Bad Blood

by Kristen Painter

  Doc ducked a punch, then threw one of his own, planting his fist in Sinjin’s gut. “I doubt that.”

  Sinjin backhanded him. Doc tasted blood, staggered a step. Sinjin came after him, latching on and taking him to the ground again. “When I’m done with you,” Sinjin whispered, “I’m going to end that freak girlfriend of yours, too.”

  Doc’s vision went blue. Flame blue. With a roar like a house on fire, he exploded into burning rage. Flickering blue light washed the alley. Sinjin’s eyes rounded and he tried to let go of Doc, but it was too late. All Doc knew was that keeping Fi safe meant taking Sinjin out. The fire consumed Sinjin, swallowing him in a flood of searing flame. He howled in pain and anger, finally stumbling free to bat at himself. He collapsed a moment later, a charred version of the powerful varcolai he’d been just a few short minutes ago.

  Doc’s chest heaved as the fire dancing over him snuffed out. An odd silence took over the alley. He turned slowly as he realized that his secret was not a secret anymore.

  Mortalis had stayed at the mouth of the alley, one arm wrapped around Fi’s shoulders. Doc had no idea how the fae was keeping her from freaking out, but he was grateful. Creek shook his head. “You said you were okay.”

  He shrugged, too spent to give energy to excuses. “I lied.”

  The varcolai cop stepped forward. Doc couldn’t recall the pride member’s name. Fear and disbelief etched lines around his eyes. Eyes that held the same green-gold glow Doc’s did. He pointed a finger at Doc. “The pride leader challenged you and you killed him.”

  Doc shook his head. Hell no, this was not the right time for that business. “It means nothing. What I did was done in self-defense. Let it go.”

  The cop jutted his chin forward. “Can’t. Pride law. Makes you the new pride leader.”

  Double hell to the no. “I decline. Find someone else.”

  Fi finally broke away from Mortalis and ran to Doc’s side, her hands all over him, checking him for injuries. “Are you okay? Are you hurt?”

  The cop brought his gun up and aimed it at Fi. “Miss, you need to keep your hands to yourself and step away from the pride leader.”

  She slanted her eyes at him. “Look, five-oh, I don’t know who you think you are or who you think my fiancé is, but I’ll put my hands on him anytime I want to.”

  “Yeah,” Doc said. “It’s cool. She’s with me.”

  The cop shook his head and kept the gun raised. “Your wife’s going to have something to say about that.”

  Fi and Doc turned at the same time. “Wife?” they said in unison. Doc held his hands up. “Look, I know pride law says the new pride leader takes all spoils, but Sinjin wasn’t married.”

  “Yes, he was,” the cop answered. “As of two months ago. And as of five minutes ago, so are you.”

  Chapter Forty-one

  Chrysabelle opened her eyes and blinked, already wincing in anticipation of the pain in her back. But it was oddly absent. Maybe because she was so still. She lifted her head slowly, waiting with every inch for the sharp sear that would cause her to cry out or fold back against the bed.

  It never came. Not even when she grabbed the side of the mattress and pulled herself to the edge of the bed. Her back was achy and tight and just this side of hot, but somehow not awash in the pain she’d experienced after every visit to the signumist.

  She lay flat again and reached behind her to feel what she could of her back. The skin was very warm and almost hard. That was nothing unusual. The signum took days to soften beneath the skin. But what was strange was the lack of scabbing. The raised welts caused by the signum weren’t there. Her skin was as flat and smooth as though nothing had been done.

  A panicked shock ran through her. The trip to the signumist hadn’t been a dream, had it? Turning her face to the other side, she glimpsed the small red pouch on her nightstand. No, not a dream. That had to have come from Atticus.

  Dawn’s pale light glowed beneath the edges of the drapes, giving her enough light to realize that she was alone. Mal must have succumbed to daysleep by now, which was good. He needed it. Maybe Velimai was sleeping, too. Knowing the wysper, she was probably making coffee or polishing Chrysabelle’s sacres. Either way, there might not be a better opportunity to do what she had to.

  Chrysabelle eased from beneath the covers, giving her head time to adjust to being upright again. Even as she straightened carefully, she felt no pain. There should be. The lack of it caused a prickly feeling in the back of her brain, but she ignored it. She had work ahead of her. Hard work.

  Nude except for a pair of white boy shorts, she slipped into the satin robe laid out for her on a nearby chair, tucked the red pouch into the pocket, then quietly locked the door. She could not be disturbed.

  Once inside the bathroom, she locked that door, too, then cranked on the shower and let it run. Neither Mal nor Velimai would believe she was taking a shower this early in her recovery, but it would buy her a little time, and a little time was all she needed.

  The robe wasn’t the proper ceremonial dress, but that didn’t matter. This would be her last trip to the Aurelian. Her final act as a comarré.

  She twisted her hair up with a pair of gold and diamond sticks that had been Maris’s, then kneeled on the white marble floor. The robe spilled over her knees, the fabric not nearly as fine as the gown she should be wearing. She pushed the satin off her shoulders to bare her new signum.

  She took the red leather pouch from her pocket and opened it, peering inside. She smiled. Atticus had been as thoughtful as she’d suspected he would be. She withdrew the scrap of paper that held the portal signum. He’d known she’d need them for what she was about to do. Resting the pouch across her lap, she closed her eyes, bowed her head, and chanted softly the calming mantra known to all comarré. There wasn’t enough time to prepare the way she would have liked, but it would be enough. She hoped.

  At last she raised her chin and opened her eyes. From the pouch, she removed the gold pipette, its small end tapered to a needle-thin point.

  With a deep breath and a final thought to the holy mother, she lifted the pipette, the pointed end facing her. She inhaled, already dreading this new pain. It would all be over soon. Everything she had endured would finally be worthwhile. She wrapped her left hand over her right and plunged the pipette into her chest.

  Hot, stabbing pain sucked the air from her lungs, but she held still, allowing only the slightest tremor to shake her. Index finger over the pipette’s open end, she slid it from her chest. Blood trickled from the wound and trailed over the curve of her breast.

  She picked up the chanting again, using its persuasive rhythm to stay focused on the task and not the pain. Lux sancta matris intus me fulget. Lux sancta matris intus me fulget… Using the pipette like a fountain pen and her blood for ink, she traced a perfect circle on the marble. At the top of the circle, she drew the phoebus, the sun symbol that was every comarré’s first signum. It made her smile to think that the brother she would soon find also had that mark.

  Circle completed, she leaned forward and continued with the pipette, this time copying the signum from the paper into the circle’s interior. She whispered the name of each one as she finished.

  With the last one done, she set the pipette aside and stood, pulling her robe back over her body. She lifted her arms, holding her palms up over the circle. Within it, the signum she’d traced began to expand. Atticus’s signum were working. Blood filled in the blank spaces within the circle, expanding until a solid pool of red shimmered before her.

  The blood rippled like water and a flash of golden light gleamed across the surface. The gateway to the Aurelian was open. There was no turning back now. Not that she wanted to.

  With a final calming breath, Chrysabelle stepped into the portal.

  Blood, the voices whispered. It took Mal a second to realize that the scent of blood wasn’t in his dream. It was real. And strong enough to wake him from daysleep. The next second, his mind went to Chrysabel
le. Something was wrong. She hadn’t been bleeding at all by the time he’d gotten her into bed, a task Velimai couldn’t do because her sandpaper-like skin would have only injured Chrysabelle further.

  He leaped off the fold-out couch in the small interior room that otherwise served as a hurricane shelter, blinking as he stumbled into the hall and a bright shaft of sun. Before his skin could crisp, he hugged the wall, staying in the shadows until he made it upstairs. After he’d gotten her into the house, he’d closed all the curtains on this floor so that nothing would disturb her ability to rest and recover. It was also the reason he’d yet to explain his suspicions about what had happened at the signumist’s. There’d be plenty of time for that when she was healed.

  He went to open her door quietly, but the knob wouldn’t turn. He had no idea what went into recovering from such a procedure. Maybe Velimai was in there, washing Chrysabelle’s back. That might explain the smell of fresh blood. Or if Velimai had accidently touched her. He tipped his head toward the door and listened. Running water. Maybe that was exactly what was—

  Velimai appeared at the end of the hall. She held her hands up as if asking what was wrong.

  Hell. “A lot if you’re not in there. Door’s locked.”

  Her eyes widened and she sped to where he was. She made shoving motions with her hands like she wanted to push the door in.

  “Knock it down? Don’t you have a key?”

  Yes and no, she signed. She thrust her hands at the door a second time as if telling him to hurry.

  He didn’t need to be told twice. He grabbed the door handle again and wrenched it, tearing the metal free from the wood. Velimai pushed past him. Her elbow brushed the top of his hand, leaving a line of raw skin behind. Ignoring the already closing wound, he followed.

  The room was empty, the bed disheveled. Blood scent hung humid in the air. The door to the bathroom—the location of the running water—was shut. “If she’s taking a shower—”

  With the coldest expression, Velimai held up a hand, shook her head, and pointed back to the bed.

  Mal scanned it again. “What?”

  Night something, Velimai signed.

  “Night? Night what?” His gaze caught on the nightstand. Nothing out of place, nothing missing. He went deadly still. Nothing missing but the red leather pouch Atticus had given her. He’d seen that pouch before. He knew what it contained. “Son of a priest,” he whispered. “She’s trying to open the portal.”

  He flashed past Velimai. Chrysabelle was way too weak to attempt something like this now. Stubborn, stubborn woman. His fist hit the door. “Chrysabelle, I know you’re in there and I know what you’re doing. Let me in or I swear to hades, I will knock this door down.”

  No answer, just the shush of the water.

  Velimai motioned for him to break in. He heaved his shoulder into the door, cracking the door frame and flinging it wide.

  Nothing in the bathroom, except for the gold pipette and circle of blood on the floor. Blood blood blood… Chrysabelle was already gone. Mal slumped to his knees beside the puddle. The beast within him strained its bonds at so much blood, but the weight of helplessness pressed Mal into a dark place where ignoring the voices became a very easy thing. He slammed his fist onto the marble tile, leaving a small crack. The rage building in him tested his power of control. It was the kind of rage that fed the beast. “We’re too late.”

  Velimai pointed at the circle, then at Mal, then back at the circle.

  “No. I’m not going after her. Creek and I did that last time and almost got her killed. The Aurelian is not a patient woman. She’ll punish Chrysabelle if that happens again, and I won’t be the reason for that.” A shimmer of gold rippled over the blood. The portal was definitely open. “We’ll just have to wait for her to return.”

  If she returns.

  He closed his eyes. She would. She had to. Because if she didn’t, he would let the beast free. There was no reason not to if she was gone.

  Chapter Forty-two

  Chrysabelle went to her knees the moment her feet hit stone. She kept her head bowed, her mind filling in the details of the room based on what she’d seen the last time. Books and scrolls overflowing the shelves lining the walls, and before her, a massive table, also piled high with more scrolls, charts, and star maps. Seated behind it, the tall, slender Persian she’d come to see.

  The Aurelian.

  A chair scraped the stone floor. “You are a determined soul, aren’t you, comarré?”

  Chrysabelle lifted her head. “Yes, my lady.”

  The Aurelian gestured for her to rise. “You don’t belong here, not anymore. You’ve been disavowed by your house.” She laughed, a not altogether pleasant sound. “At least you didn’t bring the vampire and the Kubai Mata with you this time.”

  As she got to her feet, Chrysabelle wanted to remind the Aurelian that she hadn’t actually brought them with her the last time. They’d come after her by accident, according to their side of the story. But she kept her mouth shut and let the Aurelian guide the conversation.

  “What do you want, comarré? What has driven you to return to me?” Her eyes narrowed with suspicion. “You should not even be fully healed from Rennata’s efforts.”

  Rennata’s efforts? Is that what the Aurelian called having two strips of flesh cut from her body? “I have always been a fast healer.” The Persian had once invited Chrysabelle to call her by her name, Nadira. Doing so now could either soften the Aurelian or anger her. Chrysabelle decided to take the chance. “I am here, Nadira, because I am desperate for an answer to a question, and as every comarré knows, you are all-wise and all-knowing. The key to the past and the future lies with you.” It was almost word for word what she’d been taught about the Aurelian in school, but it was also flattering and that worked with certain types of women.

  Nadira’s smile extended into her coal-black eyes. “That is so.” Her fingers traced the hilt of the massive sword resting across the front of the table. “But first you will answer some for me. Where did you find a skilled signumist willing to work on you?”

  “Who said he was willing?” Atticus had been kind to her. She would do nothing to cause him harm. If that meant protecting him with a lie, so be it.

  Nadira crossed her arms. “Where did you acquire the sacred gold?”

  “For the right price, anything can be had.”

  Nadira’s smile vanished. “You try me. You expect answers but give me none?”

  “My lady, I simply seek to protect those whose part in this is inconsequential.”

  Nadira went still for a long moment. “I will accept that. What is it you wish to know?”

  A shiver of excitement shook Chrysabelle. At last. “I come seeking my brother’s name.”

  “You ask a question I can’t answer.”

  The shiver of excitement turned into a tremor of anger. “Are you saying there is something you don’t know?”

  Nadira’s gaze darkened. “I’m saying you’ve been disavowed by your house. That information belongs to the Primoris Domus. A house you can no longer claim.”

  “Last time you told me I would know him by his signum. You have to give me more than that, please. That means nothing to me.”

  “You’ve wasted your energy, comarré.” She walked back behind the desk and sat. “Return to your home. Forget the way here, because I will not allow a third visit.”

  Chrysabelle began to seethe. This woman would stand on propriety now? “Do you know what I have endured to return here?” Chrysabelle thrust her arm out, pointing to the shelves behind the Aurelian. “The books behind you are marked Primoris Domus. Get the right one down and read his name to me.”

  Nadira burst to her feet. “How dare you speak to me that way. Get out. Now.”

  “Not until I have his name. That information is nothing to you, and Rennata never needs to know. Give it to me and I will leave, never to return.”

  The Aurelian planted her fists on the table. “You should not ev
en know you have a brother.”

  “But I do.” Chrysabelle wished she’d taken the time to change into something besides her robe. Something she could fight in. Something she could fight better in. “Can you tell me anything about him? Anything at all? Is he even alive?”

  “He lives.”

  “Then you do know about him.” Chrysabelle began to tremble, from rage or some other emotion, she couldn’t tell. “His name. Please.”

  “No.”

  Then she would get the name herself. Fueled by anger and the reckless knowledge that Rennata had already renounced her, Chrysabelle leaped forward, vaulting onto Nadira’s desk and reaching for the Primoris Domus register.

  With a cry, Nadira swung her massive sword up. The metal flashed in the glow of the candelabras lighting the room.

  The tip caught Chrysabelle beneath the rib cage. Heat and pain followed the sword’s path into her body. She staggered a step to the side, her hand inches from the book. She lowered her gaze. Blood spilled down the sword’s blade and wicked through the robe’s thin fabric.

  Nadira’s face held no remorse.

  Time slowed. Chrysabelle took hold of the blade and yanked it out, slicing her palms and fingers open but feeling little. Water pooled in her mouth as the edges of her vision tunneled in. Each breath became a struggle, her lungs taking in less air with each inhale. The sword had penetrated deeper than she’d guessed.

  The Aurelian mouthed a name, but the ringing in Chrysabelle’s ears deafened her. That name… She fell backward, hitting the stone floor hard enough that bones cracked. But there was no more room in her body for pain.

  Just darkness.

  And death.

  Velimai slapped Mal hard across the back of the head. She signed something, her fingers blurring, then pointed to the portal again before opening her mouth and tapping a finger against her throat.

  He jumped to his feet. “Go ahead and threaten me. I’m not going. What part of I’m not willing to endanger Chrysabelle don’t you understand?”

  With a frustrated grunt, Velimai went to the bathroom counter, yanked open a drawer, and took out a makeup pencil. She started scrawling on the wall-to-wall mirror. She’s already disavowed. No worse trouble. Plus the portal is open for you to come back through. She underlined come back then stabbed the pencil against the glass for punctuation.