She sniffed. “What if someone tries to drug you again?”
“They won’t. I’ll only drink straight from the vein until I see you again.” Which meant killing a few humans, but it wasn’t like he’d never done that before.
“That’s still not a guarantee.”
“You’re wasting dark. The sun will be up soon and you’re not daysleeping here.”
“What are you going to do? Throw me overboard?”
He raised one brow.
“Bloody hell.” She grabbed the jacket she’d discarded and headed for the door. “You’re supposed to be helping me.”
She kept muttering to herself as she left the ship, her voice fading as he selected another blade for his last and final trip to see Chrysabelle. If he didn’t take care of her now, she’d only end up following him to Corvinestri and with his new life as a noble before him, he couldn’t take the chance that his unfortunate past would come back to haunt him.
Again the word “ghost” flitted through his brain. He shook it away. Too much to do to think about consequences.
First he’d need to find a meal. Going after the comarré hungry meant there was too much chance he’d lose control. He needed to be focused. To strike cleanly and swiftly.
But most of all, he needed the comarré dead.
Chapter Nineteen
Creek lay flat on the roof of the warehouse, a few of the ashes of the Nothos he’d killed still clinging to his clothes and souring the air. He kept his eyes trained on Mal’s freighter. If Tatiana spent the day there, he’d sneak in and—no, she was leaving. How about that. Had she killed Mal?
He kept watching, waiting to see what she’d do. She seemed to be talking to herself. He caught a few choice curses and almost laughed. She was complaining about Mal, so maybe she hadn’t killed him. A sharp whistle cracked the night air and he realized she was calling for the Nothos.
That wasn’t going to go well.
When the creature didn’t come, Tatiana cursed again, then scattered into a swarm of wasps and flew off. Apparently, she wasn’t in a mood to wait.
Not long after, a second dark figure emerged on the ship’s deck.
Mal.
Creek quietly crawled back from the edge and rappelled down the back of the building, where he crouched behind a stack of pallets. Mal was just stepping off the gangplank. He took off in a jog. Creek followed far enough behind that Mal didn’t seem to notice.
They headed into Little Havana. Once there, Mal slowed to a walk. There were a few people out at this hour, some just coming home, some on their way to early-morning shifts, and some who never left the streets. Mal picked a woman in a hotel maid’s uniform and started trailing her.
Creek kept up, his hood pulled low to hide his face. Once Mal looked back, but Creek ducked into a doorway and out of sight, and with the wind in his face, the tang of his KM-tainted blood stayed undetected.
Mal caught up with the woman when she cut through an alley. Creek caught up with both of them a second later, crossbow brandished. He wondered if Chrysabelle’s words would make any more sense after this.
“Let her go, Mal.”
The woman’s eyes were wide in terror, her struggles pointless with Mal’s hand over her mouth and his arm wrapped around her body. His eyes were dead black shot with silver. The beast was trying to get out.
He snarled, fangs gleaming. “I should have killed you when I had the chance.”
“Let. Her. Go.”
The woman whimpered. Mal opened his mouth wider and tugged her closer. Creek pulled the trigger and sank a bolt into Mal’s thigh. Cursing, he dropped the woman. She scurried away, praying in Spanish.
Mal yanked the bolt out. Tendrils of black danced above the collar of his T-shirt. He laughed and shook his head. “Is that the best you can do?” Then he lurched sideways, hitting the concrete block wall of the alley. He tried to right himself and failed. The white came back into his eyes as he slipped to the ground. “What…”
Creek leaned down and took the bolt from Mal’s hand. “What happened?” He wiped the blood off the titanium and onto Mal’s jeans, then tucked the bolt back into his bandolier. “See, I’ve started coating a few of my bolts with a paste made of laudanum and hemlock. Works on both vampires and varcolai that way.” And helped him keep his word to Chrysabelle. He smiled. “You should thank Chrysabelle the next time you see her, because she’s the reason I’m going to be a nice guy and not leave you here to toast in the sun.”
Mal grunted, and then his eyes rolled back and his head lolled to one side. Out cold.
With a sigh, Creek bent, hoisted Mal up by his armpits, then hefted him over his shoulder into a fireman’s carry. He bounced once to adjust the weight. “Damn, you’re heavy for someone who doesn’t eat. She couldn’t have fallen in love with someone a little lighter?”
He broke into a trot. The sun would be up soon, so he had no choice but to hustle if he was going to get Mal back on his ship and safe before morning.
Sweat trickled down his spine as he picked up speed. This definitely counted as his workout for the day.
The outside of La Belle et la Bête looked nothing like the fairy tale it had been named after. More like the building had been abandoned. Faded bits of gray-brown paint not yet worn off by time and weather still clung to the exterior. The three sets of louvered double doors on the first and second floors all had a few missing louvers and more peeling white paint. The simple balcony on the second floor didn’t look sturdy enough to hold a houseplant, forget about a person.
Not a sound emanated from the closed doors, and not a single tourist strolling by even glanced at the place.
Fi, in transparent ghost mode, leaned in toward Chrysabelle and Jerem. “I hate to tell you this, but I think this joint is out of business.”
“It’s not, I promise,” Chrysabelle said.
Jerem nodded. “I was here once. A long time ago. But I remember it looking pretty much just like it does now.”
A tourist couple walked by. The man went right through Fi.
“Hey!” She shook her fist at him. “Ghost hovering here.”
The man looked around like he’d heard something, but the couple kept moving.
“It’s like they didn’t even see me.” Fi put her hands on her hips. “And you know, they didn’t even look at you. I know the covenant’s broken and humans are getting used to othernaturals, but how many people don’t at least take a second look at a dude the size of Jerem, a woman covered in gold tattoos, and her friendly neighborhood ghostly sidekick?”
“I don’t think they see us,” Chrysabelle answered. “Mortalis said the place was covered with a diffusion spell. It keeps the mortals from thinking it’s another French Quarter hot spot and protects the patrons from being stared at.”
“Sounds right,” Jerem said. “Why don’t you let me lead?”
Fi bobbed at his side. “Cool with me.”
“Yes, that’s fine.” Chrysabelle pointed to the right-hand set of doors. “That way, I think.” Hopefully this wouldn’t take long. Khell was the city’s Guardian. That alone should make him fairly accessible.
Jerem pushed through the right-hand set of doors, Fi and Chrysabelle behind him. She stepped over the threshold. The doors swung shut and the wave of sound hit her. Patrons talking, ice clinking against glass, rollicking music, laughter, and a few random shouts here and there.
“Okay,” Fi said looking around. “Definitely not out of business. That diffusion spell is pretty wicked. I’d never have known all this was going on in here.”
“That’s the idea,” Jerem said. He kept his gaze on the crowd while he talked to Chrysabelle. “You want to do a walk-through? See if this guy’s here?”
“I doubt he will be, but sure.” The bar’s insides only just exceeded its exterior. Apparently, people came here for the music, not the atmosphere. A jazz quartet with a gravely voiced singer played on a dais near the front. They looked like the same group that had been here the last tim
e. House band, maybe.
And if they were here, maybe Khell would be too. She reached into her pocket for the plastic bills she’d stashed, palming them for easy transfer to whoever might give her the info she needed. She strolled among the tables, avoiding direct eye contact but skimming the crowd for the fae she’d helped make Guardian.
A body moved in front of her, blocking her path. “Well, now,” the shifter drawled. “Long time no see, Goldilocks. What brings you back to our corner of the Vieux Carré?”
“I almost didn’t recognize you on this side of the bar.” Actually, she’d recognized him instantly. The scales flanking the bartender’s neck and the bullet shape of his canines made him very hard to forget.
“Gotta keep my tables clean.” He tossed a towel over his shoulder. “Who y’all looking for this time?”
“Same person. Just wanted to see how things are going for him.” If the bartender remembered her, he must also remember what she’d done when she was here. How many othernaturals lived in this city and didn’t know who the Guardian was?
The flash of red-green fire in his slit-pupil eyes didn’t scare her the way it had the first time she’d seen it. He clutched at his heart, smiling. “I’m wounded. Here I thought you’d come back for me.” Laughing, he tipped his head toward the back corner. “Khell’s here. Why don’t you ask him yourself.”
“Thank you.” She reached out and tucked the bills in her hand into his shirt pocket. “I appreciate it.”
He glanced down at the money. “Much obliged.” Then looked toward Jerem and Fi where they were still standing by the front doors. “I’ll send a coupla sweet teas to your friends. Something to occupy themselves with while you do business.”
She just nodded and slipped past him toward the spiral stairs in the corner. That’s where she’d found Khell the last time. The fae were such creatures of habit. She traced a path through the crowd, which was thinner than she remembered, but maybe that had to do with the early hour.
And there he was. Same table, same black-rimmed glasses and brainy-professor look. Different girl, but still a redhead and still plenty curvy. Chrysabelle smiled and approached cautiously. If things weren’t going well for him, he may not be thrilled to see her.
“Khell?” She kept her thumbs hooked into the pockets of her pants, close to the hilts of her daggers.
He stopped moving his head to the music and looked up, his gray eyes carrying a little more edge than she remembered. He studied her for a moment. “Chrysabelle. I didn’t expect to see you again.”
“Nor I you.” Still no idea how he felt about her.
Then he smiled. “Nice to see you. Join us.” He shoved the extra chair out with his foot. “What brings you to town? If you’re here to find a new Guardian, I should warn you I’ll have to kill you.” He laughed, but his eyes were serious.
She smiled in a way that said she understood. “It’s nice to know you’re still ambitious.” She took the chair.
“This is my lovely fiancée, Beatrice.” He clinked his beer bottle against hers, then pointed it at Chrysabelle. “And this is the woman I’ve told you about. She’s one of those comarré.”
Chrysabelle smiled at the woman. “Are you ignus fae?”
Beatrice grinned. “You mean like his last girlfriend? Yes. But unlike her I’m here to stay.” She winked at Khell as she stood. “I’m going to freshen up while y’all chat.” She tipped her head at Chrysabelle. “Thank you for what you did for him.”
“Sure.” Chrysabelle waited until Beatrice left. “She’s a little different than your last girlfriend.”
“Why do you think I’m marrying her?” Khell sipped his beer.
“I’m a little surprised you’re here. I thought being Guardian would keep you busy.”
He shrugged. “It does, but I have lieutenants who run patrols, that sort of thing. This place has become my unofficial office.” He tapped his thumb against the side of his bottle. “But I’m sure that’s not what you came to talk about.”
A multitude of scars and water rings marked the old wood tabletop. She traced one with her finger. “I need a favor. A big one.”
He leaned in. “Name it. Anything I can do to help, I will.”
She took a breath. “I need entrance to the Claustrum.”
He sat back. A bead of condensation rolled down his beer. “Anything but that.”
Barasa and Omur flanked a barely controlled Remo across from Doc’s desk. He knew this whole scene could turn bloody in a flash if he didn’t play it right. Just getting Remo from the holding cell in the basement to his office this morning had taken half of the on-staff security force. “I want you to know that I intend to put the full weight of the pride’s capabilities into this issue.”
Remo’s chest rose and fell with emotion. “This issue is a murder. I want the police involved.”
Barasa looked at him. “In a pride matter? That’s not how we handle things.”
Remo never took his eyes off Doc. “Perhaps I should call my father and tell him what’s been going on. Tell him that his daughter was actually murdered and that upon discovering this shocking news, his son was treated to a night in the pride’s jail.”
Doc growled softly. “You attacked my mate. You’re lucky a night in the basement is all you got.”
Remo stayed quiet a minute after that. When he spoke again, the edge of anger was gone from his voice, leaving only the gruff sternness and fresh pain of finding out the truth about his sister. “I want the police involved because I want an impartial third party heading up this investigation.”
“So you don’t trust us?” Omur asked.
“Would you if the situation were reversed?”
“He’s got a point,” Doc said. “If I consent to that much and allow the police to investigate, will you give me your word to let them do their job and abide by their findings while not endangering anyone else in this pride? That means no fighting, no accusations, nothing that is outside the lines of acceptable behavior for a council member.”
Remo snorted softly. “Now you sound like my father.”
“Then I must be doing something right. Your father didn’t get where he is by making wrong decisions or bad deals.” Doc sighed. Why on earth had Fi kept that vial of sand? But then, she had no idea what it held. What damage it could do. “So, your word?”
Slowly, Remo shook his head. “On one condition.”
“Which is?”
“I will be a part of every discussion with the police or this council. I want to know everything that’s going on firsthand. I find out something’s gone on behind my back and I bring my father in.”
“Agreed.” Doc nodded at Omur. “Get Chief Vernadetto in here as soon as you can.”
Chrysabelle stood on the wide wraparound porch of Augustine’s home, the curved insets of leaded glass in the massive double doors sparkling in the late-morning sun. Khell’s reaction to her request had sucked all the hope out of her and now, looking at this big beautiful place, she knew in her heart that Augustine wasn’t about to risk any of this for her, either. He hadn’t helped her the first time she’d been here, so why would this time be any different?
Fi nudged her side. “This place is huge. Like, crazy big. This fae must be loaded, huh?”
A new voice answered. “It’s not his house, darling.”
They both turned to see an older woman coming through the front yard, a basket of freshly cut flowers dangling off one arm. The other hand gripped a crystal-topped cane. More crystals decorated her velvet and fringe caftan.
“Holy crap,” Fi breathed. “You’re Olivia freaking Goodwin. The vampire queen.”
The woman laughed, her amber eyes sparkling in the light. “Only in the movies, cher. And those days are long past.” She climbed the steps to stand beside them, her gaze coming to rest on Chrysabelle. She leaned her cane against her side, then reached out and clasped Chrysabelle’s hand. “I remember you. You came here a while back with that handsome vampire. I like him.”
She looked behind Chrysabelle. “Is he with you?”
“No, Ms. Goodwin, he’s—”
“Call me Livie. I told you that last time.” She brushed past and opened the door, leaving it open as she traipsed into the hall. She set her basket of flowers on a bench in the foyer before heading deeper into the house. “Augie, get your lazy bones up! We have visitors, so put clothes on before you come down.”
Fi’s eyes rounded and she looked at Chrysabelle like she might explode.
“Keep it together,” Chrysabelle whispered.
Fi nodded.
Livie turned around. “Are you two coming in or what? I’m not trying to share my business with the neighborhood.”
“Yes, ma’am.” Fi grabbed Chrysabelle’s hand and stepped inside, dragging her along.
Livie didn’t stop moving, so they followed. She swung a set of French doors open and went into the dining room. “I was just about to sit down to brunch. Have y’all eaten?”
“No, but—”
A hearty male laugh interrupted her. “Don’t you know better than to turn down Southern hospitality?” Augustine sauntered into the room with the same devilish charm and air of nonchalance as he’d had during their last visit. His open shirt trailed behind him as he finished buttoning his jeans. He helped Livie into a chair, then kissed her on the cheek. “Morning, my love.”
“It’s nearly lunch, you lazy thing.” Smiling, she reached up to pat the side of his head and ended up tousling his hair. That’s when Chrysabelle noticed the stump of a horn.
Augustine caught her staring. “I grind them down.”
“I wasn’t…” Heat burned her cheeks.
He smirked. “Not all of us feel the need to be so blatantly fae all the time.”
She nodded and paid closer attention to the way the silverware had been laid out. His horns, or what was left of them, seemed smaller than Mortalis’s, but besides that and Augustine’s skin being a paler shade of gray, the two fae were almost twins.
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