Blood Rights

by Painter, Kristen

  A moment longer and he would go.

  A whispery moan opened his eyes. She shifted half an inch, then lay still. He froze. Her palm flexed against his cheek, molding to the ridges of his face. Her fingers twined in his hair. He leaned into her caress, not caring what dream made her touch him like this. Pretending not to care she might be dreaming of her lost patron.

  It didn’t matter. Not at this moment. Not when she was touching him in a way no one had since his turning. The contact made his eyes sting and his muscles taut. It felt so good and hurt so bad. The kind of hurt that razored away all pretense and left him bare and unworthy. The kind of pleasure that weighed him and found him wanting. The names burned like brands on his body, reminding him.

  He was the desiccated creature in the pit again. Stripped back to base urges and animal instincts. Humiliated. Wounded. Broken. Worthless.

  He should drain her. Do it. Take away the possibility that she could make him feel like this again. Yes. He was anathema.

  Death was his legacy.

  No one would expect different.

  Chapter Ten

  The second time Doc knocked and got no answer, he stopped waiting for an invitation and just opened the door to Fi’s room. She was there, as he’d known she would be.

  His heart dropped. She wore the jeans and sweatshirt her body had been found in.

  ‘Fi?’ His breath spun out in curls of vapor. The room had to be ten degrees below freezing.

  Still no answer. She hovered, back to him, near a portion of the wall she’d covered with newspaper clippings. Her body was flimsy enough that he could read the yellowing scraps through her. Not that he needed to read them again. He knew the headlines by heart. Knew the dreams that her death had put an end to.

  Graduate Student Missing After Research Trip. Search Covers Northern England. Body Recovered in Ruins. Parents Mourn Student’s Death.

  ‘He killed me,’ she whispered.

  ‘I know he did.’ He ached seeing her like this. Not just faint and wispy, but lost in the past. She sounded far away. Like she was … down in a hole.

  ‘It hurt.’ Her voice wavered. Like it might disappear altogether.

  ‘I know, baby.’ He reached a hand out to her. ‘C’mon, now. You should rest.’

  She didn’t move. ‘Maddoc?’

  ‘Right here, Fiona.’

  ‘It still hurts.’ She turned toward him, eyes blank and staring. A gash opened her throat from ear to collarbone. Blood stained the right side of her university sweatshirt.

  He did his best not to wince. It was a manifestation of her pain. He’d seen it once before when he’d happened upon her top-side studying herself in the water’s reflection. She’d flashed it away instantly, but he knew. This was what she’d looked like when the search party had found her in the pit. How that blood-sucking monster had left her.

  Doc forced the anger out of his voice. Fi didn’t need that right now. Times like this, the witch’s curse he was under served as a mixed blessing. If he were able to shift into his true form, he might go leopard and tear Mal to shreds. Or die trying.

  ‘You should rest. That will make the hurt go away.’ He hoped. He went to her bed and pulled her covers back. Not that she could get under them. Maybe he should try to get her into the room they usually shared and away from all these memories.

  ‘I can’t find my backpack.’ Her bottom lip wavered. ‘My parents gave it to me for the trip.’

  ‘I’ll find it while you snooze, I promise. You want to go into our room? Hang in there?’

  ‘No.’ She whirled, her face distorted with anger.

  ‘You’re right, bad idea. Let’s stay here.’ He patted the mattress and tried to ignore that maybe Mal was right. Fi’s current condition was Doc’s fault. He’d known that she’d intended to drain blood for Mal and he’d let her do it anyway. Now she was so weak from the blood loss, she couldn’t escape her own nightmare.

  ‘I need my passport.’ She floated toward him. ‘I have to have it to get home.’

  He nodded, swallowing. ‘I’ll make sure you have it.’

  ‘Promise?’

  ‘Cross my heart.’ He patted the bed again. ‘Just a little nap.’

  She glided to the bed and lay down as best as a spirit could.

  ‘That’s my girl.’ He backed toward the door. ‘I’ll turn the light off for you.’

  ‘No.’ She started to weep softly. ‘No more dark.’

  ‘Okay, lights on. No worries.’ Except when the solar ran out in the next half an hour or so. Screw it. He’d get candles.

  A tear rolled off her cheek and hit the pillow, leaving a wet spot. He looked at her more closely. She was flickering between her spirit and corporeal forms. If he could keep her whole, she could rest. Forget the torment of her spirit form.

  ‘Fi? You cool?’

  ‘No.’ She shook her head. ‘I’m scared.’

  ‘I’m right here. I won’t let anything happen to you. I got you.’ Whatever that meant. What could he really do? He hated that she’d helped Mal, but he also understood it. Without Mal, Fi would cease to exist, but when his voices got wound up, she had to hear them too. No wonder she wanted to shut them down as much as Mal did.

  ‘Stay with me.’

  ‘I ain’t never gonna leave you.’ He folded his six-foot five-inch frame cross-legged on the floor. She’d saved his life in a way. If Mal hadn’t brought the torn up alley cat he’d found back to Fi, thinking a pet would mellow her out, Doc would’ve been kibble by now.

  ‘Here,’ she said, longing in her liquid eyes. ‘With me.’ She rested her hand on the curve of space near her stomach. ‘Please.’

  He knew what she wanted. Inwardly, he clenched his teeth and buried his pride. The things a man did for a woman. But only this woman.

  With the power of a thought, he shifted into the only feline form he could. A tiny smile lit her face, erasing a small part of his humiliation. He jumped onto the bed beside her and curled into a ball, his spine to her stomach, his tail hooked over his paws. She was soft and warm and smelled of fading roses.

  She wrapped her arm around him, kissed the top of his head and scratched behind his ear. ‘Pretty boy,’ she whispered, sniffling. ‘My pretty, pretty boy.’

  Unable to help himself, he started to purr.

  Tatiana stood calf-deep in French sewage. She’d insisted on seeing the evidence site and the Nothos had dutifully escorted her into the belly of the Parisian waste system. Mikkel was probably trolling the nearest nightclub for his breakfast. Bloodthirsty devil. How she adored him.

  The decaying carcass of something floated by. She rolled her eyes. This was not where she wanted to be. Her expensive coat would have to be thrown out. There was no way this smell could be removed from the unborn varcolai hides. Unless Mikkel had some black magic that might do the trick. She should have worn that stupid burqa.

  ‘There, my lady.’ The Nothos pointed a claw at an incoming pipe. Sweat dripped off its massive forearm.

  She inhaled. Over the foul stench of the sewer and the heavy brimstone of the Nothos, she smelled the faintest hint of rich, sweet comarré blood. The trail grew warm. She smiled and nodded. ‘Well done.’

  ‘Thank you, my lady.’ It bowed with the litheness born of an excess of bones and double-hinged joints.

  She scowled at the Nothos. ‘I was talking to myself. If I hadn’t sent you out, you wouldn’t have found this, would you?’

  ‘No, my lady.’ A growl rumbled out of it. The creature clenched and unclenched massive clawed hands. Steam snorted from its nostrils.

  Filthy beast. They were almost as horrible as the Castus that had spawned them, but far less intelligent.

  ‘Where does this pipe lead?’

  ‘A hotel.’

  She turned to stare up at the abomination she’d hired. ‘What hotel? Did you find out if she stayed there?’

  It blinked yellow eyes at her. ‘Not yet.’

  Anger drove her body forward. She slammed her f
ist into its face, knocking it into the muddy sludge. Some of it splashed onto the hem of her coat, marring the skins. ‘You stupid ogre. What am I paying you for? So I can do the work myself?’

  Its eyes glittered beneath a layer of muck. ‘No, my lady.’

  ‘Get it done. Now.’ She flexed the hand she’d punched with, then spread her fingers and checked herself for damage. Hitting a Nothos was like ramming your fist into a block of granite. She frowned at her fingers. ‘Bloody hell. You made me break a nail. Do you see this?’ She waved her hand in front of its face. It grunted. Not the response she’d hoped for. Dis -appointed, she kicked it in the groin. Something popped, and it howled.

  ‘On second thought, you’re fired. Unless you bring me the ring.’ She stood over the Nothos, shaking her head and muttering under her breath. She should have brought Octavian with her. He was always willing to do the dirtiest of deeds for her. ‘If you want something done right, you have to do it yourself.’

  With that, she scattered into a cloud of black wasps and flew back to the hotel.

  Heat stroked the soles of Chrysabelle’s feet. Swirled around her ankles and up her calves, kissed the smooth hollows at the backs of her knees. Delicious and taunting. Wrapping her in pleasure.

  ‘Mmmm.’ She shifted under his hands. The heat moved to her thighs. Touch as soft as a whispered promise.

  ‘More,’ she told him. He was a shadow of silver. A fevered caress. A flicker of sensation. The breath tumbled ragged from her throat.

  She tucked her hand beneath her cheek. His raw, dark scent coiled around her, turning her body liquid with craving. Her wrist throbbed, steeped in the smell of him. His mouth had been there, soft lips barely masking the hard fangs she desperately needed.

  ‘Pierce me,’ she whispered, drawing the words out like a prayer.

  He didn’t answer.

  Her skin erupted in flames.

  She opened her eyes and squinted at the pink-tinged sun streaming through the porthole where the paint had been scratched away. The light abraded her legs, even through the long trousers she wore. So hot. She bent her knees, pulling her legs toward her. Better out of the sun. She breathed openmouthed as she pushed up and swung her feet over the side of the bunk. Still hard to think. Where was she?

  She blinked a few times and stared at the small, sparse room. A trail of dead bolts decorated one side of the door.

  She nodded, remembering pieces. The room spun. She tried a deep breath in and out. The air carried a sweet, dark spice. Him. Her belly tightened. That’s what she needed. Him. His mouth. His hunger.

  Getting off the bed made her dizzy. She held on to the empty shelves until her body balanced itself. So hot.

  Her long-sleeved tunic was damp with sweat. She grabbed it at the neck, tore it down the front, and shimmied out of it. Good. Her trousers went next. Better. She grabbed up the tunic and ripped a strip of silk from it, then used it to tie up her hair on top of her head. Much cooler. Much better.

  Now in her white cami bra and bikini underwear, she approached the door. Careful steps so she didn’t fall. Everything needed extra concentration in this much heat.

  The dead bolts weren’t locked. She tried to open the door, but it wouldn’t budge. Think. Locks on the other side? That seemed right. Her head felt thick and flighty, full of moths and molasses.

  Locks were no problem. Needed shoes first. She circled slowly, eyes on the floor. There. Her kidskin slippers sat under the bunk. She fished them out and tugged them on. Hot hot hot. She paused to fan her neck. That felt good. Back to the door. She positioned herself in front of it, lined up just right, and channeled her years of training. Deep breath. Centered and calm.

  She side-kicked, shifting her weight into the movement, and connected with the door just below the handle. With a metallic gasp, it buckled outward. A second kick and the bent metal collapsed into the hallway.

  She smiled, despite the sharp ache across the arch of her foot. Maybe it was the slippers. She stepped out of them, hopped over the broken door, and went in search of the vampire who’d left his scent all over her.

  He could fix what was wrong with her. She felt it in her blood.

  Chapter Eleven

  Mal had run through the streets of Paradise City until the first line of pink fired the horizon. Not jogging like the white-collar office jockeys he passed in the early hours before dawn, but real running. Flat-out. As fast as he could. As far as he could. He’d outsweated a racehorse. Definitely outpaced one. He’d come back, showered, scrubbed his fevered body, and still her scent leeched onto him, sucking away the will to keep his fangs out of her pale skin. How many times during that run had he imagined her beneath him, pliant and willing? Begging for his mouth. How many times had he imagined the taste of her, as sweet and rich as her scent?

  Now in the hold-turned-gymnasium, his bare fists pounded the heavy bag. Thinking about the taste of her during the run was why he was here. And thinking about it now wasn’t making things better.

  The seams of the bag strained. Jab, hook, cross. The force she’d exerted over him last night had scared him. And nothing scared him. Sweat rolled down his temple. He ignored it. The way she’d been, the way she’d affected him … he’d felt possessed.

  The thoughts he’d had. Jab. The urges. Hook. That’s what scared him. Cross. Not the taking of blood, but the completion of the taking. She’d almost compelled him to … Enough. Maybe he should spend the day in a bottle of whiskey and just forget. Maybe he should get Doc to take her into the city and turn her loose. He had enough problems of his own without protecting some runaway comarré who didn’t seem to want the protection anyway. Jab, hook, cro—

  ‘Vampire.’ The word wafted past him like a plea.

  His fist hung in midair. For the first time, that name didn’t drip with disgust. On the contrary, it drifted round and ripe through the shadowy space. Spoken with a smile. Full of the kind of promise his body didn’t need to hear. Especially not now.

  He turned.

  Holy Hades.

  The comarré strolled toward him in nothing but two slips of white silk and a spacey smile. More white bundled her blonde hair in a messy knot. Somewhere inside him, buried under his black heart, the minucule piece of him that remembered being a man woke up.

  ‘I’ve been looking for you,’ she said.

  ‘I … ’ Forget it. He had nothing.

  She passed through one of the circles of light cast by the large overheads. Sparks shot off her. He scrubbed a hand over his face, not believing what he was seeing. She had more signum than just what was on her hands, feet, and face. The lacy gold mapped her entire body. A finely wrought filigree of stars, vines, flowers, butterflies, ancient symbols, and words ran from her feet, up her legs, over her narrow waist, spanned her chest, and finished down her arms to the tips of her fingers. Gilded, head to toe. No wonder she glittered like lost treasure.

  He moved backward as she came nearer, bringing that narcotic scent with her. ‘Where are your clothes?’

  ‘I’m hot.’ She laughed. Her eyes were pale, glassy lavender. Lavender?

  ‘Doc,’ he called. This might require backup.

  ‘Do you need a doctor, vampire? Are you sick?’ She sauntered closer. ‘I know how to heal you.’

  He put power into his voice. ‘Stay where you are.’

  She giggled. ‘You think you can use your persuasion on me, silly devil?’ She shook her head, blonde tendrils quivering around her face. ‘My patron had those gifts too. That means I’m immune.’

  ‘Anna, stay.’ His fangs punched through his gums.

  Her eyes fixed on him, barely blinking. ‘My name’s not Anna. It’s Chrysabelle.’

  ‘Okay.’

  ‘Say it.’ The tone of her voice shifted in an instant from satin smooth to steel hard. ‘Say it.’

  Alarms went off in his brain as his body went up in flames. His human face disappeared into ridged bone and sharp fangs. ‘Chrysabelle.’

  ‘Even better with t
hat face.’ She purred a low, throaty hum of approval. The sound sent a chill skittering down his spine. No way was this typical comarré behavior. Something was very wrong.

  He looked past her. Still no sign of him. ‘Doc, where the hell are you?’

  Raising her right wrist to her face, she closed her eyes briefly and inhaled. ‘I smell you on me.’ She clucked her tongue. ‘Come for a visit last night? Maybe next time you’ll wake me up so we can both enjoy it, hmm?’

  Even as he tried to shut his imagination down, the images of what might have happened if she’d been awake played out. They burned phosphorescent in the blackness of his tortured mind. Hot skin against cold. Blood. Sweat.

  He exhaled long and hard. The voices clawed at his skull. Get away, get away, get away …

  They skirted each other in a slow, predatory dance. Except Mal had become the prey. Something told him this version of Chrysabelle wouldn’t have any qualms about eating him either. The hell of it was he might let her. There were worse ways to die. He knew. He’d tried most of them.

  ‘Who let you out of your room?’

  ‘Afraid you forgot to lock the door after you left?’ She licked her lips while one hand massaged the slope of her neck. Keeping his eyes off her throat became increasingly difficult. ‘Don’t worry. You didn’t forget. I let myself out.’

  Doc barreled through the makeshift gym’s door. ‘What’s the nine one one – holy mother Bast.’ He skidded to a stop.

  Chrysabelle turned around. The signum covered her back as heavily as her front. Runes Mal didn’t recognize decorated the sides of her spine from the base of her skull to the small of her back. ‘Hello, kitty cat.’

  Figuring this might be his one shot, Mal leaped forward and grabbed her. ‘Doc, get something to tie her up—’

  She bent forward and tossed him to the ground like he was a plaything. Okay, he hadn’t seen that coming. She planted her hands on her hips, still smiling. ‘Naughty vampire. That’s no way to treat a guest.’

  Doc’s mouth had yet to close.