Bad Blood (7 page)

“That’s being taken care of. Right now, you’re her first priority. Anything you know about what happened to her daughter matters most.” LED panels on the ceiling framed the varcolai in bright white light. He leaned closer, still wearing the dark shades. “How are you not dead? Your wounds would have killed most mortals.”

Creek ignored the question. Judging from the black sky visible through the blinds, it was either a few hours later or the next night. “How did I end up in the hospital?”

He pushed to a sitting position, testing the muscles in his ruined shoulder. Fresh pain cramped his body, and his bones felt on the verge of shattering. Nothos poison was a Swedish massage compared to the bite of the Castus Sanguis. Not that he really knew. Like all KM, he’d been sealed against Nothos venom.

A second later, a headrush nearly laid him down again. He rubbed the back of his head to buy some time. How much blood had he lost? Speaking of lost… he scanned the room as the dizziness abated. No sign of his halm. Argent wasn’t going to be happy about a second lost weapon in less than two weeks, but then, his sector chief was rarely happy about anything.

“I secured the mayor in her vehicle, then followed you. By the time I found you in the alley, you were a bloody, pulpy mess. I figured you’d be out more than just a few hours.”

So it wasn’t the next night. “You should have seen the other guy.”

The joke was lost on the varcolai. “I didn’t. What was it?”

“Don’t worry about it.” Creek pulled the tape off the IV in his hand and slid the needle out. Time to go before he had to explain to a doctor why his blood was a few degrees off normal and his body regenerated at a nonhuman rate.

The varcolai’s beefy paw came down on his wrist. “I don’t think you’re showing the proper appreciation. If not for me, you’d have bled out in that alley.”

“Not a chance.” Creek squinted and stared into the shifter’s dark shades. If eyes were the windows to the soul, this guy’s soul must really need hiding. “I would have been fine. Been through worse.” Like getting staked to the floor with his own crossbow bolts. The memory caused a new twinge of pain through his shoulder.

The shifter’s hand lifted. “I get it. Self-proclaimed superhero, huh?” He snorted. “You think what’s happening in Paradise City is some kind of phase the city’s going through? You have no idea what’s happening, buddy. None.”

“Look…” Creek hesitated. “You have a name?”

“Havoc.”

Beautiful. Must have picked that one out himself. “Look, Havoc, you’re the one who has no idea what’s happening.” He swung his legs out of the bed. “Where are my clothes?”

“Trashed. You want out of here, I’m your best bet.” The shifter smiled, an altogether unpleasant expression. “Actually, I’m your only bet.”

“I said I’d talk to the mayor and I will, but first I need to go home and get things together.” Like alerting Chrysabelle someone had just taken out a fake comarré. The possibility existed that the killer had been after the original, not a copy. Creek stood. The draft from the AC sent a chill into the open back of the hospital gown. They couldn’t have left his boxers on? This was going to be a fun day.

“You’re going now.”

“Already agreed to eight a.m. tomorrow. I’ll be there.”

Havoc shook his head. “Can’t take the chance you’ll go vigilante on me again and get yourself killed.” He gestured toward the door. “Time is now. Don’t make this any harder than it needs to be.”

Harder? Damn shifter had no idea who he was talking to. Creek really wasn’t in the mood for this, but luckily for Havoc Creek wasn’t in any shape to brawl with a guy who outweighed and outreached him. “Does the mayor ever ask why you need the night off when there’s a full moon?”

Havoc leaned forward, the smell of wet dog wafting off him at close range. “I’m sure that wouldn’t interest her nearly as much as the words branded on your back.” He jerked his thumb toward the wheelchair in the corner of the room. “Get in. I’ve got a car waiting.”

M
al hated being this far down into the bowels of Seven. It was like being in the ruins where Tatiana had imprisoned him. Where his curse had first manifested.
Where you should still be.
Gave him that hopeless, buried feeling. Like he wanted to claw through the concrete and—At last, Mortalis slowed. The twists and turns they’d taken had led them through thick metal doors and simple concrete corridors with no signs of the opulence visible in the general living quarters occupied by Dominic and his staff and those reserved for guests. Only the glow of the phosphorescent ceiling lit the way. If Dominic kept the signumist down here, chances were good the man was being held against his will.

“We’re here,” Mortalis said, turning to Chrysabelle. The curve of his horns cast sharp shadows on his cheeks. “You’ll be coming in alone?”

“No,” Mal answered. “I’ll be with her.” This signumist could see Chrysabelle as a chance to exact his anger at Dominic, especially with her still weak and recovering. If he knew Chrysabelle wasn’t alone in this venture, he might not act out.

Chrysabelle’s mouth bent downward and both hands gripped the cane’s handle. “If you come in, you have to behave. No comments about what a stupid idea you think this is or how the guy better be careful or you’ll kill him or any of that.”

“Done.” But the man better watch himself or death would be a merciful dream compared to what Mal would do to him.
Yesss
, the voices hissed.
Blood blood blood.

Mortalis pressed his hand to a panel of concrete. A blue-green glow emerged on the wall, outlining the shape of a door. He stuck a finger into the middle of the space and began to draw. The light followed his finger and runes appeared in the air.

“Those are signum,” Chrysabelle whispered. “This is comarré magic.”

Mal nodded. “Like the portals at Tatiana’s.”

“Yes,” Mortalis answered. The last rune drawn, he pressed the door once again. This time it opened. He walked through. “Quickly.”

Chrysabelle went next, Mal behind her. When he was through, the door slid shut again. “
Just
like the portals at Tatiana’s.” He looked at Mortalis. “Are we stuck here for a certain length of time, or can this door be opened at will?”

“At will. Follow me.”

Here, carpet lined the corridor’s floor, and the walls were drywalled and painted. A minimal number of antiqued sconces lit the way. Less like a prison cell but still not close to the same richness Dominic and his staff enjoyed.

At the hall’s end, a simple paneled wood door awaited them. Mortalis pressed a small button by the doorjamb.
Muted chimes sounded from within. Chrysabelle leaned against the wall, the cane in front of her. Mal wondered if the walk had tired her. Her pulse hadn’t increased, so if she was in pain, she hid it well.

Several moments later a man answered. He wore the familiar white tunic and loose pants Mal had come to know as the comarré uniform, but he bore no signum that Mal could see. The man stared past them into the corridor beyond. “Mortalis. Good evening. Forgive me, I must have forgotten I had work tonight. No matter. I can prepare quickly.” He smiled softly, his gaze shifting across them. “What is the name of the comarré to be marked?”

Chrysabelle glanced at Mal, then back at Atticus. Her pulse had kicked up the moment Atticus had opened the door. Mal doubted it was pain. Something akin to fear played in her eyes. No doubt memories of the past signum she’d endured. And here she was, ready to take on more. That she could face something that scared her so deeply amazed him. Her brother best appreciate what she was doing to find him. Mal reached out for her, not entirely sure what comfort he could offer, but she shook her head slightly. He retracted his hand without touching her. Just as well. Comfort had never been his strong suit.
More like killing.

“Good evening, Atticus. No work tonight, not exactly. But I do have a comarré with me.”

Atticus tipped his head a little and flared his nostrils. “And a vampire. This is… unusual. All is well?”

“All is well. May we come in?”

“Of course.” Atticus stepped aside.

Darkness and shadow cloaked the apartment’s interior. Atticus went ahead of them. “Let me turn on some lights. I don’t normally use them. Seems wasteful.” He smiled
again. If he was being held against his will, he seemed happy enough about it. “Lights, please,” he commanded.

Instantly, soft illumination removed the darkness. Minimal but expensive furnishings filled the space. Several closed doors led off the main room. Atticus walked a distinct path to take a seat on the rounded-edge sectional. He held his hands out, displaying intricate signum on his wrists. That was a good sign, Mal guessed.
Like you’d know.
“Please, sit.”

Chrysabelle passed Mortalis to sit beside Atticus. Her chest rose and fell, matching the pace of her heartbeat as she tucked the cane against her side. “You’re a real signumist.”

Atticus turned toward her. “Yes.” He leaned in toward her an inch or so. “And judging by the perfume of gold that surrounds you, you’re a real comarré. Haven’t been around one of you in a long while.”

Mal crossed his arms. What kind of games was this guy playing? “You can take one look at her and figure out she’s real.”

Atticus faced Mal. “I suppose
you
can.”

“Mal.” Chrysabelle’s voice held a warning.

Atticus lifted his hand, displaying a sun-shaped signum on his wrist similar to the one Chrysabelle bore on the nape of her neck. “It’s all right. The noble one does not know our ways. He does not realize I am blind.”

“Blind?” Mal uncrossed his arms and lurched forward. “You’re going to let a blind man engrave your skin with molten gold? How can you think for a minute this man knows what he’s doing?”

Chrysabelle pushed to her feet, blocking his path. She grabbed his arm with her free hand, the strength of her
grip bordering on painful. The fear had vanished from her eyes and her voice was low and stern. “Mal, all the signumists are blind. It’s a requirement. To keep the purity of the comarré intact.” She softened her voice and her hold on him. “They work on every part of our bodies. It’s the comarré way.”

Images of an almost naked Chrysabelle swarmed his brain, of the delicate swirls and patterns that covered every inch of her. Heat rose in his body, matching the whine in his head. He shook her hand off him. Mal wanted her touch, but not this way. Not when she thought he needed to be restrained lest he do something foolish. He relaxed, let the tension out of his body in a noticeable way for her sake, then lowered his voice. “You’re telling me there are enough blind people interested in the job of signumist that it just happens to work out that way?”

“No, it’s—”

Atticus laughed, a low, nonthreatening sound. “No, friend. Just like you, I wasn’t born into my current state.” He blinked but his eyes remained focused on nothing. “I gave up my sight voluntarily.”

That, Mal thought, was where the similarities between them ended.

Tatiana settled into the handsome leather chair in Ivan’s old office, one room in the massive estate she would very soon become the rightful owner of. A few preliminaries and it was done. She knew it in her gut.

Octavian stood at the bar, pouring them each a glass of Ivan’s best red. He stoppered the decanter and brought a glass to her. “Are you sure it’s wise to set these things in
place before the council has made it official?” He set her glass down, then took his own and retired to the chair adjacent her desk.

She sipped the red before answering. Ivan’s taste was impeccable. She’d give the old pile of rubble that. “The council’s decision is merely a formality. The ancient ones will tell them to make me Dominus and they will obey. Lining up a loyal noble to take over the position of Elder just makes good sense. Especially because it allows whomever I choose to prove themselves.” She offered him a rare smile. “You’ll see.”

He returned her smile and lifted his glass to her. “As always, I learn so much from you.”

“In bed as well as out.”

He dipped his head at her words, making her laugh with her own wickedness. Turning Octavian was one of the best decisions she’d ever made. He was young, but a quick learner and capable of anticipating her needs, just as he’d done when he’d been the head of her household staff. Yet another position that needed filling. “Any ideas as to who might be ready to take over your old position?”