Blood Rights hoc-1

by Kristen Painter

  The other anathema held his hands up. ‘Watch the threads, cara mia. This just arrived from my tailor in Bangkok.’

  Chrysabelle pressed the blade into his skin. ‘Like I care.’

  The lights flickered on. To Chrysabelle’s credit, she didn’t falter when Doc strolled out from the opposite hall and cast a shadow on her and Dominic. Doc shouldered the crossbow and stared hard at the creature under Chrysabelle’s sword. The rancor in his eyes was unmistakable, but then Dominic was the reason Doc had been cursed. Bad drugs had a way of making people angry. And vengeful. Doc had just been the unfortunate delivery boy.

  Doc’s finger caressed the crossbow’s trigger. ‘Looks like you got this under control. I’ll check the perimeter. Unless you need something staked. Then gimme a yell.’

  Dominic wisely kept his mouth shut while he watched Doc disappear down the passage.

  Mal kept his sword up. ‘What are you doing here, Dominic?’ As though he didn’t know what had brought the biggest crime boss in Paradise City sniffing around. Mal’s freighter stank of comarré. Speaking of which—

  ‘Dominic Falconetti?’ Chrysabelle glanced over her shoulder, then back at the vampire under her blade.

  ‘You know him?’ Mal asked. Comarré knowledge was scary. Another reason for her not to know his real name.

  ‘Scarnato, now,’ Dominic answered. He smiled at Chrysabelle like an indulgent parent.

  She eased her sword back. ‘You’re supposed to be dead.’

  ‘I am.’ His smile widened. ‘And have been for nearly two hundred years now.’ His gaze slid to Mal, but he spoke to her. ‘Drop the blade, bella. I’ve come to help you.’

  ‘Keep the blade where it is,’ Mal said. ‘He’s no help to anyone.’ Dominic Scarnato was the largest black market alchemist in New Florida. Probably in the whole Southern Union. His drugs altered the minds of humans and othernaturals alike. As far as Mal had uncovered, he’d come out of nowhere but made a real name for himself in a short period of time. In fact, Dominic’s presence was one reason Mal had moved to Paradise City, figuring the man’s black cloud would offer some cover.

  Dominic shrugged. The subtle movement against the weapon’s edge opened a thin slice in his throat. Blood pearled on the blade, its aroma filling the air.

  Chrysabelle reeled backward, gagging and taking her weapon with her. The cut vanished a second after her sword pulled away. ‘You’ve had—’

  ‘Comarré blood,’ Mal finished. Son of a priest. He lunged, sword in hand, and grabbed Dominic by the collar with both hands. The move notched Mal’s blade against Dominic’s face, opening a fresh cut on his cheek. Another wave of scent rolled over them, a heady mix of comarré-sweet, vampire-spicy. ‘Explain. Now.’

  Dominic’s eyes shifted to Chrysabelle. ‘You have somewhere we could talk?’

  Mal jerked Dominic against the metal door, cutting a new line into the man’s face. ‘Here works for me.’

  ‘Then stop wrinkling my suit. The fabric alone cost more than this dinghy.’ He grimaced at the dim passageway. ‘How you can live like this … pazzo.’ He rolled his eyes.

  Being called crazy had little effect when that was a known quantity. Mal stepped back but aimed the sword at Dominic’s throat. ‘Talk.’

  The cut on Dominic’s cheek zipped closed. ‘I’m here on behalf of Chrysabelle’s aunt. She got worried. Hasn’t heard from her niece. She needs some reassurance the girl is in good hands.’ He laughed humorlessly. ‘She’ll be so disappointed.’

  Chrysabelle inched forward. ‘How did you get her blood?’ Her voice trembled with what sounded like fear and anger. Mal understood both.

  Dominic smoothed an eyebrow with his ring finger. ‘You think I work for free?’

  With a noise that was part sob, part gasp, Chrysabelle charged. Mal caught her around the waist with his free arm. She vibrated with anger.

  How long had he lived in the same city with another comarré and not known? ‘Your aunt is comarré? And she lives here?’ He really needed to get out more.

  ‘Yes,’ she hissed, nearly breaking his hold. So, fast and strong. Noted.

  ‘Enough,’ he whispered in her ear. ‘This is not the time.’

  She glared at him, but he released her anyway. ‘You can flay him when I’m done.’

  Her glare shifted to Dominic. ‘I will, too.’

  Dominic had the stones to laugh. ‘Yes, I’m sure you will, cara mia.’

  Pointing with her blade, she narrowed her eyes. ‘Don’t patronize me, leech.’ Her signum glinted dangerous sparks.

  Mal forced himself not to laugh. Angry Chrysabelle was something to behold – especially when it wasn’t directed at him. ‘You can tell her aunt everything is fine.’

  Dominic’s brows lifted. ‘Is that so, Chrysabelle? I am perfectly capable of freeing you from this black-hearted beast.’ He leaned past Mal’s sword as though about to impart some great, secret wisdom. ‘You do realize Malkolm will kill you sooner or later, don’t you? Comarré or not, it won’t stop him. Death and madness, those are Mr. Bourreau’s only mistresses.’ Dominic grinned at Mal. ‘Or don’t you know the anathema you’re keeping company with?’

  Over the screeching voices in his head, Mal could hear Chrysabelle thinking, checking every jot of information stored in her head for an anathema named Malkolm Bourreau. It shouldn’t take long to determine who he was, although certainly most nobility assumed him dead or, at the least, permanently indisposed. Would she raise her sword against him? His fingers loosened on his own weapon. There was no desire in him to fight her or be responsible for her death. He prepared for the killing blow, sure she would slice his head from his neck as she probably had her patron’s.

  Then the strangest sound reached his ears.

  Her laughter.

  ‘Of course, I know who he is. Why do you think I hired him to protect me? I’m not stupid, Dominic.’ She dropped her sword to her side. ‘Neither is he foolish enough to accept something so fleeting as blood in payment.’

  Dominic couldn’t hide his amazement. ‘Have you given him the ring?’

  Chrysabelle’s eyes widened a fraction. ‘How do you know about that?’

  A ring? Mal would get that information out of her later, when he’d recovered from the fact that he had somehow become the lesser of two evils.

  ‘A very disgruntled Nothos came to me a few days ago looking for something to enhance its tracking abilities. I gave it what it wanted. With a little truth amplifier mixed in. Then I asked some questions. Seems it’d failed to bring back a missing comarré who’d not only killed her patron but stolen a very valuable ring.’

  ‘Where is this Nothos?’ Panic sheared Chrysabelle’s voice.

  ‘By now, I’d guess in the belly of a gator. I don’t need Nothos in this city any more than you do. I dumped it unconscious in the glades.’ Dominic checked his watch. ‘Well, it’s been a distinct lack of pleasure talking to the two of you, but I have other business to attend to.’ He nodded to Chrysabelle. ‘I’ll give your best to your aunt.’

  Her sword came up again. ‘Keep your filthy hands off her.’

  Gripping the door handle, he smirked. ‘I don’t use my hands. Unless she asks.’

  Chrysabelle threw her sword like a javelin, but Dominic was already gone. The blade screeched halfway through the closed metal door before it stopped.

  Mal yanked it out, then faced her. ‘You and I need to talk.’

  She grabbed the scarred blade from his hand and angled the point at his heart. ‘You first, Malkolm.’

  Pain filled Tatiana like mortal breath once had. No longer could she reach the safe haven of the distant haze. Agony owned her. Each stabbing thrust branded her skin. Clawed hands opened new wounds and freshened old bruises. The screaming left her throat raw until she ceased any effort for sound. By now her body was little more than a purpling rag, torn and wasted. Still, the Castus Sanguis persisted. With each movement, the bed seeped dampness onto her skin. Blood, tears, or worse, she didn’t k
now. Didn’t care.

  The reward would be hers. She clung to that certainty, let it blunt the jagged edge of her reality. She would survive, stronger than before. She would break those who opposed her. Destroy them. Suck the marrow from their bones and grind them into dust.

  Dominus dominus dominus. Over and over like a prayer, she chanted the title that would someday be hers. When this hell was extinguished and she’d received her reward.

  The Castus bit into her shoulder and drank, his large body heavy on hers. His forked tongue flicked against her skin. She laughed hoarsely, open-mouthed and drunk with the promise of power.

  Dominus dominus dominus.

  Malkolm tried to insist they talk in his room. Chrysabelle refused. No way was she following the most notorious fallen vampire into a place he considered safe ever again. Malkolm Bourreau, vampire killer. The name Bourreau meant executioner in French. He’d been named for his human profession. Ironic how well it suited him now. Even so, her knowledge of him was a mere fragment of his shadowed story.

  They’d ended up in one of the ship’s holds that had been converted into a mammoth gym. It suited her. Being able to put space between them was a very good thing. The massive overheads shed half their normal light and flickered as they dwindled further. This dependence on solar made her miss the wealth of the world she’d left behind. Adjustment took time, she reminded herself.

  ‘Talk,’ she said, not caring that her feet stayed planted in a fighting stance or the sword remained lifted, ready to strike. Whether it was the adrenaline or her body’s vampire-given ability to heal itself, her broken foot felt whole. Not that pain would stop her from fighting. She was tougher than that. And if he hadn’t learned by now that she could defend herself, it was time he figured it out.

  ‘You think I care what you know about me? I don’t.’ He prowled back and forth like a caged beast.

  ‘Then tell me.’

  He snarled. ‘I’m cursed.’

  ‘So I’ve heard.’ She shifted slightly, keeping her body aligned with his movements.

  He tore his shirt off as he turned, giving her another glimpse of the black scrawling that covered him. ‘Every life I’ve taken I wear on my skin. Every one. Every father, every mother, every child.’ He dropped the shirt and slapped his open palm against his chest. ‘Every name haunts me. The voices … ’ His hands tightened on his skull as he circled back. ‘They never shut up. Taunting me. Pushing me.’

  She stared at his black-inked skin. How many lives did he bear? Thousands? Tens of thousands? ‘That must be difficult beyond words.’ She couldn’t fathom how he hadn’t gone insane.

  ‘It is.’ He spun on his heels to face her. ‘Especially around you.’ He came as close as her blade would let him. ‘Do you know what they tell me to do with you? Do you?’

  She shook her head, unwilling to say anything that might stop him. There was power in knowing an opponent’s secrets.

  ‘Kill her, drain her, get away.’ Silver eyes drilled into her. ‘That’s what they scream into my ears when you’re around.’

  She tried to steady her breathing and failed. Her pulse must be slamming into his head like a jackhammer. He stalked closer. The sword point scratched a bloody line into his skin, but she refused to back up even though the smell of him – bitter, spicy, and yet deficient – shredded her nerves. The desire to feed him, to give of herself, made her want to weep with disgust.

  He stabbed his fingers at his temples. ‘That’s what they hiss into my ears around you. Over and over until I want to do it just to shut them up.’

  His face contorted and he retreated a single step, pointing a finger at her. ‘You’re trouble and they know it.’

  ‘Me? Trouble?’ She forced a laugh, but it sounded feeble even to her ears. ‘I’m not trouble, I’m in trouble.’ Seriously in trouble if she didn’t get some distance, but backing up would make her look weak.

  ‘I should,’ he muttered like he was talking to himself. Or maybe the voices. ‘I should drink you dry and be done with you.’ He paced the floor, thankfully away from her.

  She waved the sword after him. ‘Try it and I’ll be forced to defend myself.’ Of course, if what she knew about him was true, try might be all she did.

  ‘Don’t you mean behead me? Like you did your patron?’ He turned, hands clenched. His body tensed, cording the muscles in his chest. The names danced with the movement.

  ‘You’re the expert on beheading. You really think I’m capable of that?’

  The silver in his eyes darkened for a second then flared back to life. ‘Yes.’ He shrugged while he walked. ‘No. I don’t know. Don’t care. Go back to your aunt.’ He crisscrossed his hands over each other. ‘I’m done with this. With you.’

  She lowered the sword. ‘It’s not that easy. I need help, and you own my blood rights. That makes you responsible for me.’

  ‘I don’t want you or your blood rights. I just want to be left alone.’

  Despite the situation, the rejection still stung. No lucid vampire turned down a comarré’s blood rights. Especially a Primoris Domus comarré. She almost laughed at herself. Yes, being a Primoris Domus comarré had really paid off, hadn’t it? How pathetic. ‘I told you it doesn’t work that way.’

  ‘Then find a way to make it work.’ He halted, his back to her, and stayed that way while he spoke. ‘How did your aunt get out of it?’

  Chrysabelle hesitated. There was no reason not to tell him. He wouldn’t suggest it. ‘Libertas.’

  ‘What’s that?’ He rotated and shoved a hand through his hair, pushing the long black strands out of his eyes.

  ‘She asked for her freedom.’ So she could leave her patron and be with the man she loved. That much Chrysabelle knew from the letters she’d received.

  ‘So ask.’ Frustration bracketed his mouth as his steps brought him closer. ‘Why haven’t you done that alread—’

  ‘It means one of us dies. Remember how I said you could die or I could kill you? This is the I could kill you part.’ She waited, but he kept silent as he turned to pace the other way. ‘Libertas is a battle to the death. If the comarré survives, she goes free. If the patron survives, he gets his choice of a new comarré.’

  He reached the far wall, planted his hands on it and leaned in. ‘That seems fair.’

  She agreed with his sarcasm. ‘I wasn’t suggesting it.’

  For a moment, he didn’t say a word, his head bowed. Then he lifted it and spun to rest his back against the wall. Promise glittered in his eyes. ‘You would lose.’

  She took a breath. Then another. ‘You don’t know that.’

  ‘Yes, I do. I’m vampire. Anathema, but noble nonetheless. You’re human. Basically. I’m stronger, faster, older—’

  ‘I know what you are, and what you were.’ Death dealer. Headsman. Executioner. ‘But now, you’re not half the strength you could be. Can you use your inherent Family gifts? Can you scatter?’

  ‘Not all vampires can scatter. You should know that.’

  That wasn’t an answer. ‘What about healing then? You saw how quickly Dominic healed. How long does it take you?’ The scratch on his chest from the sword was already gone, but that had just been a scratch.

  ‘That has nothing to do with my fighting ability.’

  She snorted a soft breath. ‘You’re easy to weaken.’

  The glitter darkened. ‘You’re easy to kill.’

  Truth rose in her throat like bile. She lifted her chin and began to chip away at the solid gold fortress she’d been raised in. ‘Comarré train all their lives. Swords, crossbow, close range weapons. Hand to hand. Linear, circular, hard, soft, internal, external.’ She shook her head. ‘There’s not a martial art or fighting style I haven’t studied. A block or thrust I don’t know.’

  He laughed, a thin, cagey sound. ‘You weren’t kidding, were you?’

  ‘About what?’

  ‘You said comarré were lethal killers trained from birth in the dark art of assassination. That wasn’t a
lie, was it?’

  A chill racked her body. These were sacred truths she’d sworn to take to her grave. Speaking them aloud violated every tenet she’d had thrummed into her these last one hundred fifteen years. What did it matter? That life was her past. And without him helping her, she’d have no future. No matter what he was, anathema, killer, head case, she couldn’t do this alone. Not for long anyway. And her inborn will to survive overrode all other options.

  ‘No,’ she whispered. Any hope of returning to the life she’d left, however infinitesimal, vanished with that word. Her safety net had been cut away. ‘It wasn’t a lie. But it is the most closely guarded secret of the comarré.’

  He beckoned her closer. ‘Then show me.’

  ‘What?’ He couldn’t mean what she thought he—

  ‘Drop the katana and show me,’ he urged. The names on his body seemed to swim before her eyes. ‘I won’t hurt you, I promise.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because I can’t take another voice in my head.’

  ‘No.’ She frowned, taking comfort from his confession nonetheless. ‘Why do you want me to show you these skills?’

  His mouth twisted cruelly. ‘Because everything out of your mouth has been a lie.’

  ‘Not everything. Not this.’ Withholding full truths wasn’t the same as lying. Not when you were protecting yourself.

  ‘Then prove it. Prove it and I’ll help you. You have my word.’

  His word. As though the vow of an anathema meant anything. She relaxed her grip on the curved blade anyway and let it fall. It thunked against the padded floor, throwing sparks of light as it settled. She closed her eyes and took a deep breath. This was insane. And dangerous. For both of them.

  As her eyes opened, she shifted to fighting stance, her dominant side toward him.

  He mimicked her, standing loose and ready, feet planted, fingers curled in easy fists. A dubious half smile, half smirk curved his mouth.

  Fine. She’d remove that first.

  He motioned her forward with an open hand. ‘I’m not going to make the first move, so it’s up to you—’

  She lunged forward, popping her right fist into his jaw. His head snapped back. She followed with a hard left to his solar plexus. He stumbled, hit the floor hard. If he’d been mortal, the move would have emptied his lungs. She stood over him, ready for more.