Blood Rights (29 page)

‘How did you do that?’

‘Do what?’

She resisted the urge to slap him. ‘You know what I mean.’

He shrugged. ‘It’s just something I can do.’

‘How?’

‘Don’t worry about it.’

Fine, he wanted to act like it was nothing, she’d let him. But not yet. ‘Doc know you can do that?’

‘He knows.’ He pushed past her and toward a red-lit corridor. She grabbed his arm. ‘You ever do that to him?’

He pulled her close, a move she recognized as an attempt to scare her into acquiescing. He could try all he wanted, but she’d begun to figure him out. ‘You have more questions? Because if
you do, we’ll leave. Dawn’s coming. Your aunt can handle that, wherever she is. I can’t.’

Not breathing him in was impossible this close. She turned her face away. ‘No more questions.’ For now. She let go of his arm and he caught her wrist, keeping her in place.

‘This is not a safe place. Stay close. Understood?’

‘Yes,
patronus
.’

His mouth bent slightly at her condescending tone, but then he was off through the corridor and she was hurrying to catch up. Several yards down the hall they came to a set of double doors, steel like the exterior one and in no better shape.

‘This place is a dump.’

He snorted and knocked three times. A peephole in the door opened. The faint rumble of music drifted out. If someone inspected them, she couldn’t see. The peephole closed.

The door was unbolted and swung wide. A heavily armed fringe vamp greeted them with a curious gaze and a respectful bow. ‘Enjoy yourselves.’

Mal’s arm settled around her waist. She opened her mouth to protest, but he shook his head slightly, his eyes full of warning. With her pressed to his side, they made their way through a set of heavy velvet drapes.

Everything changed.

The room unfurled into a sultan’s harem. Luscious fabrics covered the walls, tufted floor pillows surrounded low tables of burnished wood, all glistening beneath elaborate crystal chandeliers. A heavy, seductive rhythm thumped loud enough to prevent eavesdropping. Several varieties of othernaturals danced on top of platforms throughout the space and the sweet copper scent of blood drowsed the air like opium. Vampires – all fringe – mingled with various types of fae, some varcolai, and an
assortment of beautiful human men and women dressed in white with blond hair and ruby lips and …

Glints of swirling gold.

‘This is new,’ Mal muttered.

Her heart thudded with realization. Her hand shot for her sacre, but Mal caught it before she reached the weapon’s handle, interlaced his fingers with hers, and drew her in as though they were embracing. ‘Relax,’ he whispered in her ear.

She struggled against his cold grip, working her fingers loose. ‘Those are comarré. Serving fringe. They’ve got to be here against their will.’

‘Shh … ’ He shook his head. ‘Look closer.’

‘I need to help—’

‘Look,’ he whispered again, this time cupping her cheek and gently turning her head.

She stared, heart beating with the need to rescue her brothers and sisters. Being tied to nobility was bad enough, but fringe? After a long minute, her heart slowed. The signum weren’t quite right. Some of the red lips were smudged. Dark roots shadowed pale locks. She relaxed her hand, splaying it against his chest to steady herself. ‘They’re counterfeit.’

She’d never seen such a thing. Never imagined it. Still pressed to him, she stared harder, picking out the subtle ways they were different. ‘Do they glow?’

‘No. Not like you.’ His mouth was above her ear now, causing his voice to reverberate through her hair. His mouth moved against her scalp as though he wanted to say something else, but he kept silent.

‘Fake comarré.’ She spat the word. Seeing the impostors doused her with a cold splash of indignation. Being comarré was not something to play at. It wasn’t a game. Wasn’t a costume that
could be taken on and off at will. Had Mal felt this way that first night at the club, surrounded by humans pretending to be his bloodsucking brothers?

‘Not fake exactly, but not real either. They’re a sort of fringe, like the masters they serve.’ He inhaled and the movement of air lifted a shiver from her. ‘They don’t have your perfume, your glow … your … ’ He swallowed, a purely reflexive action. ‘They’re nothing like you.’

She should pull out of his embrace. ‘I don’t like it.’

‘I don’t either, but this is not our world.’ He made no move to release her. ‘You’re not going to hurt anyone, are you?’

Our
world. How staggering three letters could be. ‘Not at the moment, no.’

‘Then I’m going to let you go, but you’ve got to stay close to me. I doubt they’ve seen a genuine comarré before.’ Still, he held her tight. ‘If they think I’m your patron, they’ll leave you alone.’

‘You are my patron.’ Where they touched, his body had warmed to the same temperature as hers. She wondered if the heat was a boon or a bother.

‘You know what I mean.’ He sighed, ruffling her hair with the exhale. ‘One of these vamps thinks you’re available and we’re all going to be breathing ashes.’

‘Understood.’

With a reluctant slowness, his hands loosened and his arm returned to her waist. ‘Let’s find Dominic.’

The main room had seven arched doorways, each labeled with one of the seven deadly sins. Vanity had glistening gold-mirrored curtains covering the entrance, Envy had gilded chain mail, Sloth had nothing. Wrath’s doors were riveted steel and guarded by an armed shadeux fae, which was kind of like igniting both ends of
a stick of dynamite – completely unnecessary and bound to result in someone getting hurt.

Mal directed them toward Lust. Beyond the heavy suede curtain, a red glass bar curved against the far wall. Vampires lay on embroidered chaises while the fake comarré flitted around them. Chrysabelle’s gut soured at the sight.

As she and Mal approached the bar, a woman came toward them, every inch of visible skin hennaed in delicate fae runes. Her sheer silks were trimmed in gold like a storybook genie’s, but her pointed ears and overlarge eyes gave away her true lineage.

Haerbinger fae.

Chrysabelle’s gut went from sour to ice-cold. The fae extended her hands palms up, the chains connecting the rings on her middle fingers to her wrist bracelets swaying. Why wasn’t she wearing gloves?

‘Surely this must be a special occasion for the noble Malkolm to grace us. Or have you decided to return to the Pits?’

‘Satima.’ Mal gave the fae a curt nod. His hold on Chrysabelle tightened. What were the Pits? He’d flinched just the tiniest bit at that question. ‘Where’s Dominic?’

Satima laughed, a lovely tinkling sound offset by the sharp teeth glistening behind her wine-stained lips. ‘Still the same charmer, I see.’ She turned her voluminous chocolate eyes on Chrysabelle and leaned in. ‘Hello there, pretty one. I don’t think I’ve met you before.’

Without thinking, Chrysabelle took a step behind Mal and grabbed hold of his leather coat. Haerbinger fae drank blood. Something he obviously knew too, as he moved to shield her further.

‘Satima.’ Mal’s warning echoed like distant thunder, rippling through Chrysabelle where she clung to him.

‘Now, now,’ Satima said. ‘There’s nothing wrong with a little sharing among old friends.’

Mal’s body completely blocked Chrysabelle’s view of the haerbinger. She leaned closer, putting her head down. His hands fisted. ‘I don’t share, and we’ve never been friends.’

Chrysabelle twisted against him, putting them back to back for better defensive position. Instantly, his body tensed like he’d been shocked. One hand reached back and pushed her away enough to separate them.

‘Hmph,’ she snorted. He hadn’t had a problem with touching her earlier. Beneath her shirt, she adjusted the sacre’s strap where it dug into her should— She stopped, realizing she’d rested the blade against him. Had he actually felt its heat through the leather sheath and the fabric of their clothes? Was that possible? But then she’d never known a vampire who could charm varcolai. Mal was one surprise after another.

Satima laughed again. ‘You’re wise to hide your pet in here. Come out, pretty one. I won’t bite unless asked. Or your patron gives his blessing.’

Chrysabelle stayed where she was.

‘Which I won’t,’ Mal assured her. ‘Now get Dominic before I start looking for him myself.’

‘Dominic’s not here,’ Satima said.

‘He’s here,’ Mal countered. ‘Get him. Now.’

Chrysabelle’s fists itched to teach the haerbinger a lesson about what a real comarré could do. Unfortunately, hitting the fae wouldn’t dissipate the attention they were already attracting. She snuck a glance around Mal. Satima sauntered away. That didn’t keep heads from turning to watch them or conversations from quieting in an attempt to hear what was going on. A few of the fringe vamps eyed her with more than curiosity.

Especially the one stalking toward her.

She tugged at Mal’s coat. ‘We have more company.’ Large company, with fangs showing, flames shaved into his close-cropped hair, and tiny gold hoops glinting at each earlobe.

The fringe vamp stopped in front of her, appraising her like she imagined one might a racehorse. Or a steak dinner. He held out his hand. ‘Come with me.’

‘Like hell she will.’ Mal turned, his words a twisted snarl. ‘She’s mine, Ronan.’

She ignored the subtle charge of his claiming her. Little point in reveling in a pretense. ‘You know this fringe?’

Ronan dropped his hand and hooked a thumb in the waistband of his leather pants. An unwanted thrill rippled through her. Curse her fickle blood. No, curse Mal. Until he pierced her skin and truly became her patron, she’d waver every time a new set of fangs showed themselves.

‘Yeah, he knows me.’ Ronan leaned in and smiled. His fangs weren’t as long as Mal’s. The fire inside her cooled a bit. ‘Which is why he’s not going to fight me over you. Not to mention I’m head of security here now.’ He grabbed her bicep and hauled her forward.

Mal grabbed her other arm and yanked back.

‘Hey!’ She jerked her arm from Ronan’s grasp, falling hard into Mal. The sacre made contact again and he sucked in sharply. She moved away quickly but still stayed close. Maybe she should unsheathe the weapon and dissect this fringe’s C1 and C2 vertebrae. Holy mother, she wanted to hit something. The need to lash out coiled in her muscles.

Mal held her hand. Possessively. Like she was his property. Which, technically, she was. ‘I don’t care what you’re the head of. Touch her again and I’ll kill you.’

Ronan laughed. ‘You mean you’ll try. Don’t forget who came out of the Pits a victor, old man.’ He reached for Chrysabelle a second time.

‘Things have changed since those days, whelp.’ Mal’s fist slammed Ronan’s head back, dropping him before the fringe made contact. Mal curved his arm around her, gently moving her behind him as Ronan shot to his feet.

Her sense of relief didn’t last long.

Fingers lifted a section of her hair. ‘Pretty.’

She spun and came face to face with a male version of Satima. Sweet sunlight. Another haerbinger. At least he couldn’t make skin contact thanks to the flesh-colored leather covering his hands. Henna runes decorated his arms but turned into a swirling phoenix design on his bare chest.

‘Don’t get any ideas, haerbinger.’ Her fingers itched for her wrist blades.

Mal glanced over his shoulder. ‘Pasha only drinks from Satima.’

Chrysabelle studied the new fae. A subtle glow that had nothing to do with the club’s lighting system emanated from his eyes. ‘Are you … ?’

‘Gemini?’ Pasha smiled, his teeth as sharp and white as a wolverine’s. ‘Yes, I am.’

Chrysabelle shuddered, ignoring the scuffling going on behind her. Paradise City just got better and better. ‘That makes Satima your twin.’ No wonder he only drank from her.

Gemini haerbinger were rare. When twin haerbinger fae were born, one twin carried the power to read futures while the other carried no power at all, but unless the gifted twin’s blood remained pure, the gift would be lost. Which meant feeding from the ungifted twin. Usually, the ungifted twin killed the other.

Before Pasha could respond, Satima sidled up to him, sliding her arms around his waist and pressing the length of her body against him. She kissed his neck and winked at Chrysabelle. ‘Dominic will see you now.’

‘Very good.’ Freaks. She turned to get Mal. He was holding Ronan off the floor by his throat. ‘Satima said—’

‘I heard.’ Jerking his arm, he threw Ronan into a flank of low couches, scattering patrons. Mal smoothed his coat. ‘After you.’

They followed Satima and Pasha until it became clear the twins were taking them to the door to Wrath.

‘There are other ways to Dominic’s office.’ Mal’s voice grated with an undercurrent of anger.

Satima shrugged. ‘He asked me to bring you this way.’

Liar,
Chrysabelle wanted to shout. Even without the true connection of patron and comarré, she could feel Mal’s discomfort. Was there something behind that door he feared or was it the temptation of wrath itself? She reached for his forearm and gave the corded muscle a squeeze.