Bad Blood

by Kristen Painter

  The girl gasped. “Please, whoever you are, you must get me back to my patron, Nasir, or the vampiress Tatiana. I was forced to run away with her comar, but I didn’t want to and—”

  “Bloody hell,” Tatiana whispered. She shut the closet door and locked it, then tossed the key and the pistol back into the overhead, wishing she could slam it shut. Bloody, bloody hell. She stomped up to the cockpit and went inside. “How far are we?”

  “Less than three hours,” the pilot answered.

  Tatiana stifled another curse. “Turn around and go back.”

  The pilot made a face like she’d lost her mind. “We can’t. Not enough fuel.”

  She clenched her fist but somehow managed not to maim the pilot. No wonder Laurent had taken the girl with such ease. She was the wrong damn one. Tatiana forced her body to relax. Killing Laurent now meant no chance of sending him back to Paradise City to rectify his mistake. And since Tatiana was supposed to be Daciana, she couldn’t say a single bloody word without giving herself away.

  Mal waited until the SUV pulled away. At least the rain had stopped. They’d dropped him in a residential area off of I-10, far enough away from the checkpoints masked as tollbooths so that there was no chance of him being caught. Sun would be up in about an hour. Plenty of time to make it from Jefferson Parish into Orleans Parish. Or die. Then he just had to wind his way through the city, down into the French Quarter to Jackson Square, and find Chrysabelle and Mortalis. If they haven’t ditched you.

  He walked at an easy gait, scanning the working-class neighborhood, but the few people he saw were more interested in the coffee clutched in their hands or getting to work on time. Despite Mal’s long black coat and sunglasses, he drew no stares. Still, he kept to the shadows for a few more blocks until, confident there were no fae patrols in the area, he picked up his pace and followed the directions Mortalis had mapped out for crossing the parish border.

  Half an hour later, the pale gold blush of dawn—a rare color in his world—edged the horizon. It reminded him of the glow that surrounded Chrysabelle. And how much he was willing to do to keep her in his life. Bite her, drain her.

  He crossed street after street, angling farther away from the interstate until he came to the canal he’d been anticipating. He just hadn’t expected it to be so wide. Looked like a hundred and fifty feet, maybe more. Too far for him to jump and there was no way he was swimming through that brown, murky soup. Try it. Maybe you’ll drown.

  Mortalis had told him to get across the canal before the sun came up or seek shelter. Time was running out. So he started running. He kept between the water’s edge and Orpheum Road, which ran parallel to the canal. Traffic was light but picking up.

  He’d hoped to be lost in the city streets by now, not out in the open of the residential area. He pushed himself to go faster, but he’d been slack about feeding the last week and the blood he’d had at Chrysabelle’s had been old and done little for him. Not that he would have expected her to give him fresh while she was recovering. As a result, he was slower, less powerful, and faster to fatigue. Easier to kill.

  The road veered off but the neighborhoods remained. He ran under an overpass, the noise of the passing cars drowning out the sounds of the city waking up. The sky brightened with each minute, urging him forward faster and faster. The voices started to howl. At last, a train bridge appeared. He sped forward, using the last of his immediate strength to traverse the tracks.

  His feet touched land on the other side just as the sun’s brilliant light cast its first rays on his body. He flinched, but no fire burst off his skin. He’d made it.

  Tipping his face toward the sky, he took a moment to breathe in the air and smell the earth. The sun made it all different somehow. Except for the brief hours he’d spent under the influence of Dominic’s daywalking potion, he hadn’t spent time in the sun in almost five hundred years. And now he could do it without the threat of aging. Or dying. Too bad.

  Cracking the thinnest of smiles, he headed off to find Chrysabelle. Today was going to be a very good day. A good day to die.

  He found his way to Canal Street and, flipping his collar up, did his best to be invisible. Keeping his head down was harder than he thought. The urge to look at the clear blue October sky was almost as great as the desire to stand still and drink in the daylight. But he kept going, thankful he had a place to be or he might have disappeared down a side street after the tantalizing scent of warm humans. Blood blood blood… He was hungry. And suddenly very aware of it.

  His mind drifted as he walked, back to the last time he’d been here: 1926. Two years before the ban. The memories had been fuzzy, but stepping onto New Orleans soil had lifted the fog.

  He’d been a killing machine, sticking to the French Quarter, which then had been a slum, full of easy pickings if you could stomach the sickly sweet aroma of too-ripe bananas being carted in from the nearby port. He remembered the crimson-lipped prostitute he’d lured into the hedges surrounding Jackson Square and there, amid the other working girls earning their pay, he’d drained her and walked away from her corpse like a discarded newspaper. Now he wore her name across his left thigh.

  Had he been that much a monster? Yes. Oh yes. But not anymore. Still. He couldn’t imagine doing the same thing today. Yes, you could. Chrysabelle was right not to want him to lose the curse that kept him bound. The moment it was gone, he had no doubt he’d return to that life. Blood blood blood…

  He checked traffic and the people around him. The prickling sensation of being watched had crept onto his skin a few blocks back. Seeing no one, he crossed to the other side of Canal and ducked down Chartres Street. He sidestepped a man hosing down the sidewalk, paying little attention to the way the man’s heartbeat filled his head or the warm scent of his blood curled into his nostrils. Beyond that, the aromas of chicory coffee and frying beignets mingled with the garbage waiting to be carted away.

  Just a few more blocks and Jackson Square would open up before him. He crossed Conti, and a fae stepped into his path. He had short gray horns, silvery skin, and lavender eyes. Smokesinger maybe. Low against his side, he held a blade. From the sour tang, the powdery coating on it was laudanum. “Far enough, vampire.”

  Mal’s peripheral vision showed two more fae of the same variety at his back. Son of a priest, he had been followed. His whole being wavered with the slip-switch decision between fight or flight, but with Chrysabelle’s reason for being here, neither one made good sense. He didn’t want to be the cause of her not getting the ring back, and without being able to make eye contact with all three of the fae, using his power of persuasion wasn’t an option. Not that he was even sure it worked on fae, but since it worked on varcolai, trying it out was a chance he’d take at the right opportunity.

  He held his hands up casually. “I’m sure we can work something out.”

  Interest crackled over the fae’s face. “Like what?”

  Chrysabelle had slipped him a fat roll of bills before they’d parted ways. He loathed giving up her money, even if that’s what it was for. “Cash.”

  The fae behind Mal tightened in. “How much?” one of them asked.

  “A thou.” Mal had separated the slick plastic bills into smaller rolls ahead of time.

  The fae in front of him snorted. “We look cheap to you?”

  “Each,” Mal added. He could almost hear wheels turning in the heads of the two behind him. What he actually heard over the thrum in his head was their heartbeats kicking up. They wanted the money. Probably needed it if the desperation wafting off them was a clue.

  The lead fae waggled his blade. “You even got that kinda cash on you?” He dropped his gaze to a small hole in Mal’s sleeve. “You don’t exactly look flush.”

  “I have it. That a deal, then?”

  The fae grinned. “How do you know we won’t just roll you and take it all?”

  “Because I’m a five-hundred-year-old noble vampire, and the kind of power I could unleash would turn you into st
ains on the sidewalk quicker than you could take your next breath.”

  “That so?” The fae hitched one shoulder like he’d just developed an itch. “Then why haven’t you?”

  Weakling. Fight them. Kill them. Drain them. “Because I don’t need trouble. Do you want the money or not?”

  “Deal.” The word came from behind him. The lead fae shot a look at his partner.

  “I’m going to reach for the money.” Mal slipped a hand into the inside pocket of his coat and snagged the first bundle, then into the back pocket of his jeans for the rest. The bulk of the ten thousand was in his boot. He pulled his hand out and splayed the three rolled bundles like playing cards. “Here you go.”

  The lead fae came closer. Mal inched his hand back a little and slipped some persuasion into his voice. A little test couldn’t hurt. “You have a name? In case I need help getting out of another situation?”

  The fae’s gaze went slightly murky. His mouth opened and stayed that way for a long moment before any sound came out. “Jester.”

  Mal flipped the money into the air and took off, the sounds of scrabbling fading behind him. His head spun, but three grand and a sudden bout of nausea was a small price to pay to find out his power worked on the fae. Something told him that might come in very handy helping Chrysabelle get her ring back.

  Fi had scoured Little Havana, gone to the freighter, and talked to the bouncers outside Seven. Doc was nowhere. Now, hours later, she pulled the sedan back through the gates at Chrysabelle’s, exhausted and heartsick. She knew Doc must have taken the baby to the witches. Why else would he have said witch? It must have been a clue for her. But knowing that and finding him were two different things. She had no idea where the witches lived, and she didn’t know anyone who did, besides Dominic, and chances of him helping Doc were none. Maybe Velimai. The fae might come with her. The idea of going after such a powerful force alone frightened Fi. She’d do it if she had to, but a little company would be a great thing. Times like this, she wished with her whole heart that Doc had made peace with the leader of his pride and gotten himself reinstated. Then she could go to Sinjin and get help. Now, with Mal and Chrysabelle gone, she was practically on her own.

  And there was still the matter of the kidnapped comarré, Saraphina, to deal with. The comar, Damian, would want to go after her, wouldn’t he? He had no reason to help Doc over one of his gold-marked sisters. Fi parked, turned off the engine, and rested her head against the steering wheel. The early morning sun beat down on her through the windshield. She wanted to cry, but tears weren’t going to do anything but make her eyes puffy and her nose red.

  She left the car, trudged to the door, and knocked, knowing it would be locked. A click of the tumblers and Velimai answered, looking like she’d had as much sleep as Fi had, which was none. “How’s the comar?”

  Velimai signed that he was okay. Did you find Doc? she asked.

  Fi swallowed to keep from crying. “No. But I’m about ninety-nine percent sure I know where he went. Just not how to get there. Or what to do when I find him. Or how to get him out of the mess he’s in.” She sighed as she came in, shutting the door behind her. “This whole thing is a nightmare.”

  She followed Velimai into the kitchen. The wysper went back to scrambling eggs and frying bacon and potatoes. The smell was like heaven and a little bit of solace for the night Fi had spent, but as much as she loved food, she would have traded it all in a heartbeat to have Doc back. She sniffed away a new surge of emotion as Velimai pointed to the coffeepot.

  “Thanks.” Fi was going to need all the awake she could get. She took a mug down and filled it, then grabbed a seat at the table and sipped her coffee, mentally urging it to work faster than usual. “Any chance you know where Aliza the witch lives?”

  The wysper shook her head.

  “That’s what I thought.”

  Fi was halfway through her coffee when Damian came in. “Morning.” Above his loose white drawstring pants, gauze wrapped his middle, leaving his broad upper body bare except for another bandage on his shoulder and the swirling, jagged signum that covered his skin. She tried not to gape. Dark circles shadowed his blue eyes, but that was nothing compared to the sharp edge of anger sparking through them. Clearly he was ticked off. And had every right to be.

  “How are you feeling?” Fi asked, dragging her gaze back to her coffee. “You passed out right before I left last night.”

  “Fine.” The word came out almost a snarl. He took a chair as Velimai placed a massive platter of food in the middle of the already-set table.

  “You don’t look fine.” Fi took a long swallow of coffee, wondering if she’d pushed the comar too far. Chrysabelle had a temper. Maybe they all did.

  He stared at her. “I’m well enough to do what needs to be done.” He picked up the serving spoon. “Are you going to eat? Because I am and quickly, but politeness dictates I serve you first.”

  Fi held up a hand. “You go ahead.”

  He shoveled food onto his plate and started eating as if someone might snatch it away from him. Fi kept her fingers on her side of the table. “I take it you plan to go after Saraphina as soon as you finish?”

  He stopped eating abruptly, the muscles in his jaw ticking. “Not a chance. She’s the one who put the gash in my shoulder.” He shook his head, a little of the fire dimming in his eyes. “I never should have made her leave in the first place. She’s a lifer.”

  “A lifer?”

  Another forkful of eggs vanished into his mouth. He swallowed before speaking. “She likes the life. Loves it, actually.” He shoved a hand through his near-platinum locks. “I thought if I got her away from it, showed her what freedom was, she’d change her mind. She didn’t. I take the blame for not figuring that out sooner.” He scooped up another helping of potatoes. “I’m sure she’s the reason Dominic wanted us out of his hair. She wouldn’t leave him alone, begging him to be her patron.” He scowled. “She doesn’t get that we’re about more than that.”

  New hope filled Fi. “So maybe you’d help me find Doc?”

  Damian frowned. “He never turned up last night?”

  “No. I went after him, well, where I thought he was going and I was right. He was under the spell of a witch—the one who’d put him under a curse before. Anyway, I lost him again because of the spell. I looked everywhere I thought he might be but couldn’t find him. My best guess is he’s gone to her house, but I don’t know where that is and everyone who does is off to New Orleans.”

  “Most varcolai have packs, don’t they?”

  “Doc’s feline. They call it a pride. And yes, they do, but in Doc’s case, no.” She didn’t have it in her to explain that history now.

  “What about Dominic, then? He seems pretty connected.”

  “He is, but…” Fi bit the inside of her cheek. Doc sure had his enemies, didn’t he? “I don’t think he’d help Doc. They have a long past. A bad one. Like Dominic almost killed Doc a few weeks ago.”

  Damian tapped his fingers on the table. “He’d probably give up the witch’s location in exchange for the right information.”

  Fi held up her hands. “Like what? I have nothing to tell him.”

  “But I do. The vampire who took Saraphina is named Laurent. He’s next in line to take over the position of Elder, should Tatiana become Dominus, which is what she wants more than anything. There’s a good chance Laurent’s working for Tatiana.” He paused for a moment. “Tatiana could even be the second presence on the property last night. Dominic would want to know that, wouldn’t he?”

  Fi nodded slowly. “It’s pretty common knowledge Dominic wants Tatiana dead for killing the woman he was in love with.” She pushed away from the table. “Let’s go. I’ll drive.”

  Chapter Eighteen

  Tatiana stomped down the stairs ahead of Laurent, whom she’d left to deal with the comarré. Octavian waited for them with the car inside the dark hangar, away from the blazing afternoon sun. Being back in Corvinestri was like a w
eight lifted off her shoulders. He came forward to meet her, his brow furrowed, his eyes wide with worry.

  “The Elders called for you early this morning.” He kept his voice to a whisper. “The ancient one finally showed. They want you in St. Petersburg by tonight.”

  Bloody hell. Of all the bad timing. “What did you tell them?”

  “That yo—that Tatiana had some bad blood and was feeling ill. I blamed it on a servant, said the blood hadn’t been properly refrigerated. I told them things hadn’t been easy since your comar ran away.” He shrugged. “I had to buy time. I didn’t know when you’d be back. I was ready to come get you myself.”

  She frowned. She didn’t like the council thinking she was sick, but what else was there? “Good enough. Let’s get Laurent back to the house quickly. Damn fool captured the wrong comarré. But you don’t know that, understand?”

  Octavian nodded even as he looked over her shoulder. “Ah, Laurent, there you are. Need help?”

  Tatiana turned to see Laurent coming down the jet stairs with the bagged comarré over his shoulder.

  “No, I’ve got it.” He patted the comarré’s rump through the bag, causing the girl inside to move. Tatiana shot him the look she expected Daciana would have. He ignored it.

  Octavian opened the trunk. Laurent took the hint and dropped the girl inside. She let out a small “ooof” but otherwise kept quiet. After the girl’s outburst in the closet, Tatiana figured she was just happy to be out of New Florida. Tatiana certainly was. But if the girl thought she was going to be welcomed back without some sort of punishment for running, she was sadly mistaken.

  Tatiana got into the limo and slid to the seat farthest away from the door. Octavian got in ahead of Laurent and she tapped the seat beside her. He took the spot she indicated, forcing Laurent to sit alone.

  “What are you doing on that side, pet? You know I like you to sit beside me.”