Out for Blood hoc-4

by Kristen Painter

  “You made one all right,” Luke started, “but it doesn’t change our decision.”

  “Fine.” She fixed the scarf back into place, picked up a pencil off her desk, and squeezed it. It was that or break down from the overwhelming sense of betrayal. She ground her back teeth together, drawing strength from the new anger the situation provided. “I don’t want anyone working for me who doesn’t want to be here.”

  Without another word, John and Luke left.

  She sank into her chair and stared blankly after them. Losing John was like losing a member of her family. She rolled the pencil between her fingers. The sense of being powerless to stop the chaos around her was overwhelming. Her stomach felt like it might rebel at any moment. She had to get control of things again. Had to stanch the bleeding before Paradise City was an empty husk.

  The pencil snapped. Lola dropped the pieces. Enough was enough.

  Tatiana leaned into the butter-soft leather desk chair and crossed her legs, the sound of her silk trousers like a summer breeze. After all the excitement of Svetla and the heightened sense of power the incident had given her, dealing with Damian should be easy. “Bring him in.”

  Octavian nodded. “I’ll be right back.”

  “Thank you, my love.” Tatiana was not about to visit Damian again in his new quarters. He could come to her. In this space, no one would get the best of her.

  Lord Ivan’s former office was impressive with its black marble, dark wood, and bronze furnishings. Many times she’d sat on the other side of this desk while Ivan held court about some new idea or grand scheme. Many times she’d dreamed of knocking him out of his chair and taking his power for herself. Never had she thought it would taste so sweet.

  The new computer Octavian had purchased for her sat on one corner of the desk. A small light on the monitor’s frame blinked. Octavian would need a few minutes to bring Damian in, so she tapped the screen to bring it to life. The news site she’d selected as her home page opened up instantly. Keeping an eye on kine activity, especially now that they knew they weren’t alone in this world anymore, had proved less interesting than she’d expected.

  One particular headline caught her eye. NEW FLORIDA PUTS VAMPIRE TO DEATH. She tapped the article to bring it full screen. Well, this was something. A video was imbedded. She tapped the screen again to play it.

  The sound was off, but there was no mistaking the vampire suspended by chains between two posts. Malkolm. Her ex-husband. As she watched, a smaller figure dressed in black came into view. Then the video cut away to a reporter. Tatiana dragged her finger along the progress bar to fast-forward through the talking. When Malkolm reappeared, the sky had begun to lighten and the figure in black had pushed her hood back. Blond hair shone with a glow that only one creature possessed. A comarré. The comarré. Rapt, Tatiana stared as Malkolm sank his fangs into Chrysabelle’s neck. A frisson of joy shook Tatiana. Perhaps they would both die. Knowing Malkolm as she did made her intimately aware of the consequences of him drinking straight from the vein.

  The comarré pushed away from him. He strained at the chains as sunlight crept up his legs. A car barreled up behind him, throwing a flash of light into the camera. When the light disappeared, so had Malkolm.

  The video cut back to the reporter. Tatiana tapped the screen twice to darken it and sat back. Had she really just seen Malkolm die? The comarré would have no one to defend her now. If not for the blasted Dominus ball, Tatiana could swoop into Paradise City and take the comarré easily.

  Before that fantasy went any further, the office door opened and Octavian shoved Damian through, his hands bound. A fresh bruise marked his cheek. “Bloody prat took a swipe at me.”

  Still thrilled by the possibility of what she’d witnessed, she nodded. “That’s fine.”

  “It is?” Octavian cocked one brow.

  “No, I mean, it’s fine that you hit him back.” She waved her hand, dismissing the unimportant discussion. More than ever, she needed to know the comarré’s vulnerabilities. She came around to the front of the desk, leaned against it, and peered into Damian’s eyes.

  A few moments passed. Wisely, Octavian let the silence go unbroken. At last, when she detected the briefest hint of apprehension in the comar’s eyes, she spoke. “Daciana filled me in on your stay in Paradise City.” She crossed her arms like the whole thing bored her. “I take it you enjoyed your time with the comarré Chrysabelle?”

  “Never met her,” Damian spat.

  Her instinct was to strike out, but that had earned her nothing the last time. She lifted her flesh hand and studied her fingernails. “And yet you stayed at her house? Is she that poor a hostess?”

  Damian sneered. “I’m done talking.”

  She nodded. Octavian glanced at her, eyes questioning. All in good time, she wanted to tell him. Instead, she walked back behind the desk and sat. “Help the comar into a chair, will you, darling?”

  Damian grunted as Octavian shoved him into one of the seats before the desk.

  “Ribs still bothering you?” She smiled. “We can do this the hard way or the easy way. I prefer the hard way, but you may not.” She tipped her head. “What will it be?”

  He leaned forward as though on the verge of spilling whatever information he had and met her smile with one of his own. “How about you take a long walk into the sunrise?”

  She laughed once, then went stone sober. “I can think of a thousand ways to kill you that would be far more interesting than you are right now.

  Damian leaned back into the chair. “But you won’t.” He bent his head, displaying the barely visible marks from her last bite. “You need my blood.”

  “You’re right that I need blood, but you’re mistaken if you think it has to come from you.” She stared at him, wondering how much fear he was capable of hiding. “As Dominus, I have unlimited funds. Purchasing another comar would not be impossible.”

  He shrugged one shoulder. “There would be questions.”

  “And I would answer them by telling the Primoris Domus you ran from me again.” She smiled softly. “But we both know that would just be my way of covering up your death.”

  Damian went still for a long moment. “I’m not going to help you hunt down Chrysabelle.”

  This time Tatiana shrugged. “Then it’s a good thing you can provide me with blood or I’d have no need for you at all.” And in truth, she was done dealing with him for more than sustenance. There was little need for this aggravation now.

  “I can get information out of him,” Octavian offered.

  “Don’t bother. The comarré’s protector is dead.”

  Damian’s eyes rounded slightly, but Octavian’s jaw dropped. “Malkolm?”

  “Yes.”

  “I don’t believe it.”

  She pointed to the monitor. “It’s all over the kine news.” She rested her hands on the arms of the chair as she looked at her comar. “The one chance you had just disappeared.”

  For the first time, genuine fear played through his gaze.

  She nodded to Octavian. “Take him away.”

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Mal came back together on Chrysabelle’s balcony, staying in the shadows so none of the security cameras would pick up his form and alert the crew downstairs. He wouldn’t hide his presence from them too much longer, but Chrysabelle’s desire to keep him to herself for a while gave him an undeniable thrill. Almost as much as her declaration of love, which had caused the voices to gag and retch. Screw them. They’d just have to learn to deal.

  He smiled as he opened the French door and went inside. Smiling was such an odd thing for him. It had been centuries since he’d had a reason to. “Hi,” he whispered.

  “Hi,” Chrysabelle whispered back, locking the master suite door behind her as she came in. “I told everyone I was going to take a long hot shower and not to disturb me. They don’t suspect a thing.”

  “Are you sure?” He pointed at her clothes. “Or were you that dirty when you went outs
ide?”

  She looked at what she was wearing. It bore the marks of their embrace, remnants of soot and his time in the sewer. “Well, if they noticed, they didn’t say anything. I’ll change while you’re showering.”

  He glanced toward the bathroom. He knew that room well. Last time he’d been in there, she’d opened a portal to the Aurelian and he’d gone through it to save her, only to bring back her dead body. It would be good to replace that memory with something else. “Turn the water on for me?”

  She gave him an odd look. “Just because I said I love you doesn’t mean I’m going to wait on you hand and foot, you know.”

  He shook his head. “I’d never assume that. I’d rather the mirrors steam up before I go in there.” Coward.

  “Oh.” She grimaced apologetically. “You don’t want to see your true self.”

  “After the day I’ve just had? No.” Seeing his inner monster seemed like overkill after the mayor had just attempted to put him to death for being a monster. That was enough of a reminder. No, it isn’t.

  “I understand.” She went in and cranked the water on, the shushing sound allowing them to stop whispering.

  He plucked at his T-shirt when she came back out. “I can’t put this stuff back on. There should be a change of clothes in the hurricane shelter.” Unless she’d thrown out his stuff after she’d told him to get out. How far they’d come. Too bad.

  She nodded and the glimmer in her eyes said she was thinking of that moment, too. “I can get down there and back without being seen. Not that any of them would question me wanting something of yours right now.” She turned to go, but he grabbed her hand.

  “I’m really sorry you had to go through that. If I had known, I would have—”

  “Come out during the day?” She smiled. “It’s okay. Now that you’re back, none of that matters.” Her face suddenly went solemn. “Just… don’t do that to me again, okay?”

  “I won’t. I promise.” He leaned in and kissed her.

  Halfway through it, she started to laugh. “Sorry, but you still smell.” She bit her lip to keep from laughing again. “I’ll kiss you more when you get out of the shower.”

  “I’m going to hold you to that.” And hold her against him. The voices could get bent.

  She grinned as she slipped out the door. He inhaled, needing to replace the redolence of sewer with her honeyed perfume. Amazing that she was his willingly. Tugging his shirt off, he headed for the bathroom, where clouds of steam already wafted out the door. More steam had fogged the mirrors until all he could see of himself was a rough, dark shape. He dropped his ruined shirt to the floor and shut the door, leaving it unlocked in case his sweet, angelic comarré had other plans.

  Chrysabelle had laid out a towel for him, so he shucked the remainder of his disgusting clothes and climbed into her cavernous marble and glass shower.

  Hot water sluiced over him, tightening his muscles with an almost painful pleasure. Hot showers were plentiful on the freighter, but something about showering in a space the size of an old-fashioned phone booth sucked the pleasure out of it. Living on her property meant he’d probably get to use this shower whenever he wanted. Preferably with her in it. He leaned into the spray, letting the water beat against his skin and the thrum of it fill his head. The noise almost drowned out the voices.

  Almost.

  He grabbed the shower gel. The label said Lapointe Cosmetics. Thoughts of Maris and all she’d endured for Chrysabelle humbled him. He had no doubts her mother would not approve of their relationship. Mentally, he promised Maris he’d let no harm come to Chrysabelle. Then he squeezed out a palm full of the gel and went to work ridding the sewer’s stench from his body.

  He emerged from the shower feeling better than he had in centuries. The last time he’d been this happy, freshly bathed, and full of blood from the vein had been… never. He snagged the fluffy white towel from the counter and dried off. How many times had this towel dried Chrysabelle? Leaving his hair damp, he wrapped the towel around his waist and walked into the bedroom.

  Chrysabelle was curled in a chair near the French doors, reading through what looked like one of her mother’s journals. The stereo played softly, probably her attempt to block further conversation from the hypersensitive ears downstairs. Jeans and a black T-shirt waited on the bed for him.

  “Checking to see what your mother would think about us?” She’d hate you. We do.

  She jumped, her head coming up with a snap. “You startled me. No, I was…” She frowned, peering at him oddly. “Did the burns leave scars on you?”

  “No, why?”

  She set the journal down and came to him. “You have some weird spots on you.”

  “Spots?” He bowed forward, trying to see himself without losing his towel.

  “Like this.” She touched a place on his forearm above his wrist where there was the smallest area of unmarked skin.

  “That’s where Fi’s name used to be. Remember? It disappeared after Mikkel killed her and never came back even after she got out of that nightmare loop.”

  Her fingers eased to a stop over his right pec. “What about this one?”

  He worked his jaw to one side, processing how good her touch felt. Keeping hold of his control while she was this close and he was this undressed wasn’t easy. He bent his head until he could manage a little better; otherwise the blazing shine of his eyes would give him away. If his body didn’t do that for him in the next couple of seconds. “I don’t know. That’s strange.”

  “And this one?” Her fingers coasted toward his abs, stopping to the left of his navel.

  He staggered back slightly and swallowed. Drinking from the vein after so long had made everything more powerful—his abilities, his senses, and his reactions. Her fingertips burned into his flesh, spilling sparks of pleasure across his nerve endings and muting the voices. Forcing himself to relax, he splayed his hand against his body, stretched the skin for a better look, then shook his head. “I have no idea. Haven’t seen my skin without the names since I escaped the ruins.”

  She rubbed her finger across one of the blank spaces, leaving a trail of heat that burned down to his toes. “You’re missing three, but we can explain one. Do you know whose names they were?”

  That single question quelled the desire threatening his reserve. Instead of answering immediately, he studied the blank spaces, buying time. He knew. He’d had years to do nothing but stare and remember. Talking about them to the woman he loved was completely different. He touched the spot on his stomach. “Margaret.” The teacher from Berlin. Then the spot on his chest. “Helen.” The flower girl in Gloucester. Not memories he was proud of. Not now. Not with her.

  She peered at him, curiosity brightening her eyes. “How—”

  “Don’t.” He gripped her hand, holding her fingers so the contact between them was broken. “Please.” He loosened his grip. “That’s not a conversation I want to have with you.”

  “Okay,” she said softly. “I understand.” She rubbed her thumb across his hand before sliding her fingers from his grasp.

  She seemed saddened by his refusal, so he quickly changed the subject. “Didn’t the Aurelian say the way to undo my curse was to help someone for every name I bear?”

  Chrysabelle nodded. “She did. But who have you helped?”

  They looked at each other, each seeing sudden understanding reflected back at them.

  “You,” Mal said, the thoughts in his head so wild they were almost impossible to believe. “Both times you died.”

  The Seminole Nation bumper sticker on the truck parked outside of Creek’s place meant it belonged to a tribe member. Which tribe member, he wasn’t sure, and what they were doing here was another question. A chill shook him. Unless something had happened to his mother or grandmother.

  He pulled his motorcycle to a stop beside the passenger door and checked inside. Martin Hoops, one of Mawmaw’s neighbors, slouched in the driver’s seat, hat tipped down over his eyes. He look
ed up at the sound of Creek’s V-Rod, leaned over, and rolled the window down. He nodded. “Thomas.”

  “Martin. What are you doing here? Everything all right?”

  Martin pushed his hat back. “Everything’s fine. Your grandmother just wanted to see you. Made you a pineapple upside-down cake. Asked me to bring her over.”

  Mawmaw didn’t drive. Never had, but that hadn’t kept her from getting where she needed to go. Tribe members had a way of doing whatever their healer needed. “Good to hear. Was worried something might have happened.”

  “Naw, old girl’s fit as a fiddle. Just likes to see you now and then.” Martin leaned back, his not-so-subtle hint about Creek’s need to visit more as plain as day.

  “I was just out there.”

  Martin shrugged, closed his eyes, and tugged his hat back down.

  Creek got off his bike and walked it to the door. Which wasn’t locked. How had Mawmaw opened it? She had her ways, but picking locks wasn’t something he’d ever seen her do.

  He pushed the big metal door back and got his answer.

  Annika, shades firmly in place, sat on the stairs up to the sleeping loft while Mawmaw sat nearby on an empty wooden cable spool. They had obviously been engaged in conversation. On his worktable rested a foil-wrapped plate. The foil was pulled back and the cake beneath it had been cut into. Hell. How long had Mawmaw and Annika been talking? This was not good.

  Annika got up to meet him. “Your grandmother makes the best pineapple upside-down cake I’ve ever had.” Behind her, Mawmaw smiled. This was worse than not good.

  “She’s won a few contests with it.” He glanced at his grandmother. “Do you want me to tell Martin you’re ready to go?” Please.

  She frowned. “That’s Mr. Hoops to you, and no. When I’m ready to go, I’ll tell him myself. You just go about your work. I’ll wait.”