Bad Blood

by Kristen Painter

  Doc stood. “It’s gonna have to be damn good to change my mind, but I’m willing to hear her out.”

  Fi jumped up beside him. “I’m coming, too. Tatiana killed me after Chrysabelle’s blood made me fully corporeal again, so if anyone has a say in this, I feel like I do.”

  “Fine with me,” Damian said as the group moved toward the door.

  Doc smiled and grabbed her hand, giving it a squeeze before quickly letting it go. “Maybe we should turn Daciana over to Dominic and let him work her over.”

  Fi raised her brows at him. She was surprised he’d suggest giving Dominic anything after the vampire had almost killed him, but maybe Doc was softening up. She snorted. Doc? Softening up? Yeah, that was going to happen.

  Outside on the front landing, Big John had Daciana under Damian’s sacre and had shifted into his half-wolf form for more power. His ice-blue eyes almost glowed under the security lights, but his gaze stayed focused on the vampire as the rest of them exited and shut the door. “What’s the decision?”

  “That’s up to her,” Doc said.

  “I want to stay, please,” Daciana said, glancing from the sword aimed at her to the men gathered in front of her. She didn’t look at Fi. Didn’t she think Fi had any say? One more reason not to like her.

  Luke nodded. “Vampire, what information can you share with us that will convince us you’re telling the truth?”

  Daciana’s eyes filled with hope and pleading. “What do you want to know? I’ll tell you anything.”

  Doc snorted. “Just start talking.”

  She opened her mouth, shaking her head slightly as if searching for what to tell them first. “She’s just been made Dominus.”

  “That was inevitable,” Damian said.

  “She lost her hand in some big fight and has had it replaced with a metal one that she can transform into any shape.”

  “That’s not news,” Fi said. “Chrysabelle’s the one who lopped Tatiana’s hand off in the first place.”

  “And I saw the metal hand in person.” Doc rolled his shoulders like he was trying to shrug the memory off.

  Daciana drew herself up a little taller, although she still wasn’t an inch over Fi. “If you release me, and she finds out I’ve told you any of this, she’ll kill me.” She swallowed and wrung her hands together. “In front of the council, the Castus told Tatiana he was coming to visit her alone after she was made Dominus. Then he told the rest of the council that she and her family were to be protected.” Daciana shook her head. “I don’t know what he meant exactly, but Tatiana doesn’t have any family. Unless he meant the rest of the House of Tepes.”

  “The baby,” Doc muttered. “That’s what he meant.”

  “You don’t know that,” Fi said.

  He turned toward her like his head was on a swivel. “You think a demon can raise a child? He’s more likely to eat it. No, my gut tells me he’s given it to her. Dammit.” He bent his head. Fi could have sworn she saw a flicker of blue flame dance across his fingers. She reached to grab his hand, but he balled both hands into fists. He exhaled and lifted his head, his eyes the fierce green-gold of his half-form. “Put the vampire in the guesthouse.”

  “The soulless woman,” Creek whispered.

  Yahla nodded, her smile kind but forceful. “You know me.” It was neither question nor statement, but a mind reading.

  He swallowed. “You’re not real.”

  “Aren’t I?” She spread her arms, the shadows clinging to her like wings.

  “You died.”

  She dropped her arms, clasping her hands before her with an unearned innocence. “And now I am reborn. I have no soul, I cannot cease to exist.”

  He backed up one step in preparation to leave. “Samhain approaches. The covenant is broken. Nothing can be trusted tonight.”

  “Meaning me, but those things have nothing to do with me. I have always been. Always. Until the witch caught me in her spell and confined me in her house.”

  “Why would she do that?”

  Yahla laughed, lifting her head and revealing the pale line of her neck. “Why did the witch do anything?”

  “Power.”

  She nodded approvingly.

  Something exploded in the distance. He glanced toward the sound, convinced she’d be gone when he looked back. She wasn’t. His pocket vibrated again, no doubt Argent texting him the location of the next demon to take out. “I have to go. I have work to do.”

  “Yes, you are Kubai Mata. You protect the city. And now I protect you.”

  How she knew that about him, he couldn’t guess. “I don’t need protecting.”

  “It matters not what you need. You freed me.”

  “If this is one of those things where you have to save my life for us to be even, I’m good. Really.” Everything he remembered from his grandmother’s stories told him Yahla, if this really was her, which he still couldn’t believe, was prone to harsh moods and fits of anger. She wasn’t exactly known for her rational thinking, either.

  She laughed again, the sound like a songbird’s trilling. “The city is besieged.” She walked to the corner and stared toward the demon’s carcass. “There are more than just this one to deal with.” She stared back at him, the lamplight outlining her ethereal beauty with its solar glow. “I will help you.”

  The tales swirled in his head. “How do I know you won’t turn on me?”

  “You freed me. I cannot hurt you. I would not.” She held out her hand to him. “Come.”

  He took a step forward but shook his head, remembering. “I won’t touch you.” He shuddered, because he had touched her already. She must have been dead when he’d picked her up or he would be, too.

  With a smile, she dropped her hand. “Your grandmother taught you well.” She ran her hand through her hair and plucked out three feathers. She pinched them between her thumb and forefinger and offered them, her arm outstretched from her body and the strange, shadowy wing visible again. “Take these to her. She will make you a charm to wear to keep you safe from me.”

  He hesitated for a moment, then came close enough to take the feathers by their pointed tips. She held very still until he’d stepped back again.

  “When you have your charm, I will see you again. Soon.” She did the slow blinking thing, then spun apart into a cloud of ravens. They rose, silent except for the rasping of their wings against the air, and disappeared into the blackness of the night sky.

  He stared after them for a moment longer than he should have, finally tucking the feathers into a hidden pocket on his chest holster. He had demons to kill and mortals to protect, no time to think about the mythical, dangerous woman who’d just pledged her allegiance to him.

  Or why he wished she’d stayed.

  Chapter Thirty-six

  Straight to Seven, please, Jerem.”

  Mal had barely gotten into the car. He stared at Chrysabelle in disbelief. “Just to drop off Mortalis and tell Dominic we’ve returned his plane, right?”

  “I can find my own way,” the fae offered, but Mal wanted her answer.

  She looked out the window, her face reflected in the glass. She was avoiding him, not taking in the scenic drive from the airport. “No.”

  “You need to rest. To prepare. You haven’t even fully recovered from losing the signum.” His back teeth ground together in anger. “This is not the time to get them redone.”

  “I’m completely recovered.”

  “Then why are you still in pain?” Because of your presence.

  “No drama, remember?”

  It infuriated him that she’d yet to make eye contact. In his mind, that confirmed that she knew she was wrong. “Don’t confuse my concern for you with drama. Ever.” Still she stayed turned away from him.

  “Jerem,” he called out. “Take us to Mephisto Island.”

  She laughed softly, finally turning his way. “My driver knows better than to listen to anyone but me.” The laughter died away. “I can’t afford to wait any longer to
get the signum put back in. It will take me long enough to recover from that as it is.”

  He slid closer. “What’s the rush? You have plenty of time.”

  “The ring is back on the mortal plane. Detectable. That means I’m a target again.”

  “She’s right about that,” Mortalis said.

  Chrysabelle continued. “Plus, we have proof the Castus has been here in Paradise City. He attacked Creek, for crying out loud. What’s to stop him from showing up at my house? Or Tatiana? Or both of them?” She sighed and shook her head. “I don’t have time. Not until this is done.”

  “At least take a day to recover from this trip. I know it wore on you.” Or you did.

  “I’m fine.” She looked away again. “I’d rather have you with me than not, Mal. Please don’t make this any more difficult than it already is.”

  He slid back, the weighted feeling of defeat pressing him into the sedan’s soft leather seats. You should be used to it. Raging at her would do no good, except to reinforce her stubborn desire to have her own way. He put his knuckles to his mouth and stared out the window. How could he love a woman this mad? Because you’re mad, too. Because he did love her. He knew that. She was a drug in his veins, not just because of her blood but her very being. Having her near stroked the tiny threads of humanity in him at the same time that her closeness aroused the dreaded blackness taking the place of his soul.

  He was lost to her, brain, body, and beast.

  And now, because of her hardheadedness, she might be lost to him. He turned, mesmerized for a moment by the shimmering glow that always surrounded her. He couldn’t imagine his life without that light. “Has a comarré ever died from getting signum?”

  She snorted softly, facing him. “Asking those kinds of questions isn’t going to make me—”

  “I’m not trying to make you do anything. I’m past that. I’m just trying to prepare myself for every possibility.”

  The mirth left her face. “It’s happened. Not common, but it’s happened.”

  Not the answer he’d wanted. Not at all. “Those comarré who didn’t make it, were they in perfect health to begin with?”

  Tension settled into fine lines around her eyes. “All comarré who receive signum are in perfect health.”

  Except you. But he didn’t have to say it, because it hung in the air between them like smoke.

  Mortalis shifted and Mal realized that for the first time, the fae seemed uncomfortable with the conversation. Mal couldn’t recall Mortalis ever looking so miserable.

  Mal shrugged. “So what do you think your chances are, then? Seventy-five percent? Fifty?”

  “Stop it,” she whispered, her voice quieted by the rasp of anger. “I know what you’re doing and it’s not going to work.”

  He went back to staring out his window. He’d said enough. She had plenty to think about until they got to Seven. But when they finally arrived, her mind-set seemed no different.

  Mortalis sprang from the car before Jerem could open the door. Chrysabelle followed him, but Mal got out on his side.

  Without further words, Mortalis led them into the club and down into the labyrinth beneath it. Minutes slipped away and with each one, Mal wondered how many more Chrysabelle had. What if she really did die getting the signum? It pained him to think of his miserable existence without her in it. He bent his head for a moment, wishing he could pray, wishing he could stop her, but the chances of either one happening without one of them getting hurt was nil.

  Mortalis stopped in front of Atticus’s door and drew the runes to open it. When it did, he stepped aside. “If you want me to stay for any reason, I will. Otherwise, I’m going to your house to check on things, then home to Nyssa.”

  “Sounds good,” Chrysabelle said. “I’ll be fine.” She shot Mal a pointed look with the last word.

  “Very well. We’ll talk again soon, I’m sure.” He nodded at Mal and went back the way they’d come.

  Chrysabelle started to enter the corridor to Atticus’s apartment, but Mal put his hand on her arm. “Wait.” He tapped his ear as if listening for something.

  “What?” she asked, but he shook his head and put a finger to his lips. She furrowed her brow and looked down both sides of the long hall, then shrugged.

  When the sound of Mortalis’s footsteps had disappeared, Mal drew her to him, his hands on her arms. “I know I can’t keep you from this path and I’m done trying, but if anything were to happen to you…” He paused, knowing what he wanted to say but not knowing how to say it. “I can’t lose you.”

  “You won’t.” She half smiled as if to appease him. He knew she didn’t get what he was trying to say.

  “Chrysabelle, I… that is…” Son of a priest, he could kill a man without blinking, but finding the words to speak to her was somehow harder? Pitiful. “You don’t understand. What I’m trying to say is—”

  “Don’t. Don’t say it. Not another word.” The smile flattened and her hands came up like a shield. “Stop trying to keep me from getting—”

  He pulled her in and kissed her soundly, fully aware it might be for the last time. When he let her go, she sucked in a deep breath. “Not trying to stop you.” He shook his head. “Not anymore. Just figured I might not get another chance to say what I need to.”

  “You will.” Her chin wobbled once. Out of anger or another emotion, he couldn’t guess. Maybe she did understand what he was trying to tell her after all. If only he knew for sure. Or could gauge what she was thinking.

  “I’m glad you’re so sure.”

  She hauled back and punched him in the chest.

  “What the hell was that for?”

  “Bad timing.” With that, she spun around and marched toward Atticus’s door.

  Half an hour to midnight and Creek had killed more demons, goblins, rabid fringe vampires, and a whole bunch of other unnamed nasties, including a giant centipede, than he could keep track of. Despite the mayor’s assurances to the police that he was one of the good guys, a few of the officers he’d encountered hadn’t trusted him until he’d rescued them. He’d rescued varcolai along with them, too, all men sent out on patrol to do the same thing he was doing, trying to keep the city from being overrun. When they’d let him, he’d given the police a quick lesson in bringing most creatures down with a shot through the heart, throat, or eye, then either removing the head or putting a stake through the heart. At least the varcolai had serviceable blades. The police, on the other hand, were going to need some new weapons more appropriate than guns for this kind of fighting.

  A thin sheen of sweat, blood, and guts covered him. Fortunately, only a little of the blood was his. Other than some scratches, a cut above his left eye, and a gash on his right bicep, he was in good shape. His clothes, on the other hand… he would have to burn them when he got home because there was no washing machine on earth equipped to get this kind of stench out.

  He leaned back on his bike and wiped his face with his forearm. He was tired, but it was a good tired, like after a hard workout. Which could sort of describe what he’d just been through. Except it wasn’t over.

  As if on cue, his phone started vibrating. With a hard sigh, he dug it out of his pocket. Not a text this time, but a call. From Argent, because, who else?

  “Creek,” he answered.

  “How’s it going?” Argent asked.

  “KM three hundred, bad guys zip.”

  “I do not understand.”

  Creek rolled his eyes skyward. The gargoyles were still flying. “It’s going fine. I’ve killed more creatures than I can name. You know some of these demons breathe fire?” He also wanted to ask if they were related, but knew better. Just like he knew to keep the news about Yahla to himself. He didn’t need his boss thinking he’d been hallucinating. Or worse, been affected by the magic.

  “Yes, we are aware. I’m calling because our source in Corvinestri has checked in with disturbing news. Tatiana was in Paradise City recently. She apparently came in the guise of a
nother vampiress, who she kept prisoner in her home while traveling with the vampiress’s husband. He was successful in capturing and returning with a comarré, but that comarré was not Chrysabelle, obviously. The husband then committed suicide or was killed because of this error. Most likely Tatiana killed him and covered it up. She’s also been made Dominus, so her power has increased.”

  “Great. Just what she needs—more resources.”

  “It’s good and bad. Yes, it gives her more resources, but it also eats into her time. As Dominus, she can’t just flit off on a whim. She has a house to run. That’s not the worst of it, though, or the main reason I’m calling.”

  How much worse could it be? “Lay it on me.”

  “Tatiana has somehow come into possession of a half-vampire, half-human child.”

  Creek closed his eyes and dropped his head. “Hell. Worse is right.”

  “When this crisis is past, you are to recruit the comarré and the anathema vampire and send them to Corvinestri to retrieve the child. Once they return with it, the Kubai Mata will take charge of the child. It is imperative. We believe this child is the key in turning the swelling tide of vampire power.”

  “Just like that, go get the kid and bring it back? How exactly do you think I’m going to get them to do that? Tatiana wants to kill both of them. I don’t think they’re going to waltz in and grab this child just because I say please.”

  “Tell the comarré she will do it, or her life will be forfeit in exchange for the ring she has yet to return to us.”

  A chill washed over him. “If she doesn’t go after the child, you’re going to kill her?”

  “No,” Argent corrected him. “You are.”

  Chapter Thirty-seven

  He loved her. Chrysabelle knew that was what Mal had wanted to tell her. The very idea both elated her and made her want to shove her sacre through him. Not anywhere fatal, just someplace it would leave a mark. Why would he want to tell her such a thing like that at a time like this? She was about to have molten gold stitched into her flesh in a ritual that required her to be as calm and centered as possible. And he loved her. Holy mother, it was hard not to punch him. Or kiss him again.