Blood Rights (34 page)

D
rainherkillherdrainherkill—

Mal grabbed the sheathed blade of Chrysabelle’s sword. Searing heat snarled through the leather and bit his palm, snuffing the voices out like wet fingers on a wick. He released the blade, flexing his stinging hand. Since he’d woken, the voices had pounded his skull. The hunger whipped them into a frenzy. But so did being near Chrysabelle.

And lately, he’d been very near her. Filled with her scent, wary of every shift of her body, every flash of golden light that glinted off her skin and the glow that surrounded her like sunlight. He closed his eyes and rolled his head from side to side, trying to listen to the subtle movement of his bones instead of her heartbeat, but it was still there. Always there. Even now he could hear the ethereal softening of her pulse as she bled herself into the goblet.

Drinking her was only going to make things worse.
Not if you drink her to death.

His teeth ached, but not as much as other parts of him. He was a fool to pretend he didn’t want her. But a bigger fool to pretend
he could have her. That she would want him back. When this was over, she’d be gone.
Good.
That’s what he wanted. What he’d told her he required if she wanted his help. Alone was what he was most used to anyway.
What you deserve.
It was the easiest. The safest.

The scent of blood overwhelmed his senses. The goblet must be nearly full by now. He swallowed the saliva pooling under his tongue.

No wonder she thought he viewed her as food. The beast inside him definitely did, but not the tattered remains of the man he’d once been. That infinitesimal part of him recognized her for the woman she was, and then reminded him he’d never been the kind of man any decent woman wanted. This time, the only voice in his head was his own.
Not then, not now.

He shook his head in disgust. Thoughts like that were a disservice to his beautiful Shaya’s memory, rest her soul. She had been a decent woman.
Whore. Thief. Cheat.
He squeezed his lids together, desperate to ignore the voices. No, she hadn’t been a decent woman by society’s standards, or they wouldn’t have put her on the gallows.

Chrysabelle was a very different woman from Shaya, that much was certain. So different, that deep in that charred, grizzled place that had once held his heart, a speck of longing had taken hold. A hope so small, he refused to acknowledge it.
You don’t deserve hope.
Why should he? Wasn’t there enough pain in his life?
No.

‘Mal?’

He whirled, caught off guard for a rare moment. ‘What? I wasn’t—’ The blood scent hit him hard, tightening his body with white-hot need. The voices leveled to a soft whine.

Chrysabelle stood waiting, goblet in hand. Two punctures
marked her wrist. She’d purposefully pierced herself to make it look like he’d done it.

‘I called you twice.’ She met his eyes as she raised the goblet, peering at him like he’d become someone else. ‘It’s going to get cold if you don’t … ’ She shrugged and reached to set it down on the table.

He took it from her, brushing his cold fingertips over her warm ones. The brief contact magnified the cravings already echoing through him. He steeled himself against the need. ‘Thank you.’

Her brows lifted, but she said nothing. Was it such a surprise that he could show gratitude? Perhaps it was. Let it be. The shock was good for her. She shouldn’t grow comfortable around him. That way led to danger.

He lifted the glass to his lips, then stopped and stared back. ‘Do you like watching?’

‘What? No.’ She turned away, but not before the skin on her gilded cheeks colored.

He hadn’t expected her to be shy about this, of all things, and as proof of his depravity, needling her gave him pleasure. She wanted him to drink. She could bear a little suffering for it. Especially since he seemed to be the only one of them struggling with this strange partnership. ‘You can if you want.’

‘I don’t.’ She walked to the bed. Her hands smoothed the bed linens where he’d rested.

‘Why not?’ Even in Doc’s big shirt, the lean, feminine lines of her body were pleasing. Not that Mal cared.

‘Because.’ She fluffed the pillow.

‘That’s not an answer.’ The warmth seeped through the glass into his hand. Her warmth. He groaned inwardly. For a moment, he forgot which one of them he was torturing.

‘I don’t want to. That’s all.’ She stood by the bed, eyes focused on anything but him.

‘You should.’ He brought the goblet to his nose and inhaled. This time, he couldn’t muzzle the groan. The rattling in his head grew louder.

‘Why?’ That got her to face him. Her jaw was set in a stoniness matched only by her eyes. ‘For what purpose?’

‘You should know what you do to me.’ If he wasn’t already on a slow train to hell, that certainly guaranteed his ticket.

‘I know very well what
my blood
does to you.’ She rolled her eyes and had the audacity to look amused. ‘Now drink. The flirting isn’t getting you anywhere.’

‘Flirting? Is that what you think I’m doing? Not bloody likely.’ He hadn’t flirted with anyone since he’d given up the vein, and he wasn’t about to start with a woman who’d stated more than once her willingness to kill him. Annoyed, he knocked the glass back, downing the contents in several rapid swallows.

The power of her blood slammed into him like a fist.

Arcing pain shot from joint to joint, flaring through his muscles. He ground his teeth to keep from vocalizing, but the sheer volume of agony doubled him. He went to his knees. The glass slipped from his grasp, spraying red droplets over the Persian carpet. By the time the goblet had stopped rolling, the pain that had come so fast had disappeared. A new clarity invaded him, filling him with invigorating strength. His head cleared of all but his own incredulous thoughts. The voices vanished, buried beneath the rarest of all sounds – the beating of his heart.

Sweat cooled the back of his neck. He lifted his head. Chrysabelle stood directly in front of him, arms crossed, and smirking.

‘Feeling better?’ she asked.

He pressed his hand to his chest. ‘It’s beating. I can’t get used to that.’

‘Here.’ She handed him the bottle of water off the tray.

‘I don’t need that.’ Life, real life, coursed through him.

‘Yes, you do. You have to kiss me, and you just downed a glassful of blood. My blood, but still. That might work for you, but I don’t particularly want to taste it.’ She pushed the bottle closer. ‘Drink.’

‘It didn’t bother you the first time.’ He jumped to his feet. Maybe it was the hot rush of blood, the new burst of energy or the beautiful woman in front of him, but suddenly, kissing her didn’t seem like such an awful thing to suffer through. He’d been angry the first time. Unsure of himself and the way her blood had affected him. This time, he wasn’t angry. If kissing her was the price he had to pay for feeling this strong and this powerful, so be it.

‘It didn’t occur to me the first time.’

He took the bottle, wrenched off the cap, and drank. He swallowed with gusto and held out his arms. ‘Happy?’

‘Not particularly, no.’ In fact, she looked downright terrified. ‘Just get it over with.’

‘Now who’s flirting?’ He tossed the bottle aside and reached for her. The honeyed perfume that surrounded her enveloped him with a fresh wave of intoxication. His hands fit to her waist like they’d been there a thousand times before.

Tentatively, her hands found his arms, resting on his biceps. Keeping him at bay. Without any real effort, he assumed his human face and retracted his fangs. ‘Better?’

‘Just do it, please.’

He bent his head and brushed his mouth across hers with a gentleness he hoped would forgive the first time he’d done this
to her. Her lips parted under his press, and he tasted the same warm sweetness he’d just drunk, but purer. He lifted one hand to her neck, threading his fingers into her hair and grazing his thumb across the pulse that trembled beneath her ear. The skin there was so warm and soft he had to fight to keep his fangs retracted.

Her grip tightened on his arms. Her head tilted a little farther back.

And then a sharp realization pierced him. She wasn’t food. She was
life
. Brilliant and sparkling and powerful. No one had ever made him feel—

The door swung open. At the noise, she pushed away and scrambled for her weapons. Her cheeks flushed and she bent her head, swinging her hair down to hide her face as she strapped the blades on.

Ronan stood in the open door, leering at Chrysabelle like the bloody fool he was. He laughed rudely. ‘Looks like you’re not so superior after all, princess. At least Dominic’s whores get paid.’

Mal took a step toward the whelp as Chrysabelle twisted toward him in a blur of white and gold. Something shot from her hand. Ronan howled, grabbing at his suddenly bloody shoulder. A bone dagger protruded from it, sending up wisps of smoke.

Mal looked at her in amazement. ‘I barely saw you move.’ She shrugged. ‘It’s the kiss. I’m always fastest after a fresh infusion of power. Not usually that fast, but you’re a lot stronger than Algernon was. He never had the benefit of his drained sire’s powers.’

Oh good. At least he had that going for him.

She walked to Ronan, yanked the blade out of his body, and
wiped it on his shirt. ‘Was there a reason you barged in without knocking?’

‘You little whore.’ He reared back, fist raised.

She punched him where the dagger had been. Dropping his hand, he groaned and staggered back, smacking into the door. ‘Answer me, or it’s Malkolm’s turn to take a shot.’

Now that sounded like fun.

Angry vapors wafted off Ronan, but a quick glance at Mal kept him from reacting further. His lips curled back in an evil sneer. ‘Mortalis is back. Your aunt’s ticket’s been punched.’

‘Where is she?’ Chrysabelle shoved through Dominic’s office door. He and Mortalis were bent over a small figure on the couch. The Asian woman from the Pits slouched in Dominic’s desk chair. Chrysabelle’s stomach roiled with panic. ‘What happened? Is she okay?’

The vampire and the fae moved to face her, giving her a clear look at the blood-covered figure. She stopped dead and released the breath she’d been holding. ‘That’s not my aunt.’

‘That’s Nyssa,’ Mal said behind her.

‘Is she going to be okay? I know that name. Who is she?’

‘She’s a runner for Jonas Sweets. And she should be fine.’

Jonas was the guy Maris had contacted. A numbing chill settled into her belly. Had they already broken Maris? ‘He’s the guy who sent me to you.’

‘Yes,’ Mal answered.

Mortalis turned back to Nyssa, but Dominic approached Chrysabelle. She started in before he could speak. ‘Ronan said Maris’s ticket had been punched. What did he mean? Where is she? What’s going on?’

Dominic held his hands up. ‘Ronan is a heartless fool.’

‘There’s a lot of that going around,’ the Asian woman said. She twirled a jeweled letter opener in her fingers.

‘Katsumi.’ The warning in Dominic’s voice matched the flicker of silver in his eyes. ‘Mortalis trailed a Nothos back to an abandoned hangar in one of the old private airports. There was a plane parked inside, evidence of two human kills, and the heavy scent of comarré blood. Before he killed the Nothos, he saw two noble vampires, one male, one female. The male used black magic.’

Mortalis lifted his head from Nyssa’s side. ‘The female is the one who hurt Nyssa.’

‘Mikkel and Tatiana.’ Red edged her vision. If they’d harmed her aunt in any way, she was going to kill them both. Maybe stake them to a field of sacred ground and wait for the sun to come up. ‘What are we waiting for? You must have a sun-proof vehicle. How long will it take to get to the hangar?’

‘We’re not going to the hangar.’

‘What? Why?’

‘The plane took off. They’re headed back to Corvinestri.’

She stepped back, shaking her head. ‘They’re going to kill her.’

Mal’s hand settled on her shoulder. ‘Not if we kill them first.’

Dominic nodded. ‘We need a plan. We can’t just stampede in and hope for the best.’

Chrysabelle sank into the nearest chair. She leaned back and blinked hard to clear the tears threatening to spill. The sacre pressed into her spine. Maris’s blade. Chrysabelle swallowed. What defense did her crippled aunt have against those two monsters? Especially back on their own soil. This was all her fault. ‘I should go alone. Get the ring. Tatiana will give up Maris if I offer her the ring and myself.’

‘You will not offer yourself. Or go alone.’ Mal’s voice shook her with its vehemence.

‘I still have to retrieve the ring from my suite at the Primoris Domus. I can’t leave it where it is – look how much trouble it’s already brought.’ Her house could not become the focus for Tatiana’s anger.

Mal shoved a hand through his hair. ‘I’m starting to think no good can come of giving Tatiana the ring.’

Chrysabelle had begun to think that too. ‘At the very least, I will get it and destroy it. Then Tatiana can twist in the wind over her precious ring.’