If that wasn’t what he’d meant to tell her… She’d just not think about that now. Or anything else. Instead she knocked on Atticus’s door. Thankfully, he answered without making her wait too long.
“Good evening, Chrysabelle. And you’ve brought Malkolm with you.” His soft smile faltered. “You want him present?”
“No. Yes. Maybe. Is that a problem?” Making him watch would be a great punishment. Especially if she squeezed his hands until she broke every bone in them.
“It’s unorthodox to say the least, but as we are not under the strictest of circumstances, I believe an exception can be made.” He stepped to the side. “Come in. You have the gold?”
“Yes.” She fished the ring from her interior pocket as she entered, Mal following her. She dropped the circle into Atticus’s upturned palm.
“Oh,” he breathed. “There is power in this gold. Deep power.” He turned it in his fingers. “Neither black nor white, but in the wrong hands…”
“I know. It’s the ring of sorrows.”
His brows rose a little. “And you feel comfortable using this?”
“The melting will most likely destroy the power, won’t it?”
“Very possible, yes.”
She smiled weakly. “Good enough. Besides, I have no choice.”
“There’s always a choice,” Mal growled.
“The vampire is right. You do not have to do this.”
“Yes, I do. And if either of you tries to convince me otherwise, it’s not going to be fun to be around me for a long time.”
“Center yourself, comarré, or this will not go well. Your anger has no place here.” Atticus shut the door, putting them in complete darkness.
“My apologies. Could we have some lights?” She hadn’t meant to upset him. That wasn’t something you wanted to do to the man who was about to tattoo you with burning metal.
“Ah, yes, of course.” He called for the lights, then gestured for them to follow him. “Come, let us prepare.”
The room he led them into wasn’t the one they’d been in before, but she recognized it immediately. Her back twinged in pain at the metallic scents of blood and gold, the same familiar aromas that filled the signumist’s room at the Primoris Domus. This space was a perfect replica right down to the long red leather padded table and red silk–draped walls patterned with the seven sets of signum, the five female sets on the left, the five male sets on the right, the two shared sets on the head wall. A shiver of déjá vu ran through her body, and her instinct was to run, but this was not Corvinestri. She was not back at the Primoris Domus, no longer under Rennata’s thumb.
Fingers squeezed hers and she jerked, coming out of the memories. Mal dropped her hand. “Whatever you need, I’m here,” he said quietly. “Don’t be upset by anything I said.”
She nodded, not trusting her voice.
Atticus stood before his melting pot. The base glowed orange, proof that like most signumists, he kept the fire burning constantly. He held the ring over it. “You’re sure you want to use this ring?”
“Positive.”
He dropped it into the pot and began to lay out his things on a stainless-steel tray.
Mal leaned over. “Why so much red in here? Why not white like everything else?”
She ran her tongue over her teeth, not really wanting to tell him but knowing the truth was best. “It is our ritual color. And it hides the blood.”
For a moment he seemed to pale, but it was probably a trick of the dim room. She squeezed his hand as he’d just done hers, then spoke to Atticus. “You have a place I can prepare?”
“Yes, through the door behind the men’s fourth set. Everything you need is in there.”
“I’ll go change.” She turned to Mal and pointed at a tufted hassock. “Put that at the head of the long table. You can sit there while Atticus does his work. Be back in a few minutes.”
Mal nodded, looking as unsettled as she’d ever seen him. Well, he’d wanted to come. Now he was about to get what he’d asked for. Maybe he’d learn not to be so stubborn. She pushed the red silk drape aside and slid back the pocket door she found.
This room, too, was exactly what she’d expected. Even the red silk robes hanging beside the shower were the same. Atticus had to be the real deal. No one else but a true signumist would be able to replicate these things. She hoped that meant he’d be able to supply her with a gold pipette like the one she’d need to draw the portal to the Aurelian, since her mother’s had been destroyed in the boat fire.
She turned on the shower to warm the water, then hung her leather coat and slipped out of her tunic, pants, and underthings. As much as she wanted to linger in the water, she rinsed quickly, got out, and dried off.
In a carved wooden box on the dressing table, she found more of what she expected. With the supplied hairpins, she wrapped her braid around her head and secured it out of Atticus’s way. From the vial of attar of roses, she dabbed a small drop of the oil beneath her nose. It was supposed to mask the odor of blood and burned flesh, and she guessed it did for some. For her, it was just another step in the ceremony.
Lastly, she took the bundle of white feathers from the box. Comarré were taught these were feathers from an angel’s wing, but she was no longer sure what was truth and what was legend. Still, she carried out the ritual of brushing her body down with it.
Then she went to the small kneeling bench to offer up a prayer. She bent her head. Holy mother, give me peace and comfort and strength to accept these signum. And give Malkolm peace and comfort and strength, too. And the understanding that I must do this. Praying for a vampire. She was definitely not comarré material anymore. Guide Atticus’s hands. Let them see what his eyes cannot. Let me bear this pain with grace.
At last, she rose and donned one of the red robes, then made her way back out to the room where Atticus and Mal waited. “I’m ready.”
“So am I. Let’s begin.” Atticus held his hand toward the table. Mal sat at the end like she’d asked.
She walked to the side of the table. “Mal, close your eyes until I’m in place, please.”
Without hesitation, he shut them.
She dropped her robe and positioned herself on the table facedown, moving the red silk drape to cover her lower half. “You can open them now.”
He did, looking directly into hers since they were now eye to eye. Shards of silver played in his gaze. She reached her hands out and offered him a tiny smile. “I’ve done this many times before. There’s nothing to be worried about.”
“I’m not worried.” He took her hands. “Squeeze as hard as you need to.”
“I will. Feel free to pull away if it gets to be too much.”
He gazed a little more deeply into her eyes, his as earnestly silver as a newly minted coin. “Never.”
Atticus laid his hands on her back. “I’m going to sand down these scars now.”
“Okay,” she whispered. In truth, that part scared her a little. She had no idea what to expect.
A moment passed and nothing happened.
“Are you going to begin your breathing?” he asked.
“Yes, of course.” The pain would start immediately, then. She lowered her head into the concave space in the table, closed her eyes, and recalled the breathing techniques comarré were taught from their very earliest days. She focused on the rhythmic inhale and exhale, the depths of her breath, the way it moved through her body. She imagined pure light cocooning her, protecting her from what was to come, the way the light would absorb the pain and transform it into something beautiful. The practice quickly swept her into a meditative state. This was nothing new. Her body understood what to expect, her mind knew how to shelter her from it.
Vaguely, she was aware of him placing some sort of nozzle against her back. A soft hum filled the space. Then the pain came. Her mind worked quickly to compartmentalize the scouring heat of what Atticus was doing to her, shutting her into a safer, brighter place in her head. One where a welco
me fog bathed her in control and acceptance.
Time lost significance until the hum stopped. The sudden silence seemed louder than the sanding machine had been. Blood scent weighted the air.
Atticus touched her right shoulder. “I’m going to clean the area now.”
She answered with a small nod, then raised her head to look at Malkolm. His eyes were still silver, and there was a tension around them that hadn’t been there before. She suddenly realized his hands were shaking in hers.
“It’s okay,” she whispered.
He swallowed, nodded shortly, but said nothing.
Atticus wiped her back down with a warm damp cloth, and she rested her face into the table again. The tang of molten gold took over as the blood scent faded. The next pain she felt would be the signumist’s needle.
She concentrated on her breathing again. Atticus wheeled his tray closer. He smoothed his hands along her spine where her scars had been. “The skin is perfect. We may proceed.”
She gave him another small nod and took a deep cleansing breath. The comarré chosen for breeding liked to talk about how the pain of receiving signum was nothing compared to birthing. She firmly believed those comarré lied. She’d not been in this position in fifteen years, but the memory of that white-hot metal sinking into her skin was as sharp as the needle’s tip.
Without meaning to, she tensed.
Atticus pressed his hand to her shoulder. “Relax, comarré. Breathe. You have taken the needle many times in your life, yes?”
“Yes,” she whispered, her voice muted by the fabric draping the table.
“Pain fuels the journey of life.”
She almost smiled. Every signumist she’d ever known used that quote. “I am ready.”
His rolling stool creaked as he sat. “And so I begin.”
Having taken the first watch, Doc paced back and forth in front of the guesthouse. Nothing about the decision to keep the vampire here felt good, but he couldn’t deny her information had sounded right on. When Creek returned, Doc would ask him what he could find out through the KM to verify Daciana’s intel. He stroked the sides of his goatee.
If she wasn’t telling the truth, Doc might try to use his new fire power on her. Vampires hated fire. He snorted softly. Maybe his new power wasn’t such a curse after all.
He spun at the almost noiseless footsteps padding up behind him.
“Hey.” Fi held out a can of cola. “I thought you might be thirsty.”
He took it. “Thanks.” Condensation wet his hand from the ice-cold can. He popped the top and took a sip. “You’re not supposed to be outside.”
She shrugged. “Yeah, but if there’s trouble, I can get ghosty and that’s about as safe as you can get.”
“True.” He wanted to hug her up against him, but until he had really good control of the fire, that wasn’t happening. He took a few steps back and leaned against one of the columns framing the front porch.
“You all right?” Her expression told him she knew something was up. She usually did. How, he wasn’t sure, but Fi had a way of knowing when something in his world was off.
“I’m cool.”
Her mouth bunched to one side the way it often did when she was less than happy with him. He hated that look. He drank his soda to keep from having to say anything else.
The front gate started to swing open. He put the soda down. “Who is that?”
She planted her hands on her hips. “If you hadn’t distracted me with your lies, I would have told you. It’s Mortalis.”
“That means Mal and Chrysabelle are back, too.”
“Suppose so.” She arched a brow. Damn, she was getting worked up.
He cupped her elbow and led her away from the house, keeping his voice low. “Look, there is something going on, but I don’t want to talk about it here. Too many ears, you dig? When we’re alone, okay?”
She softened instantly. “But you’re okay?”
“Right as rain, baby. Straight as steel.” He crossed a finger over his heart.
“Okay. But we will talk about it later, then.”
Of that, he had no doubt.
Mortalis parked and got out, but there was no one else in the car with him. He gave Doc and Fi a short nod in greeting.
Doc nodded back. “How was New Orleans?”
“Hellish, as expected. How are things here?”
Doc jerked his thumb toward the building behind him. “We have a vampire in the guesthouse.”
Mortalis’s eyes widened as he walked over. “You need me to kill it?”
“No, we’re holding her as a prisoner of war, seeing what info she can provide us with. She claims to want asylum from Tatiana.”
The fae shook his head. “Chrysabelle’s not going to like it, no matter what the reason.”
“How come she and Mal aren’t with you?”
“Went straight to Seven. Where’s Creek?”
“Still out.” Doc glanced at the main house. “How long before Chrysabelle gets home?”
“Maybe two hours. Why?”
“Her house is full of people. I know that’s not her favorite thing.”
Mortalis shook his head. “And she’s not going to be in any kind of shape to have people around. Who’s in there?”
“Luke and John Havoc, the mayor, Fi, Velimai, and Damian. The mayor’s driver is in her car.”
Mortalis rubbed at one of his horns, his gaze on the ground for a moment. At last he looked up again. “Obviously, Velimai will stay. It might not be the safest thing to send the mayor home at this time, but with both the Havoc boys, she should be all right.” He paced a few steps to one side, his head down like he was thinking. “We can’t put the comar back in the guesthouse with a vampire in there, but I don’t like the idea of leaving that vampire in there to begin with.” He lifted his head. “You have secure places on the freighter, right?”
Doc knew he meant the kind of places where they’d once locked Mal up, back when he’d strictly been on animal blood and the beast within him would occasionally rise up and try to get some of the human variety. “What are you suggesting?”
“Take the vampire there. Lock her up. Then she’s out of Chrysabelle’s hair and the comar can move back to the guesthouse. I’ll help you. No vampire is dumb enough to try something with a shadeux watching her.”
Doc looked at Fi. “What do you think?”
The corner of her mouth lifted as she shrugged. “Mal will hate that, but for Chrysabelle’s sake, I think he’ll be okay with it. Who’s going to guard the vampire? Make sure she doesn’t get out? Because if she does and she really is working for Tatiana, having her loose in Mal’s home is a really bad idea.”
“True,” Doc said. “So how about we take Damian with us? Let him stand guard? Then Chrysabelle won’t even have to deal with him being in her guesthouse.”
Mortalis nodded. “Good plan. After that, the three of us will go track down Creek, let him know what’s going on and that the mayor’s on her own. No need for him to come back here and disturb Chrysabelle either.”
“Just one thing,” Fi said. “What car are we going to fit all of us into?”
“Easy,” Doc said. “We’ll take the vampire with us in Mal’s sedan back to the freighter, and Mortalis can follow behind in Dominic’s car.” He looked at the fae. “That is whose wheels those are, right?”
“Yes,” Mortalis answered. “If he didn’t have more vehicles than he needed, I’d worry about getting it back.”
“Hold on.” Fi threw her hands up. “I am not riding in the car with that vampire chick.”
Doc gave her a wink. “Don’t worry. She’ll be in the trunk.”
Chapter Thirty-eight
Mal was sure at least one bone in his right hand was broken. Did it matter? No, not in the slightest. Chrysabelle could break every single one if she needed to. She should. He still wasn’t letting go.
If he’d had breath to hold, he would have as Atticus lowered the needle toward her back. Her grip
tightened, as if she could sense it. Maybe she could. The needle’s tip glowed red hot. The heat had to register, even with the breath work she was doing.
The needle pierced her skin with a sizzle. Mal tensed, expecting her to cry out or flinch, but she did neither. Not even a sudden inhale. Her strength amazed him.
Blood welled from where Atticus worked, his blind eyes seemingly focused on her back as his hand moved over her skin. The scent of blood mixed with the gold’s metallic tang and the occasional wisp of smoke. The beast, confused by the muddle, rumbled softly in Mal’s head but remained controllable.
Another bone in Mal’s hand fractured, but his pain was nothing compared to hers. It couldn’t be.
“First one finished.” Atticus spoke in such a small voice that Mal wondered if he was even meant to hear it.
The new signum sparked to life as if lit from within, then the glow faded, melting away into the subtle light that always surrounded her. “Is that normal?” Mal asked. He kept his voice low, too.
“What?” Atticus asked, his head coming up.
“The glow.”
“Yes.” With a look that cut off any more talking, Atticus bent his head and went back to work.
A sharp sizzle and a trailing column of vapor rose off his needle. Mal’s jaw ached from clenching it. “How can she stand this? No human should be able to. It’s not possible.”
“I should not have allowed this. You’re breaking my concentration.” With a sharp exhale, Atticus lifted the needle and leaned back. “You assume the comarré is human.”
“I know she is. I’ve met her mother.”
Atticus’s eyebrows lifted, but he didn’t ask for more details. “Yes, well, you haven’t met her father. You won’t either. I can’t imagine you’d last long in his presence.”
Mal squinted. “Who is her father?”
“Not who. What.”
“You’re going to drop that bomb and then walk away from it?” Chrysabelle would want to know this when she came out of whatever pain-numbing trance she was in.
Atticus shrugged. “I only know rumors. Guesses. Nothing concrete.” He bent like he was going back to work.
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