Blood Rights hoc-1

by Kristen Painter

  Perhaps she should be Eve instead. An immortal Eve, unafraid of the apple, unashamed of her nakedness, and all too willing to corrupt man. She laughed. Nehebkau shifted.

  Footsteps approached, followed a moment later by a knock on the door. It had best be a dire emergency. She was not to be disturbed when she was in her sanctuary.

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘Mistress, there is news.’

  ‘Of what?’

  ‘The girl.’

  The girl? The girl was dead. Wasn’t she? Tatiana bolted upright, tumbling Nehebkau to her lap. He hissed like a distant tornado, raising his head and flaring his hood. ‘Now, now, Nehebie, this is very important. I won’t be a minute.’

  She scooped him to the side, where he wound around himself to bask in the heat, then she went to the door.

  ‘Well, what news?’

  The minion handed her a sealed note. ‘This just came from the Nothos dispatched to the IRF.’

  She snatched the paper. ‘I don’t care if it is the Islamic Republic of France, just call it bloody France, you prat.’ If the kine grew a backbone, they might stop being overthrown by whichever one of them had the bigger gun or the more frightening god.

  ‘Yes, mistress. France it is from now—’

  She shut the door and strolled back to the chaise. Nehebkau hadn’t moved. She sat next to him and tore open the note.

  Found traces of comarré blood in the Paris sewers. Believe the girl alive and fled overseas. No sign of ring. Proceeding as discussed.

  Bollocks. What proof did the Nothos have that the girl was alive? Or were they just assuming? Not that she trusted Madame Rennata either. If the blood whore was alive, that would change everything. Because thanks to the council’s insistence on justice, she was now going to have to bring the girl in, still alive, to be tried. And to prove her own innocence so she could be made Elder.

  So much for proceeding as discussed.

  ‘Why do you automatically assume they’ve decided I’m the murderer?’ If they hadn’t been tied to the arms of the chair, Chrysabelle would have put her hands on her hips.

  ‘You’ve attacked me twice. Seems a natural conclusion to me.’ The vampire had been struggling to keep his hungry, silvery eyes off her throat ever since she’d tipped her head back. The distraction had worked beautifully. She almost had the knot around her right wrist undone.

  ‘I was only defending myself.’

  ‘Really? Is that what they teach in those comarré houses?’

  She froze. Did he know? She exhaled. Of course not, he was just talking. She laughed. ‘Yes, that’s right. We’re lethal killers, trained from birth in the dark art of assassination. Because we have so much free time between etiquette, history studies, and music lessons.’

  He half-smiled at that. Good. ‘Where did you get the hidden blades then? And the Golgotha steel?’

  ‘The wrist daggers were … a gift. The Golgotha is standard comarré issue.’ The knot loosened beneath her stealthy fingers. ‘It’s our cyanide pill.’

  His brow furrowed. ‘Is there a big call for ritual suicide among the comarré?’

  ‘It isn’t unknown.’ She shrugged, the perfect opportunity to work her hand a little farther out.

  ‘So you carry a blade known to be not only exceptionally rare and expensive, but extraordinarily dangerous to vampires, just in case you might need to die an honorable death?’ In one quick move, he was inches from her face, those eerie silver eyes shining on her. ‘Not bloody likely.’

  Someone knocked on the door. She inhaled. The varcolai. The vampire unbent himself slowly until he towered over her.

  ‘Come in, Doc.’

  Doc? The varcolai was a physician, but he couldn’t supply the vampire with human blood?

  The varcolai opened the door. ‘Bad time?’

  ‘No. What is it?’

  ‘Can we convo?’ He nodded behind him.

  ‘Sure.’ The vampire left, closing the door.

  She shut her eyes and listened. They stayed just outside the door but kept their voices down. They might know what she was, but they obviously underestimated her capabilities. A smile curved her mouth. Eavesdropping at this distance wasn’t even a challenge.

  ‘We didn’t find squat, ’cept for a cab hanging at the end of the pier. I sent him away.’

  The smile vanished. No cab meant a long walk back to somewhere safe. She could do it, but it would be dark soon. Not exactly the time she wanted to be alone and on foot in this wretched place. Her fingers worked harder on the knot.

  ‘Where’s Fi?’

  ‘Patrolling the top deck. Did you get any more weapons off her?’

  ‘No. I’m going to move her to one of the crew rooms, get her settled in for the night. Tell Fi I want her to research everything she can find on the comarré. This girl is one lie after another.’

  Chrysabelle bristled at his accusation, even if it was accurate. She worked her wrist back and forth until the rope grazed her knuckles.

  ‘Once I get her down there, I’ll probably talk to her a little more, but then I’m definitely going to need you to lock me up. Opposite end of the ship, secure as you can. Having her on board right now is like storing lighter fluid next to open flame, but I can’t see sending her back out there.’

  A change of scenery meant a good chance to escape. She tugged her hand free, chafing the skin but thankfully not breaking it. The scent of her spilled blood might push him over the edge. Her fingers flew to the second knot.

  ‘You got it.’

  ‘She’ll need food too.’ The doorknob clicked a half turn. Forget the food, she needed more time.

  ‘Don’t worry, Fi and I will hook her up.’

  The second knot came easier. She bent to use her teeth. The rope tasted of salt and something oily. Her head snapped back as the knot came loose.

  ‘I’m serious about securing me. It has to hold. I don’t need another name on me or another ghost haunting me. Especially not a comarré.’

  Frantically, she went to work with both hands on the rope around her ankles.

  ‘We won’t let you. I swear it.’

  One of her fingernails broke with the effort to get the first knot undone. Faster, faster … The door opened. The vampire filled the passage, outlined by the light from the hallway. He shut the door and leaned against it. ‘Your heart rate sped up the minute I stepped outside. I figured you’d have all four of those knots untied by now.’

  Ankles still tied, she lunged toward the desk and the Golgotha dagger. He reached it first, snatching it up. The sizzling started as soon as it made contact with his skin. Snarling, he pitched it away. A long red weal marred the length of his palm. He turned to face her.

  She sank back into the chair, the first real trickle of fear running down her spine.

  ‘I’m done playing games with you, comarré.’

  He gathered both her wrists into his injured hand, reaching down with his other to tear the rope from her ankles in one clean swipe. He yanked her to her feet, opened the door, and shoved her out ahead of him. ‘Run and I will hunt you down and eat you for dinner.’

  She didn’t know him well enough to know if he was lying or not, so she went with not. Just in case.

  Together, they marched down two flights of stairs and through numerous hallways and turns. She tried to memorize the labyrinth, but the ship was massive and completely unfamiliar territory.

  He stopped her in front of a small door that locked from the outside. ‘In.’

  She fumbled with the dead bolts, hating that her nerves were showing. He reached past her and popped the door open, brushing his cold arm against her shoulder. She stepped through, glad to put some distance between them.

  He followed, ducking to fit, and flipped on the light.

  She clutched her chest in mock surprise. ‘All this? For me? You shouldn’t have.’ The room held nothing but a narrow fold-down bunk and a wooden chair. The built in bookcases were empty save for a yellowed Russian newspaper.<
br />
  He grabbed the chair and tossed it out the door, which bore an equal number of locks on the inside.

  ‘You’re right, that’s a huge improvement.’ She crossed her arms and did her best to look like she didn’t care. It was better than crying. Not that she would. Not in front of him. Comarré were built of stronger stuff.

  He faced her, the mask of anger still firmly in place, those silver eyes bright and piercing. ‘Sun goes down in less than an hour, so you’re here for the night.’

  ‘People will be looking for me if I don’t return.’

  ‘I’ll put an end to the looking if they get this far.’ He moved to the door.

  She took a step forward. ‘I thought you wanted to talk to me some more.’ Some perverse part of her wasn’t ready for him to leave.

  ‘I’ve had enough lies for one day. Maybe you’ll feel more truthful tomorrow.’ He ducked out. ‘Lock this behind me. Don’t unlock it for anyone but Doc or Fi. Doc will bring you food later.’

  ‘Lock myself in?’ For some reason, maybe the line of dead bolts on the outside of the door, she hadn’t expected that. She took another step forward. ‘In case you break out of your shackles and come after me?’ Adrenaline pumped through her, making her reckless. Pushing her to dare him. She no longer cared if he knew what she’d overheard or what power she possessed. ‘Afraid I might end up another name on your skin?’

  He was suddenly in front of her, eyes platinum bright and feral with hunger. He inhaled, opening his mouth as if to taste her scent on his tongue. His lids half-shut, his fangs gleamed white as bone. Then he was out the door again, jaw tightening as he swallowed.

  ‘Yes. That. Exactly.’

  Chapter Eight

  Mal made the trek to the far hold on autopilot. The way there disappeared in a mind-numbing, head-spinning golden haze of summer sky eyes, sun-blonde hair, and honey-fragranced blood. Fortunately, she was now three decks above and at the other end of the ship. Far enough so he could pretend her perfume no longer curled around him like warm smoke. Far enough for the voices to stop chattering about her. Around the comarré they alternated between frenzied need and cowering panic.

  Doc was in one of the empty boxcars that filled hold number five, threading the wrist-thick chains through some tie-downs in the interior of the container. ‘You get anything else out of her?’

  ‘No.’ He shoved a hand through his hair. It was as overgrown as his beard. ‘Hurry up.’

  ‘Sun’s not down for another thirty.’ Doc adjusted something for a second time. ‘You sure you’re cool with this? I mean, considering your history and all—’

  ‘Now.’ The idea of voluntarily putting himself in shackles seemed like madness until he considered the alternative. He would not have her death on his hands.

  ‘Cripes, she’s made a mess of you.’ Doc looked up. ‘Well, a bigger mess.’ Chains rattled and clanked with what sounded like safety. ‘All right, let’s go.’

  Mal walked to the center of the hardware and lay down while Doc secured his ankles. The floor of the storage container reeked of chemicals and rust. Good. Maybe that would block out the perfume he was desperate to ignore.

  ‘You gave Fi my instructions?’ he asked.

  The first shackle clunked into place. Darkness swirled through his brain, snapping at his sanity like a pack of wild dogs. He stared into the light beyond the container’s open door. Doc added the chain and padlock before answering.

  ‘Yeah, about that … ’

  ‘What?’ The air-temperature metal cooled against his skin. Always cold.

  ‘She said she’d get to it at her earliest convenience.’ Doc fastened the other shackle into place quicker than the first.

  ‘In English.’

  ‘She said she had something to do and I should leave her alone.’ He shrugged. ‘Not like I can keep up with her when she’s slipping through walls anyway.’

  Mal placed his wrist onto the next steel band. ‘Why couldn’t the soul destined to plague me for the rest of eternity have belonged to a little old man who just wanted to sit in an easy chair and nap?’

  Doc shook his head as he clicked the padlock shut. ‘Women. They’re man’s downfall, that’s for sure. All those curves and attitude. No good can come of that.’

  Images of Anna filled Mal’s head. Her scent swirled around him anew. A low growl vibrated out of his throat. Always hungry. He jerked against the shackles. Doc jumped away.

  ‘Seriously, bro, you give me the freakin’ creeps when you’re like this.’

  ‘Finish.’ A feral edge serrated the voice rumbling out of him. ‘Now.’

  Doc closed the last shackle around Mal’s wrist and locked it. ‘I’m outta here. See you in the a.m.’ He backed out of the storage container and slammed the door. Always dark.

  Mal listened as Doc ran a length of chain through the handle and secured it. His footsteps faded. He would lock the hold doors as well. Possibly sit guard outside.

  Darkness cocooned him in isolation. He lay there trying to imagine a sky of stars above, trying to hold on to his sanity, but his mind’s eye twisted the blackness into difficult memories. As the beast inside roared with hunger, the walls around him became a stone pit slick with scum. The shackles bit into his skin, echoing the pain he’d endured all those years in that ruined dungeon. The boxcar disappeared, transformed into the place he’d been cursed. The hellhole that still tormented him in nightmares.

  Foul air filled his mouth, coating his tongue like spoiled milk. Rats scuttled along the walls. Stay still. Let them come to you. Their bones crunched beneath his teeth, their gamey blood spilling down his throat, keeping him on the razor’s edge of existence.

  He pulled against the shackles until they bit through flesh. Until they scraped bone. Until the bone cracked.

  His bed of straw deteriorated into dust. His clothes to rags, then threads, then nothing. Day or night, May or December, one year or five, five years or fifteen, he couldn’t tell. Always hungry. Always cold. Always dark.

  At first, he refused to call out for help. Then he tested the walls with a bellow that had the power to shatter glass. No one came. In the end, his voice left him, his tongue little more than leather, his throat a useless passage. The rats were gone, long consumed. His muscle thinned to strips of sinew barely holding his brittle bones together under withered skin.

  Hallucinations plagued his atrophied brain. Memories of his human life flitted in and out like tortured butterflies. The moan of pleasure from his wife’s lips. His daughter’s laugh. The wild-flower scent of their chestnut curls. Their dying pleas. Their torn throats. Their blood. His past became a torturous mix of dreams and delusions. Had he done those things? He couldn’t remember. Couldn’t tell truth from lie. He wept dry tears over the chaos in his head.

  It wasn’t until he heard her voice that he realized his sight was gone. So sweet, that voice. Sweeter still, the siren call of her beating heart. Blood. Hope stirred inside. He’d learned his lesson with the rats. Didn’t move until she was upon him, nudging his remains with her foot, no doubt thinking him the dungeon’s last victim.

  How wrong she was.

  He lunged with power borrowed against the promise of blood. She beat her small fists against him, breaking bones, tearing skin, shrieking, crying. He held fast. Sank his gumless fangs into her soft, pliant neck. Her backpack slipped from her shoulders. He drank deep her throbbing, pulsing life. Drank until he almost swallowed her death.

  Her dead body fell limp and warm across his rejuvenating form. Pain flashed over his body but he ignored it. After so much hurt, what was a little more? He shoved her aside and pulled his scrawny wrists through the shackles before the flesh filled out. A pool of light spilled from somewhere, hurting his eyes. He felt for it. No fire greeted him. Not sun. A flashlight. Hers.

  With new strength, he smashed the shackles at his ankles with the steel torch.

  It wasn’t until he heard her voice the second time that he realized the extent of the curse.
/>   ‘Vampire,’ she screamed at him.

  He nearly toppled over he twisted so fast. Was there life in her still? That meant more blood.

  A transparent, female image hovered over the girl’s lifeless form, pointing a finger at him. Accusing. ‘You killed me. All I wanted was to find a shard of pottery or a coin and now I’m dead.’ She flew at him, cutting through him like a gust of winter wind. A ghost.

  He stumbled to his knees, gutted by the burst of cold after her blood had begun to warm him. The flashlight fell, its light directed at him. He stared at his shriveled forearms. Had his skin decayed that much? He stared harder and the bruises separated into names. Up his arms. Across his belly. Covering his chest.

  The mother of three he’d taken in 1811. Her three he’d taken right after. The miller in 1860. The miller’s plump wife. The shipbuilder. The passel of street urchins. The farmer’s son in 1920. The whore in New Orleans not long after that. The midnight raid through a boarding school dorm. The policeman who’d tracked him …

  The ghost girl hovered before him. ‘Killing me has activated a curse placed upon you. Blood magic. Black magic.’ She shook her head. ‘Monster,’ she screamed. ‘And now you’re going to pay. For every life you’ve already taken you’ll hear their voices in your head. For every new life you take, you’ll be haunted by their spirit. I am the first of those.’

  She pointed at him. ‘I’m going to make your life a living hell. All of us are.’ She howled in rage as she hung over him, her ruined throat weeping bloody tears. ‘Can’t you hear them? The voices of everyone you’ve murdered. So many … ’ She clutched at her head.

  Whispers echoed through his brain. The voices of his kills. The souls waking. Crying for vengeance. Screaming for blood. Berating him. Lashing him. A multitude of voices. A multitude of languages. Nagging, punishing, cursing. A fissure of pain threatened to split his head open.

  ‘Mal.’

  That voice. Her voice.

  ‘Mal, you awake?’

  He lunged upward. The shackles wrenched him back. Sweat soaked his clothing. His chest ached. He would kill her again if that would shut her up.