Blood Rights hoc-1

by Kristen Painter

  Velimai bowed slightly and left with a not so subtle roll of her eyes. Stubborn wysper. Still, the girl was worth her keep for her ability to decimate vampires and keep secrets. In her own way, Velimai was the perfect companion. Quiet, deadly to vampires, and a worthy gin opponent.

  The knocking sounded again as Maris reached the door. She opened it, wondering if she shouldn’t have come brandishing her sacre. That would give the anathema something to think about.

  ‘Chrysabelle, I know you must have questions after … after.’ Something about her niece looked off. The breeze shifted, bringing the faint bitterness of ash with it. ‘Are you feeling all right, my dear?’

  ‘Yes, Aunt. I feel very well, thank you.’ Chrysabelle’s stony face suddenly burst into a smile that didn’t reach her eyes, unlike the vampire behind her who’d been grinning like a madman since Maris had opened the door. So this was the anathema her niece had aligned herself with. Maris immediately disliked him and hoped her face reflected that.

  ‘Good. I was worried something was wrong since the hour is so late.’ Maris studied Chrysabelle, but she stood just out of the light. Odd. Chrysabelle had never seemed so short before. Or so thin. Something was going on. Perhaps Chrysabelle didn’t want to say in front of the vampire. Perhaps she couldn’t get away from the vampire. Again, Maris yearned for her sacre. ‘This one with you, he’s the one helping you?’

  Chrysabelle glanced back at the vampire and smiled. ‘Yes, he is the one helping me.’

  The vampire bowed slightly. Maris snorted air through her nostrils. As though putting on manners would impress her. ‘Why don’t you come in, dear?’

  A genuine smile blossomed on Chrysabelle’s face. ‘I thought you’d never ask.’ She started forward, the vampire behind her following.

  Maris raised a finger in warning. ‘That invitation is for Chrysabelle only. No vampire will ever cross this threshold.’

  Chrysabelle walked into the house and laughed. ‘Oh, I think that’s about to change, comarré.’

  ‘What?’ Maris rocked back, moving her iBot a few paces away. And then, without warning, Chrysabelle wasn’t Chrysabelle anymore.

  The figure of her niece morphed into an unfamiliar female vampire. Maris’s breath came in hard, fast gasps. ‘Velimai,’ she screamed. ‘Velimai!’

  The female laughed, fangs glistening. ‘Don’t worry, comarré. I’m not going to drink you dry. Yet.’ She grabbed Maris by the arm.

  Velimai shot into the room behind the female, took one look, and charged forward in solid form, the only form in which she could scream.

  ‘Tatiana!’ The male vampire stuck outside leaned against the invisible threshold barrier as though it was a pane of glass. ‘Behind you. A wysper.’

  Tatiana pulled Maris out of the iBot and into a rough embrace, then spun to face Velimai. Her fist caught Velimai across the jaw, sending her to the floor with a split lip. Tatiana’s knuckles were scraped raw by the wysper’s sandpaper skin, but the marks vanished a second later. Velimai stayed down, face contorted in pain and anger, but held her solid form and opened her mouth as she shuffled backward. Maris tensed, prepared to have her eardrums blown out.

  Velimai’s shattering cry ripped through the room. Maris winced. The sculpted glass coffee table shattered, spraying safety glass through the room like confetti.

  Tatiana’s fingers dug painfully into Maris’s flesh. ‘Mikkel, do something,’ she shouted to the male.

  Instantly, he lifted his arm toward Velimai and spoke a few words. The air shimmered darkly around his hand, but nothing happened. The male must be House of Bathory to wield the black arts he’d attempted, but without an invitation neither he nor his power could enter the house. Fortunately, Velimai’s scream had no such boundaries. The veins in his neck and hands began to throb.

  Blood oozed from Tatiana’s ears. She howled in pain and dropped Maris, stumbling over the glass-covered floor to get to Velimai. Tatiana’s hands went around the wysper’s throat, choking off the sound, then Tatiana slammed Velimai against the wall. She dropped to the wood floor, crumpling like a rag, her throat ringed in bloody handprints.

  Tatiana wiped her abraded palms on her trousers. ‘Disgusting creature.’

  Maris had little time to mourn before Tatiana leaped back to her side and grabbed her viciously by her upper arms. Maris twisted, trying to get away. Tatiana spun her around, biting back a sob of anger.

  ‘So much for your house pet, comarré.’ Tatiana leaned into Maris and inhaled. ‘You may not last that long either.’

  Maris jerked away as best she could, managing to get an arm’s length away from her captor. ‘What do you want?’

  Tatiana’s face went cold. ‘Your niece. Where is she?’

  ‘I have no idea.’ Maris had heard of Tatiana but never crossed paths with her until now. Rennata’s warning rang in Maris’s ears. This vampiress was more than trouble. Maris would not be cowed by this bloodthirsty female, not in her own home. ‘And even if I did, I wouldn’t tell you.’

  Tatiana scowled. ‘Do you know who I am?’

  That much Maris recalled. ‘You’re Lord Ivan’s pet.’

  ‘You dare speak to me that way?’ Tatiana laughed and looked at her partner outside. ‘How soon they forget their manners.’

  ‘You don’t deserve my respect, leech.’

  Tatiana cracked Maris hard across the face. Blood spilled into her mouth from the inside of her cheek. She swallowed it down. These vampires didn’t need the added incentive the scent would give them.

  ‘Then neither does your niece deserve mine, comarré.’

  ‘I haven’t been comarré in years.’

  Tatiana peered at her with ravenous eyes. ‘Then that makes you kine.’ She danced her tongue across her fangs. ‘And I have only one use for kine.’

  ‘Get out of my house.’ Maris struggled not to tremble.

  ‘Don’t worry, I’m leaving. And you’re coming with me.’

  Mal stroked the oilcloth down the length of the blade as tenderly as he’d once stroked his daughter’s cheek. He moved like a machine, no thought for the action, falling into the past and a wash of memories normally kept tightly checked. Except for rare moments like this. Cleaning this sword, so like the one he’d earned his living with when he’d still walked in the sun, always had that effect. The pain of those memories wasn’t without benefit. Pain like that held the voices to a dull hum.

  What more would he feel if he were able to find the same blade he’d once used to earn his keep? Not that he probably ever would. Nothing remained of his human life, and as the years ticked by, it became harder to remember what being human felt like. He’d long forgotten the sun’s warmth on his skin and the scent of a spring day in his daughter’s hair. At times, holding on to the image of his sweet Sofia’s face was like trying to grasp fog.

  The spicy scent of the Japanese Choji clove oil saturating the rag usually calmed him, but after his talk with Chrysabelle, his insides were torn by the need to be left alone and the hunger for companionship. No, he told himself, his desire to help her stemmed from his search to remove his curse, not for any other reasons. A sharp pain erupted in his fingers. He snatched them off the weapon where they’d come to rest over the blade’s inscription. Deus misereatur. May God have mercy.

  Where was his mercy? He’d never asked for this life, such as it was. He’d never asked to become a creature so vile he’d thought numerous times about ending his own existence. This life had been thrust upon him like a disease. And he’d become its carrier, spreading the infection to his beloved wife.

  ‘Shaya,’ he whispered her name, something he never allowed himself, and his dead heart burned with her memory. His beautiful Gypsy wife. What a scandalous creature she’d been. He’d saved her from the gallows. He shook his head. As though being a Gypsy was a crime worthy of death. She’d been a good wife. Faithful. Given him a child. And yet he couldn’t deny he’d questioned more than once if she’d loved him because he’d saved her life or becau
se she’d seen something more in him. Something worthy. He wanted to think it was the latter, but deep down, he wasn’t sure.

  She’d married him when no one else would and that was all that had mattered, but for what reward? He’d lost her. Lost her to the same monsters who’d taken his life. He slammed his fist on the desk, making the blade clatter against the wood.

  If only … if only … but he wouldn’t let himself go down that path. He’d been right not to turn Sofia. Eternity was hard enough in an adult body, but for a child … he shook his head. No. This was no life for such an innocent.

  And this was why he’d help Chrysabelle, for the chance to find those who’d destroyed his life and make them pay. If he lost his life again, so be it. He had lived too long already.

  He took up the oilcloth again. Someone knocked at the office door. Chrysabelle, by her scent. Stronger than usual. Odd. He refocused. She must have found clothes. She’d certainly taken her time.

  ‘Come in.’ No, the voices screeched.

  The door opened, and with one hand behind her back she slipped inside wearing her white trousers and a shirt of Doc’s, probably the only white one he owned. The perfume of her blood hit him hard. No, no, no … Oil oozed between his fingers from the rag in his hand. He eased his grip.

  ‘Here.’ She planted a tumbler full of crimson liquid in front of him. Her gaze hovered on the long, two-handed sword he’d been cleaning, causing her hand to pause. A small nick marred the inside of her pale wrist. She tucked it to her side and lifted her chin. ‘Don’t argue. Just drink it.’

  No wonder her scent had been so strong. Kill her. He stared at the glass, fangs jutting into the edge of his tongue, saliva pooling. He pushed his chair away from the desk, but stayed seated. ‘I said—’

  ‘It’s not like drinking directly from the vein. If you don’t want it, dump it down the sink. But we both know you need it.’ She turned on her heels and walked out, shutting the door firmly.

  Memories forgotten, his mouth came open as he inhaled, dragging the honeyed fragrance over his tongue. His gums ached. The voices railed. His fingers wrapped around the tumbler before he realized what he’d done.

  The heat from the glass shot into his gut like a fist. For some reason, he hadn’t expected that, but of course it would be warm. It was fresh. Spoiled.

  He pulled his hand away, dragged his fingers through his hair. He should empty the blood into the sink, turn the faucet on and wash it away. Or just throw the whole lot overboard. Yes, yes, yes …

  The scent burrowed down his throat, filling his lungs with thick, sweet pressure.

  His fingers strayed back to the warmth. The thought of pouring that blood out, of wasting it, seemed like blasphemy. That wasn’t just any blood. That was comarré blood. Freely given. Chrysabelle wanted him to have it. Wants you to die.

  He stared at the glass. Tapped his fingers against it. Inhaled the heady aroma already infusing his body with need. Hell and damnation, it smelled good.

  One taste wouldn’t hurt, would it? Yes. Like she said, it wasn’t as if he was taking it from her vein. No chance he’d drain her dry.

  But what if one taste was all it took? What if that one taste made him hunt her down and … the sweetness of it fogged his head with a strange euphoria, blocking out the voices? Unlike the time Preacher had been present, or she’d pricked her leg to get his attention, this blood was no longer forbidden fruit. It was his for the drinking.

  So he should drink it.

  He lifted the tumbler.

  Put it to his mouth.

  And took a sip.

  He swallowed and a sound so animalistic welled out of his throat, he wasn’t sure it had come from him. His body tensed like he’d been electrocuted. Heat and cold rushed through his veins. His face shifted, his muscles throbbed. He lifted the glass again and drained it in one long draught.

  A thrum rose up around him, a pulsing, thumping noise that filled his ears until he heard nothing else.

  His heart. He slammed the glass down onto the desk.

  For the first time in more than five hundred years, it pumped with life. He didn’t have time to question how that was possible when the pain kicked in. It started in the marrow of his bones, radiated through his veins and into his muscles until it burnished his skin with a searing heat. His hands dug into the arms of his chair. Sweat dripped down the back of his neck.

  And then, just as quickly as it had flashed through him, the pain left. In its place was a lingering warmth and sense of well-being unlike anything he’d felt since being turned. Strength suffused his body, and the voices, at least for the moment, remained miraculously still. Not even the low hum of their presence remained. Not that he could hear over the beating of his own heart.

  Chrysabelle was at the door. He knew, not because of her unique scent or the familiar rhythm of her heart, but because he could feel her. Sense her in a way he’d not sensed anyone. None of the human donor blood he’d gotten through Sweets had caused this sort of reaction, but then comarré blood was as different from that substance as oil from water.

  He moved to the door, shocked at his own speed, and opened it. Her hand was lifted, prepared to knock. The subtle glow that had always surrounded her now radiated with new force.

  ‘Oh.’ She stared up at him like she was seeing him for the first time. Had her blood changed him that much? ‘You drank it.’

  He frowned, reluctant to admit the truth. ‘Yes.’

  She glanced down each length of the hall, then stepped inside and shut the door. She sucked in her right cheek, her hands twisting the hem of her borrowed shirt.

  ‘What?’ Obviously, she had something to say.

  She smoothed the hem of the shirt, then crossed and uncrossed her arms. ‘You have to kiss me. Now. While your heart’s still beating.’

  ‘What?’ He backed up and swallowed, ingesting a breath of Chrysabelle-flavored air. His body tightened. He cursed himself for not pouring the blood out. He should have known there would be strings attached.

  ‘You took my blood. You can give me this.’

  ‘I didn’t take it, you offered.’

  ‘Same difference. Now kiss me.’

  ‘No. Why?’ Kissing her would be … wrong.

  She sighed and looked thoroughly exasperated. ‘It’s part of the exchange.’

  ‘I didn’t agree to that. I didn’t agree to any of this.’ Irritation nibbled away at the euphoria her blood had given him.

  She threw up her hands. ‘Fine. I’ll just start to age, the quality of my blood will deteriorate, and I’ll be unable to defend myself. But that’s just fine.’

  ‘What are you talking about?’ Beyond the ship’s confines, the night called to him more strongly than it had in decades. He wanted to join it, to revel in its comforting black embrace.

  Peering at him intently, she nodded. ‘You want to be out there, don’t you? In the night. Part of it.’

  ‘What? No.’ He shook his head while taking one step toward the door.

  She blocked his path. ‘Not until you kiss me.’ She licked her bottom lip. ‘You owe me.’

  His eyes stayed on that lip, studied the deep crimson that evidenced the richness of her blood. Would she taste the way she smelled? Would her lips be as soft as they looked? He’d not kissed a woman in many years.

  She notched her head back, lightly rapping it against the door behind her and shaking him from his thoughts. Without realizing it, he’d backed her into the door, pinning her with his arms. Her pulse jumped beneath her skin. He growled softly, making her jerk.

  ‘Just get it over with.’ She lifted her chin and closed her eyes.

  ‘Not until you tell me why I owe you.’ He moved his hand to trace a finger across that succulent bottom lip. She shivered under his touch. He was scaring her again, and this time, he didn’t give a damn. She should be afraid. She asked too much.

  Opening her eyes, she bent her face away. ‘It’s the rule of the exchange. I give you blood, you give me saliv
a. If you’d taken from my vein … ’ She paused, and he knew she wanted to say the way you were supposed to, but didn’t. ‘If you had, that part would already be over.’

  ‘What does it matter?’ His fingers followed the swoop and curl of her signum across her cheek and up to her temple. The beat of her pulse stroked his fingertips, beckoning in a steady, erotic thumping that meshed with the one still filling his body.

  ‘My blood gives you life. Your bite does the same for me. Keeps me from aging. Makes me strong.’ She dropped her chin, forcing his fingers into the silk of her hair. ‘I am only human, you know.’

  ‘A kiss will replace a bite?’

  ‘Yes.’ Her head stayed down. He would have thought the idea repulsed her, but her scent carried the heavy sweetness of lust and the sharp, tinny edge of shame. She desired him and hated herself for it.

  The realization made him want to punish her. Prove her right.

  ‘Fine.’ He grabbed her shoulders and pushed her against the door as his mouth ground down on hers. She made a small, startled sound and tensed. It didn’t slow him. He was careful for nothing, save to keep his fangs sheathed so he wouldn’t nick her. He couldn’t risk that.

  She tasted the way she smelled, whiskey strong and honey sweet. She was soft and pliant and dangerous. The tension left her body, and she moved into him with a willingness his body instantly recognized.

  He pushed away, ending the kiss as quickly as it had begun. ‘Get Doc and Fi. We’re going to your aunt’s.’ He raised his brows. ‘Unless you require more of me?’ His tone was cruel even to his own ears.

  ‘No,’ she whispered. ‘That will do.’ She seemed dazed. Her heart raced in his ears, faster than his own. Without question, she’d found the kiss pleasurable.

  Unfortunately, so had he. Before he did something he would regret, he turned back to his desk. His insides seethed. She remained behind him. Too close. Far too close. ‘Go,’ he said, more gruffly than he meant to.

  There was no movement behind him. ‘I want my blades back.’

  ‘My room. In your bag.’

  The door opened and closed, and he was alone. The way he should be. His fingers wrapped the hilt of the sword he’d been cleaning before her interruption. She was slowly destroying the small, fragile peace he’d salvaged. Tearing down the protective walls he’d constructed to keep the need for companionship at bay. He turned the blade, watching the subtle play of candlelight on its surface. He hated her for it. Hated himself for feeling anything toward her but indifference.