Blood Rights

by Painter, Kristen

  Mal flipped to his feet and twisted to face her. His ears rang with the thump of her heart. Maybe he should bite her. Drain enough to knock her out. Drain her enough to kill her. Because that’s all he could do, kill her. ‘Doc, get her clothes out of her room.’

  ‘Um. Yeah. Okay.’ He shuffled backward out the door.

  Chrysabelle’s eyes were preternaturally bright. ‘You want to play?’ She loosened her stance as though preparing for battle. Except she staggered slightly. ‘Or would you rather fight?’

  ‘I don’t want to fight you.’

  ‘Fight me or bite me.’ She laughed. Were those tiny points tipping her canines? ‘I think you want to do both.’ She waggled her finger as if he was a disobedient child. ‘You should just bite me. Why deny your instinct?’ She tipped her head to one side, exposing her throat. ‘You can hear the blood in my veins, can’t you? Smell the scent surrounding me. You’ve imagined it. I know you have. I see it in your eyes when you look at me. That first moment when your fangs sink into my skin.’ Her fingers stroked the pale arc of her neck. ‘The hot, sweet spill of blood.’ She moaned softly. Or maybe he did. ‘The heat pouring through you. The way I taste. Better than anything you’ve ever had before. The way your name sighs off my lips—’

  ‘Enough,’ he snarled. ‘I will not drink from you.’

  She stiffened like she’d been slapped. ‘You don’t want me? Are you a fool? Do you know who I am? I am not just any comarré, I am the purest there has ever been. From the Primoris Domus.’ Indignation twisted her pretty mouth. ‘Do you know what my blood rights went for? Twenty-two million. Euros. The highest price any comarré has ever fetched.’

  Wobbling to the side, she stabbed a finger at his chest. He backed up to keep her from touching him. ‘I can give you power beyond your—’

  Doc ran back in, her clothes in his hands. ‘Her door was pretty jacked up. Kicked down from the inside by the looks of it.’

  She nodded, looking pleased. ‘It was.’

  Mal moved so he could see Doc and Chrysabelle at the same time. ‘If I didn’t know better, I’d think she was drunk.’

  Doc held her clothes out like an offering and came toward her while talking to Mal. ‘I did some reading this morning. Think she might have blood poisoning.’

  ‘Who would have poisoned her?’ Mal asked.

  ‘Her own body. Too much blood.’ Doc tried to give her the clothes, but she wouldn’t take them.

  ‘So hot,’ she whispered. Her scent shifted. The sweetness went sour.

  Mal realized the shine on her was more than just gold. A thin layer of sweat covered her skin. Her eyes rolled back and she crumpled forward. Mal caught her before she hit the floor. He turned her hand over. Fat, blue veins corded tight beneath the skin of her wrist like they might pop at any moment. ‘Get Preacher.’

  ‘You get him. I’ll hang with her.’

  ‘I can’t.’ He ground the words out. ‘It’s daylight and he lives on hallowed ground.’ Chrysabelle’s skin felt like the surface of the sun. She moaned in his arms.

  Doc shook his head. ‘You should have thought of that before—’

  ‘Before what? I didn’t do this to her.’ Anger tinted his vision. ‘Send Fi if you’re too yellow.’

  ‘Screw you.’ A vein in Doc’s forehead twitched. His pupils narrowed to vertical slits. ‘She’s too sick.’ The because of you hung in the air between them.

  ‘Then we need him more than ever, don’t we?’

  Doc stared daggers at him, shook his head in obvious disgust, and stormed out.

  ‘Make sure he brings his bag,’ Mal called after him.

  So what if Doc was pissed. Let him be. Anger got things accomplished. If Doc failed – he couldn’t – but if he did … Mal looked down at the unconscious woman on his lap. He wasn’t going to bear this death alone.

  One useless Nothos. One lying comarré madam. One list of hotel guests that Mikkel was checking through, but no real leads in the whole lot. Tatiana considered confronting Madame Rennata, but knew that would only get her more lies and misdirection. Not to mention the woman might warn the missing girl, if she was still alive. The other two Nothos awaited orders.

  Once again, the real work was left to her.

  The lights outside Algernon’s manor remained lit, despite Algernon’s demise. They cast half-moons over the mammoth stone house, illuminating the late hour. She’d had Octavian drive her, and right now he unlocked the manor’s massive front doors and held them open. She lifted her palm in his direction. He dropped the key into it. Good help was not impossible to find, just hard.

  ‘Wait in the car.’

  ‘Yes, my lady.’ He bowed deeply and returned to the Bentley parked in the center of the circular drive. Probably to dream of the day she’d turn him. As if that would ever happen.

  She walked in and shut the door. How many times had she been here? How many balls had she attended? Too many. She stood for a moment in the foyer. It was twice as big as hers. This manor would go to the next Elder elected.

  Unfortunately, correcting the horrible taste with which it had been decorated was going to take a considerable sum of money. Algernon’s legacy was his excess. If one crystal chandelier was good, ten must be excellent. If owning a comarré spoke of your wealth, a Primoris Domus comarré screamed the depth of your pockets to the world. Especially when the bidding price exceeded that of any other comarré in history. The fool. She hadn’t paid half as much for her comar, but then the males weren’t in such high demand.

  She walked slowly, taking in the surroundings with new eyes. Things crammed every inch of the property. Granted, possessions were all well and good, but moderation was key. She’d have to study the floor plan. Find a suitable room for Nehebkau’s new enclosure. She wouldn’t move until he could move with her.

  As she strolled through the great hall, she ran her finger over a tabletop. Dust. Had the house sat that long? Or perhaps Algernon’s staff lacked the necessary skills to keep a manor this size. They’d have to be fired.

  The house needed a good airing as well. Death lingered in the air.

  She continued to the comarré’s rooms. They sat in the wing opposite Algernon’s living quarters. The door was ajar. She went in. The familiar blood scent was fading, but still there. Without having personally drunk the comarré’s blood, she couldn’t distinguish the particulars of her scent over another’s. The only one that smelled different to her was her own.

  The search her servants had performed had left the place a mess. Clothing and books strewn everywhere. She sifted through a few pieces. The comarré’s clothes were easy to spot. Silk, linen, wool, suede. All white. All meant to cover every bit of skin except for the hands, face, and feet. The more intimate signum were kept for the patron’s eyes only. Not that she’d ever cared to see her comar’s.

  The books she flipped through held nothing but pages. No cutaway compartments or damning slips of paper.

  The comarré’s sacre hung on the wall displayed by a thick red satin cord that matched the red leather-wrapped hilt. The gold-etched length mocked her with its bright shine. She leaned in toward the ceremonial sword, careful not to touch any part of it, and inhaled. The holy water used to quench the steel stung her nostrils, but there was no blood scent.

  Nothing. Not a single tiny clue. Frustrated, she sat on the bed.

  ‘If I were a comarré, where would I hide my most personal things?’ Her eyes skimmed the room. The shelves were bare now that the books had been tossed to the floor. The drawers all dumped out. Where, where, where? How, in this mess, could she be expected to find anything?

  She got up and walked through the dressing area to the bathroom. Another mess. Towels, toiletries, and brushes lay scattered about. Shampoo oozed from toppled containers. A cracked bottle of perfume leaked its contents onto the floor. She caught a whiff and sneezed. The whole apartment should be shoveled out. She grabbed a tissue to hold over her nose as she investigated, but nothing seemed pertinent here eithe
r. She wadded up the tissue and tossed it in the trash on her way out.

  A metallic glimmer among the refuse caught her eye.

  She backtracked, grabbed the wastebasket, and dumped it on the counter. She picked up the glossy white box that had stopped her. The gold-foil design on the front looked very much like the swirling sun signum every comarré received as the first marking. Beneath the sun were the words Lapointe Cosmetics Complete Coverage Foundation.

  When was lazy staff not a bad thing? When their failure to do their job left evidence behind. Foundation. How very out of place. No self-respecting comarré would hide the markings they took such pride in. Unless they intended to disappear into the kine world.

  And imagine, a cosmetic company using a design so close to comarré signum.

  She laughed. ‘Stupid, stupid blood whore. I’m going to find you. And as soon as I claim what’s mine, I’m going to drink every last drop of you.’

  Chapter Twelve

  Same military buzz cut. Same holier than thou attitude.

  Preacher hadn’t changed since the last time Mal had seen him, which was once, right after he’d moved into the old freighter. Preacher had tried to cleanse him. With a stake.

  Not exactly the kind of behavior he’d expected from another vampire. But Preacher wasn’t exactly just another vampire.

  As far as Mal knew, Preacher was the only vampire turned without ingesting the blood of his sire. For that matter, he was the only vampire who had technically turned himself. Either way, he was fringe – a lesser class of vampire descended from the betrayer Judas Iscariot. Noble vampires came from a much darker source, the Castus Sanguis. The ancient ones who’d fallen from heaven. They’d raped and warred and used Earth as their playground, begetting the nobility, the varcolai, and the fae.

  But the End War was what brought about the rise of the fringe. They took advantage of the chaos, turning or trying to turn any human they could. Those who didn’t survive the turning, and there were many, blended into the casualties of war. Before that, fringe numbers had been a fraction of the nobility’s. Preacher was one of those turned during that great upheaval.

  That’s where things went left of center. Story went that during a skirmish, Preacher’s World Corps unit took a direct hit under enemy fire, leaving Preacher and a few other survivors wounded but alive. When a pack of fringe vamps dressed as insurgents converged, looking for human spoils, Preacher was bitten, but emptied enough rounds into his attacker to incapacitate the creature. Being both a chaplain and a medic due to the need for double-duty troops, he knew his blood loss would kill him before help arrived. Instead of administering his own last rites, he helped himself to a field transfusion from his subdued attacker, not realizing what the result would be.

  Of all the tales surrounding him, one truth was that Preacher lacked a few of the regular vampire characteristics. Like the one concerning sacred symbols. Which explained how he made his home in an abandoned Catholic church in the ruins of Little Havana.

  Most bizarre was his ability to daywalk, something no other vampire could manage without some serious protection and abundant shade. So even though he could have come immediately to help Fi and Chrysabelle, he’d made them wait until after sundown. On purpose.

  Mal hated waiting. ‘What’s taking so long?’

  Preacher unhooked the stethoscope from his ears and rested Chrysabelle’s hand back on top of the sheet Mal had covered her with. He met Mal’s eyes with suspicion. ‘Beside the hypervolemia, she’s got a broken foot. Been playing with your food, Malkolm?’

  ‘She’s not my – screw you.’ Mal glared right back. ‘She kicked a door down.’

  ‘Trying to get away?’

  ‘Shouldn’t you be saving her life?’

  ‘I’m pretty sure I can save the comarré, but … ’ Preacher nodded to Fiona’s comatose form resting on the second cot parallel to Chrysabelle’s. ‘Can’t say for sure about the spirit. The only undead I know about are the fanged kind.’

  Doc snarled. He was as close to shifting as he could be without going house pet. Eyes like slits, the bridge of his nose flattened, teeth needle-sharp with fangs like a tiger. ‘You find a way to help her or—’

  Preacher snorted. ‘Or what, varcolai? You’ll use my couch as a scratching post?’

  Mal stepped between them. ‘You’d better help both of them.’

  Preacher’s nostrils flared. ‘I should have cleansed you when I had the chance.’

  ‘You had the chance. You failed. Fix them and I’ll give you another shot.’ Mal crossed his arms to keep from throttling Preacher until he begged for a stake.

  ‘Well then.’ Preacher rolled up his sleeves and went back to his work. ‘That’s a paycheck I look forward to cashing.’ He unpacked the rest of his bag, laying out tubing, needles, and a blood bag on a clean towel. ‘I’ll wrap her foot first. She should keep it elevated for a few days.’ Preacher went to work.

  ‘What’s your beef with him?’ Doc asked Preacher, tilting his head at Mal. ‘What’s he ever done to you?’

  Preacher answered without turning and secured the bandages in place. ‘He’s a vampire.’

  ‘So are you, foolio,’ Doc said.

  ‘He’s unclean. And unrepentant.’ Preacher went back to his bag and added more tubing and alcohol swabs to the towel.

  Doc raised his brows. ‘You better check yourself.’

  He snapped the bag shut. ‘Unlike Malkolm, I dedicated my life to a higher purpose. I have not faltered from that mission.’

  Doc scoffed. ‘You’re crazy as a crack whore.’

  ‘And you’re a house cat. We all have our crosses to bear.’ Preacher shot a look at Mal. ‘Metaphorically speaking.’

  Mal narrowed his eyes at the crucifix that swung with the dog tags around Preacher’s neck. ‘Or not.’

  ‘You have any more lights you could turn on?’

  Mal shook his head. ‘You could have had all the light you wanted a few hours ago. You chose to show up this late.’

  ‘You’re lucky I showed up at all. I owe you nothing.’ Preacher scowled, reached into his bag, and pulled out a headlamp. He adjusted it over his buzz cut and flipped on the LED.

  Mal uncrossed his arms, blinking in the sudden brightness. ‘Do it already. Before there’s no reason to. Because then I’ll be forced to cleanse you.’

  ‘Patience.’ Preacher sprayed his hands and forearms with latex then bowed his head in prayer.

  ‘Freak,’ Doc muttered from his spot at Fi’s shoulders. His thumbs stroked her skin.

  How Doc kept Fi corporeal, Mal had no idea. Just like he didn’t understand how the ex Marine could pray without his tongue bursting into flames. Mal walked past Doc and placed his hands on Chrysabelle’s burning skin. Her lips parted, but no sound came out. Light from Preacher’s headlamp sparkled off her signum as the man bent over Fiona’s arm and studied her veins. Something between Chrysabelle’s parted lips caught Mal’s eye. Tiny. Pointed. White.

  He grabbed Doc’s arm and motioned with his head at her mouth. Doc followed Mal’s gesture. He stared, then looked back at Mal and mouthed the word ‘fangs’ like a question.

  Mal shrugged and shut Chrysabelle’s jaw before Preacher noticed. Preacher thought he was helping a human. If he thought she was a vampire, he might not. Mal wasn’t taking the chance. Why would the comarré have fangs? Granted, they looked more like the baby teeth version, but still. Was she human or not?

  Preacher lifted his head and twisted his headlamp to focus the beam. He moved to Chrysabelle first, securing a tourniquet of rubber tubing around her arm. Her vein popped up instantly. He repeated the process on Fi, slapping her arm to bring the vein up. Nothing. He shifted her arm to hang off the cot.

  ‘I may not get a vein on her. Leave her arm like that and I’ll try again when I’m ready.’

  Moving back to Chrysabelle, he grabbed another length of tubing, attached the collection bag at one end and a needle at the other. He caught Mal’s eyes. ‘I don’t know
how she’ll react, so be ready for anything.’

  No kidding. Mal nodded. ‘I’ve been ready. Waiting on you.’

  ‘Beginning.’ Preacher swabbed the inside of her elbow with alcohol. He slid the needle into Chrysabelle’s protruding vein and let the bag rest on the floor. Blood spurted through the tubing and started filling the bag, thick and violet red. ‘The blood’s not getting oxygenated fast enough. Too much volume. Her body can’t keep up.’ He shook his head. ‘I’m not sure putting this blood into the other one is going to help.’

  Doc’s head snapped up. ‘Quit jawing and hurry up. It’s the best chance Fi has.’

  ‘Your loss.’ Preacher shrugged.

  The bag continued to fill. Despite the off-color, Mal’s fangs ached. So much blood. Right in front of him. The angry buzz in his head said the voices were aware of it too. He shifted his gaze to her signum until the gold marks blurred into a shimmery glaze.

  ‘Done.’ Preacher taped a cotton ball over the puncture site then slid the needle out, carefully holding it higher than the bag, and returned to Fi. He handed the needle and bag to Doc. ‘Keep the needle high.’

  He lifted Fi’s arm and slapped it a few more times. ‘All right, drop the bag to the floor and give me the needle.’

  Doc handed over the needle and moved to the head of Fi’s cot. His hands went back to her shoulders. Preacher slid the needle into Fi’s vein and lifted the bag to shoulder height. Blood flowed through the tube and vanished into her. For a long minute, nothing happened. Blood fluxed from the bag to Fi. Both girls lay still. Mal watched. Listened. No change. Then another minute went by.

  And another.

  ‘It’s not working.’ Doc’s head dropped to his chest. Anger radiated off him hot and sharp. ‘You son of a—’

  ‘Oh.’ Fiona’s eyes fluttered open with a gasp. ‘Wow,’ she whispered. ‘I feel … alive.’

  Doc let go of her shoulders and grabbed her hand. ‘You are. Sort of.’ He looked at Preacher. ‘Get that thing out of her arm.’

  ‘Not yet, I need to—’

  ‘No, now. You don’t know what too much of that blood could do to her.’ Doc yanked the line out and pressed his fingers to the spot on Fi’s arm.