separated them, and stopped in front of Mal. “I can sense that you’re not exactly human, but how do I know it’s not some kind of trick? Prove you’re a vampire.”

  Mal shot Creek a look that spoke volumes. Like crazy. And death wish.

  “Go easy,” Creek muttered, but it was too late.

  Mal shifted his human face away, flashing fangs and silver eyes along with the hard angles of his true self. The mayor cursed in Spanish, stumbling backward and crossing herself. Havoc pulled his weapon.

  Chrysabelle stepped between Mal and the mayor, throwing a hand up at Havoc. “You got what you asked for, Madam Mayor. Call off your dog.”

  The mayor’s mouth closed slowly, her gaze flitting from Chrysabelle to Mal. She nodded, finally glancing at Havoc. Her eyes hardened. “You think this is a game? You think to scare me? I am not someone you want to make an enemy of.”

  Mal’s face went back to human. “I did what you asked. Your reaction is not my problem.”

  Chrysabelle flashed a look at him, then went back to the mayor. “We’re here at your bequest, yet you threaten us. You’re human, and this world you live in, the one you think is so safe? It isn’t. Not anymore.”

  “My daughter is dead. I am aware of the world we live in.”

  Chrysabelle shook her head and dropped her hands with a sigh. “If you’ll keep an open mind and understand that we’re not here to hurt you, I will answer whatever questions you have within reason. I have other matters I must attend to this evening.”

  The mayor hesitated, studying the group before her with an expression Creek couldn’t fully read. She seemed torn between wanting to know more and tossing them out. Finally, she pointed to the couches. “Sit.”

  Chrysabelle took a spot on the couch nearest the mayor, Mal beside her. Creek sat opposite on the other couch. Havoc stayed standing, arms loose at his sides. The mayor went back to her seat, her fingers disappearing beneath the pillow at her side. “Chrysabelle—may I call you that?”

  “Yes.”

  “Thank you. You may call me Lola. Tell me what you think I should know.”

  Chrysabelle rubbed a hand over her mouth, her sleeve slipping back enough to reveal the sheaths of her wrist blades. “There was a covenant in place that kept a level of peace between humans and othernaturals. Humans weren’t able to sense the othernaturals that lived among them, and after a while, humans forgot the othernaturals had ever been real. They became fairy tales and nightmares and fantasies. In that way, the othernaturals were protected from being hunted and killed by the mortals whose world they inhabited. It became an unwritten rule among most othernaturals that humans were to be left alone in all aspects. For almost a thousand years, this covenant held fast.”

  “But that has changed?”

  “Yes. The covenant was broken.”

  The mayor uncrossed her legs only to recross them in the opposite direction. “When?”

  “About a month ago.”

  “About the time your mother passed?”

  Creek ached for Chrysabelle in a way he hadn’t expected. This had to be hard for her.

  She nodded slowly. “My mother was comarré like me, only she kept her signum hidden. Her death was… instrumental in the breaking of the covenant.”

  The mayor’s brow wrinkled. “Was she some kind of keeper of this covenant?”

  “No. She was the human sacrifice that broke it.”

  “Ay yi yi,” the mayor whispered. “How awful. Your mother was a good woman. She did not deserve such an end.”

  “I couldn’t agree with you more.” Liquid edged the lower rims of Chrysabelle’s eyes, but sparks of anger lit them from within. “You should also know the vampire who killed her might be here in Paradise City.”

  Fear bent the mayor’s mouth. “Why?”

  “She wants something I have.”

  The mayor’s mouth opened and a small, strangled sound came out. She rose from the chair, her hands trembling as they clasped before her. “My daughter. She looked just like you when she died.”

  Chrysabelle glanced at Mal, then Creek before making eye contact with the mayor again and giving the barest of nods. “I know what you’re thinking. Because I’ve been thinking it, too.”

  Doc lounged on the sofa in the living room, a beer in one hand and the remote for Chrysabelle’s holovision TV in the other. It was a mighty big change from the freighter, despite the crowd in the house.

  Not that any of them were around. The visiting comarré had retreated to their guest suite right after Velimai had introduced them to Doc. Then she and Fi had headed off to the kitchen to whip up some dinner. Fi was picking up the fae’s sign language fast. Her laughter and favorite radio station drifted out from the kitchen. She was probably dancing to the music. He turned the volume up on the TV a little. Life hadn’t been this easy in forever. If only it could be this way all the time. His gut told him it wouldn’t last so he’d best enjoy it while he could.

  Maybe later he’d get Fi into the hot tub. With a wicked grin, he channel surfed until he found a football game. Fi came in as he set the remote down.

  He smiled. “What’s up, baby? Dinner ready? Smells great.”

  “No, not ready yet.” She put her hands on her hips and shook her head at the beer. “Aren’t you supposed to be protecting us?”

  “Relax. Chrysabelle’s place is wired up like Fort Knox. No one’s getting on the grounds, and even if someone did, there’s a wysper in that kitchen who could open her mouth and turn them into bloody pulp in a few seconds. And now that I can fully shift, I’m no slouch in the hard-core dangerous department either.” He patted the cushion next to him. “Sit down and chill, baby girl. Let’s enjoy a quiet evening in the kind of luxury we’d normally have to pay for.”

  She crossed her arms. Damn. Not going for it one bit. “The last time Tatiana crossed the woman in the kitchen, Velimai ended up bloody and broken. And do I need to remind you what Tatiana did to me?”

  Point taken. “All right. I’ll do a little patrol outside. Maybe send the comar out after dinner to do the same. Cool?”

  “Cool.” She smiled as she leaned down to kiss him. “Love you.” With a wink she scampered back to the kitchen.

  “Dinner had better be tight,” he called after her. With a sigh, he set his beer down and headed for the front door, leaving the TV on. The things he did…

  He shut the door behind him and paused to let his senses work their magic. Everything sounded right, smelled right. Then the compulsion hit him. It wasn’t as subtle as the time he’d woken up from the nightmare and felt the urge to run and investigate Preacher and the old church. No, this was like a hand forcing him forward. Like another mind inside his head.

  His feet started moving, and he began a tour of the grounds, investigating every small thing. Every nuance of the estate became more interesting. He finished walking the grounds and stared at the house. He should try to get back inside. Maybe it would help. But he’d been inside the church and that hadn�
��t offered any protection.

  The compulsion pushed him again, this time to inspect the house. He walked around it. The new security lights did a decent job of dispelling shadows, but the eerie feeling of being watched through his own eyes hung on him like a desperate woman.

  The thought brought Aliza’s name to the forefront of his thinking. He knew in his gut she was behind this. Ignoring his suspicions wasn’t going to make the truth go away. When he’d passed through the smoke that had set Fi right, he’d somehow put himself under the witch’s control. He’d known that was a possibility when he did it, but being whole again had been too strong a temptation.

  Now he was paying the price.

  He was back at the front door, but his feet wouldn’t take him inside. “Fi!”

  His body turned him around and started moving him around the side of the house toward the garage entrance. It wanted him in the car. He yelled for Fi again as he tried to resist by dragging his feet. “Fi, get out here, now.” Nothing. Dammit. “Velimai! Fi!”

  The compulsion was screwing with his head, pushing him back to where he’d felt it the last time. Preacher’s. Under no circumstances did he want to step foot in that freak’s joint without backup. Preacher’s need to protect his child had turned his crazy up to eleven.

  Doc searched his brain for some way to fight Aliza off, but in the fog of the spell, the only thing he could think of was to shift.

  Like an involuntary shiver, it was upon him and done. In leopard form, he stood on the cobblestoned sidewalk that led from Chrysabelle’s circular drive and connected the main house to the guesthouse and secondary garage. Beneath his paw pads, the stones were warm from the day’s heat. All traces of the compulsion were gone. Shifting had kicked it out of his system like a bad habit. He let the nocturnal sounds roll over him. The low buzz of insects filled the air more than usual. He inhaled and his nose wrinkled at a sudden wash of bitterness. There was only one kind of monster that smelled like that. Vampir—