Blood Rights (20 page)

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.

‘Get up, vampire.’ Easy to kill. Ha!

He did, almost quicker than her eye could follow. The smirk was gone. She shot a rapid combination of punches toward him, but he blocked them. Was he taking her seriously yet? She couldn’t tell, so she backflipped to gain some space, then leaned into her rear leg and nailed a side kick to his ribs. The crunch of bone and his wince rewarded her. Adrenaline flooded her system. She smiled.

‘Twice in two days.’ He shook his head, muttering curses under his breath. ‘Fine, I get it. You can fight. But your fancy moves aren’t going to kill a vampire.’

‘If I had my blades, I would have staked you already. I did it once, remember?’ She crouched and swept her leg out, knocking
him off his feet a second time. He rolled to his side and back to his feet faster than she’d toppled him. Okay, he still had a vampire’s speed, she’d give him that.

‘Enough,’ he growled. ‘I’m not going to fight you.’

‘I can see that. Too scared?’

He snorted. ‘I don’t want to hurt you.’

‘You’d have to catch me first.’ Speed wasn’t exclusive to vampires.

He reached out to grab her, and she darted away, laughing. Sweat tickled her neck. Sparring this way exhilarated her after such a long period of inactivity. If you didn’t count the night she’d stabbed him in the alley.

With a lightning-quick move, he latched on to her, clipping her arms to her sides. She was completely enveloped. Breath caught in her throat as her lungs struggled to expand. Nothing but his borrowed T-shirt between her skin and his cold, bare chest. She swore she could feel the names writhe against her, wriggling like maggots seeking carrion.

‘Enough, comarré. Be still.’

She lifted onto her tiptoes, arched back and rammed the crown of her head into his nose.

He grunted but held on. A thin line of blood trickled from one nostril. ‘You’re a freaking pain, you know that?’ His arms tightened, decreasing her air further. ‘In a real fight, you’d never get close enough to do that.’ His jaw cocked to one side. ‘You’ve never fought a real vampire, have you?’

‘Yes, I have.’ Not technically a lie if you considered the fringe that the comarré trained with as real vampires. She inhaled as deeply as she could.

‘Besides me.’

‘Let go of me.’ Small spots danced at the corners of her vision
as it became harder to breathe. She dropped her chin and slanted her eyes, trying to find the sword she’d tossed. It was about a foot behind her. Her fingers reflexively went for her missing wrist blades. If he’d been anyone else, he would be ash right now.

‘I thought not.’ A soft growl lifted her head. His face was inches from hers. ‘You think asking to be let go works with most vampires?’ He shifted, giving her a little more breathing room while moving impossibly closer. His legs straddled hers. As though he owned her. ‘You think it’s going to work with me?’

‘Yes,’ she whispered, magnetized by his gleaming metal gaze. For all his protests, he certainly took to the role of patron with ease. She forced her eyes down. Fangs jutted behind his top lip. His tongue flicked over them. Would he bite her? Kiss her? Did he even know how a patron should behave? Not that proper behavior or protocol mattered to one like him. He was more beast than brains.

His head moved back and forth a millimeter in each direction. ‘This means you lose.’

‘No.’ If she could distract him, she could get free, and if she could get free, she could grab the sword and turn things to her advantage. ‘The fight’s not over yet.’

‘I think it is.’ Mouth open, his head bent toward her in that way of his, like he was trying to inhale her and taste her at the same time. The hunger must be growing in him. He’d need to feed again soon, and she was the most accessible source of blood.

Of course. Why hadn’t she thought of it sooner? She’d told him that owning her blood rights diminished the power of her scent over him. He was right about her lying in that instance. If a patron didn’t drink from his comarré soon after taking blood
rights, the urge to consume only increased. By now, Mal’s head must be swimming.

She needed him to drown.

With her thumb, she released the tiny blade hidden in her ring, flattened her palm, and shoved the pin dagger through the thin pajama pants and into her thigh. A brief flash of pain. Then she yanked it out.

Wet heat trickled down her leg. Blood scent blossomed around them like hothouse gardenias, sweet and rich and unexpected.

‘What did you—’ Mal’s body went taut. The muscles in his neck tensed into bands. He shook his head. Whispered, ‘No.’

He released her and backed away. The silver in his gaze tarnished to black as his eyes threatened to roll into his head. This was not quite the effect she’d imagined, but she’d gotten free, so that was—

He crouched onto all fours. ‘Get out.’ The words sounded like they’d been spoken by several voices in unison.

‘Why? What’s wrong?’

‘Go!’ The names that covered him began to shift and grow. The swirling letters expanded into inky puddles, spilling over his skin and turning every visible inch black as night. His back arched, his muscles flexing and contracting like someone else controlled them. He lifted his head. Not a glint of white remained in his eyes. His face had shifted beyond the hard ridges and predatory angles of a vampire in full regalia to something far more frightening. Something born of the devil’s nightmares.

His fangs were longer than any she’d ever seen, his body somehow larger, more muscled. A wall-shaking roar bellowed out of him. The freighter rocked like a cradle. He pushed to his feet, as dark and fearsome as a sudden storm.

She backed up. Nothing in her training had prepared her for this. ‘You know, maybe I will go—’

‘Too late.’ His voice was a chorus of thousands. He strode forward. ‘We’ve had enough of you, comarré whore. The vampire is ours, do you understand?’

‘Yes, of course. All yours.’ The sword twisted under her slippers, tripping her retreating feet. She went down.

He grinned and stalked closer.

Her breath caught in her throat, her pulse racing. If she could just reach the katana …

‘Too late for you,’ the voices singsonged.

Her fingers curved around the hilt as a thundercloud of fangs and muscle lunged.

T
atiana blinked hard against the artificial light. It stung her eyes, so she closed them again and reached out to test her surroundings.

The sheets beneath her were soft and dry, the bed empty save her. She inhaled a familiar fragrance. Mikkel. She was home.

‘Are you awake, darling?’ Mikkel’s voice played over her like a lullaby.

She opened her eyes to thin slits, and his handsome face came into view. The tension that had tightened her body like a bowstring since the Castus had taken her finally dissipated. ‘I’m home.’

‘Yes.’ The bed dipped as he sat. He curled his fingers under her hand, lifted it to his mouth, and kissed her knuckles.

Contact was the last thing she wanted, but she stopped herself from pulling away when she saw the look of concern on his face. She needed Mikkel. ‘How long?’

‘You’ve only been gone two days.’

Two days in real time, but with the Castus it was hard to tell.
Time meant nothing to them. A day, a year, a century … one was just the same as another. ‘When did I return?’

‘Midnight last.’

Three days she’d been kept from the hunt. She sighed in frustration.

‘Darling?’ His eyes filled with concern.

Her lids closed. She didn’t want to see the horrors of her body reflected in his pitying gaze or to be reminded of how they’d used her. Let what had passed stay that way. ‘How long before I’m healed?’

‘Don’t you feel healed?’ He stroked her arm. ‘Do you still hurt?’

The touch made her want to retch. She rolled to her side, using the movement to turn out of his grasp. ‘I don’t know … ’

Taking stock of herself, she found only the softest echoes of discomfort. Her fingers crested the hills and valleys of her body. Her eyes and mouth opened on a gasp. No welts, no crusted cuts, no tender spots. It was one thing to heal quickly from an ordinary wound, but a mark made by the Castus took time. And blood.