Blood Rights (47 page)

She understood Mal’s anger, but she hadn’t forgotten her responsibility or her promise to help him. Although with Fiona gone, Chrysabelle didn’t know what that meant for her blood rights. Did Mal still own them? And what if Fi
did
come back?
What then? The comarré rule book didn’t really cover these kinds of circumstances. Most likely, he was still her patron. Which meant they were still connected, whether either of them liked it or not.

‘No, I’m ready.’ She placed the single rose she’d been rolling in her fingers onto the grave and turned to walk to the car, the hilts of the double sacres on her back clinking softly together. ‘Any sign of her?’

‘Not yet.’ Doc shook his head, kept his eyes straight ahead. Chrysabelle gave his arm a squeeze. ‘I’m so sorry.’

Up ahead, the devil himself leaned against the passenger door, keeping well off the cemetery’s hallowed ground. Mal’s arms were crossed, face a blank mask. The moonlight cut across the hollow of his cheek and sank his eyes in shadow, but still she could tell he looked past her, not at her. What she couldn’t tell for sure was if the darkness flickering over his skin was more shadow or the beast trying to rear its head.

An uncomfortable mix of guilt and longing washed through her. She wanted to ask him for time, for patience. To understand her side of things. Words hadn’t come easily between them since Corvinestri, but there was plenty that needed to be said. Mostly from her.

Mal wanted more than blood from her. She knew that. Understood it more than he probably realized. He wanted his freedom.

Freedom she’d hinted she could provide by way of the Aurelian, but she’d yet to contact the ancient historian. She would. Just not yet. She couldn’t return to Corvinestri while Tatiana still lived. Chrysabelle wasn’t even sure if the Primoris Domus would open its doors to her again after the rules she’d broken and secrets she’d revealed. Did they even still consider her comarré?

With Mikkel dead, a visit to the Aurelian might be the only way to find out how to remove Mal’s curse. He’d upheld his end of their bargain, now she owed him to uphold hers.

Her fingers strayed to the ring hanging on the chain around her neck. If Tatiana didn’t find a way to kill her first, Chrysabelle
would
pay that debt.

Someday.

Soon.

Anathema:
a noble vampire who has been cast out of noble society for some reason.

Aurelian:
the comarré historian.

Castus Sanguis:
the fallen angels, from which the othernatural races descend.

Comarré/comar:
a human hybrid species especially bred to serve the blood needs of the noble vampire race.

Dominus:
the ruling head of a noble vampire family.

Elder:
the second in command to a Dominus.

Fae:
a race of othernatural beings descended from fallen angels and nature.

Fringe vampires:
a race of lesser vampires descended from the cursed Judas Iscariot.

Kine:
an archaic vampire term for humans.

Libertas:
the ritual in which a comarré can fight for their independence. Ends in death of comarré or patron.

Navitas:
the ritual in which a vampire can be resired by another, to change family lines or turn a fringe noble.

Noble vampires:
a powerful race of vampires descended from fallen angels.

Nothos:
hellhounds.

Patronus/patron:
a noble vampire who purchases a comarré’s blood rights.

Remnant:
a hybrid of different species of fae and/or varcolai.

Sacre:
the ceremonial sword of the comarré.

Signum:
the inlaid gold tattoos or marks put into comarré skin to purify their blood.

Vampling:
a newly turned or young vampire.

Varcolai:
a race of shifters descended from fallen angels and animals.

I must thank my brother, Matt, for letting me pick his brain about ships; my mom and dad for their unwavering support and constant checking of my writing progress; my agent, Elaine, for her tremendous belief in me and general awesomeness; my friend Laura, whose encouragement and insistence that my agent actually see this book even though I told her I was only writing it to amuse myself were instrumental in its publication; Carrie, Carolyn, Leigh, Briana, and Dayna for reading some of the early versions and pronouncing it worthy; Alessandro and Kimberly Menozzi for their Italian translations; Bob Rivera for his Latin translations; Maria for her medical help; the staff at Romance Divas for keeping things going when I was in my writing cave; and the fabulous duo of Rocki and Louisa, who keep me going, and keep me sane. All writers should be blessed with such friends and family as I have.

Also, great thanks to my editor, Devi, her assistant, Jennifer, and the entire publishing team at Orbit, without whom this book would not have seen the light of day, nor would it have been graced with such an amazing cover. You are a pretty awesome group.

Lastly, the biggest thanks of all goes to my husband, Rick, for understanding that deadlines sometimes mean dinner comes from the drive-thru and the cleaning must be done by an outside source. You’re my hero in so many ways. I love you.

Kristen Painter’s
writing résumé boasts multiple Golden Heart nominations and advance praise from a handful of bestselling authors, including Gena Showalter and Roxanne St. Claire. Having lived in New York and now in Florida, Kristen has a wealth of fascinating experiences from which to flavor her stories, including time spent working in fashion for Christian Dior and as a maître d’ for Wolfgang Puck. Her website is at kristenpainter.com and on twitter @Kristen_Painter.

Find out more about Kristen Painter and other Orbit authors by registering for the free monthly news -letter at
www.orbitbooks.net

Have you always been a writer?

I’ve dabbled in art, advertising, the food industry, modeling, teaching, you name it, I probably did it as a summer job. Despite those other jobs, I have always been a writer. Maybe not with the same proliferation that I have now, but I’ve never been far from pen and paper, keyboard and monitor. It’s just part of who I am, a storyteller. Of course, I’ve gone from telling stories about my cats and pinecones that come to life and moved on to characters I hope people find a little more interesting.

How did you come up for the idea of the comarré?

Years ago – like college years ago – I had this idea about a mysterious girl with a gold butterfly tattoo that marked her as an assassin. But it was just an idea, strong enough to stick with me but not enough to turn into a book. It wasn’t until the rest of the story hit me many years later that I could truly see who she was and what her world was like. Chrysabelle and Mal grew out of those first tendrils of thought, eventually taking over in a way that surprised even me. And now, to see Chrysabelle realized on the cover in such a stunning way … I have to say that’s the realization of a dream.

Why Paradise City?

I knew I wanted to set the book in Florida since I live here and I love the area, but I didn’t want to set it in an existing city. I decided to reimagine Miami, a Miami of the future where things weren’t as bright as they were once upon a time. Paradise City seems like a place that is trying very hard to be something more than it is, trying to live up to its name and struggling with that just a little. The perfect place to loose the kind of chaos that makes urban fantasy such a fun read.

What do you do when you’re not writing?

This is that ‘free time’ thing people are always talking about, isn’t it? Besides struggling to get some kind of regular exercise, I do a few other things that aren’t writing. It probably goes without saying that I love to read, but I also love to cook. I make jewelry too – I find it’s really nice to do something different with my hands than rap on a keyboard all day. I’ve been known to spend entire days watching movies too. As a writer, I think it’s really important to refill the creative well through a variety of sources, whether that be walking on the beach, playing with my cats, or challenging my husband to some Wii. Or shopping. Retail therapy can be very good for the writer’s soul.

How much of you is in your characters?

That’s an interesting question. Is there anyone who doesn’t know the pain of loss? The shiver of fear? The joy of victory? I like to think my characters draw on all human experiences, not just my own, but of course, my experiences are going to shape them to some extent. Not entirely though. I mean, I’ve never killed someone, but that hasn’t stopped me from offing people in my books. Is it wrong to say I find that rather enjoyable?

Have you ever wanted to be a vampire?

On the one hand, it would be ridiculously cool to be able to scatter, to have some kind of inherent power and be basically invincible. On the other, in real life the sight of blood makes my eyes roll back into my head, so no. (My husband has several stories about how ineffectual a paramedic I am in the face of gushing wounds, something he seems capable of producing on a regular basis.) I do think it would be awesome to have an actual gold tattoo though. So long as getting it was fairly painless.

Which of your characters would you most like to hang out with?

Doc. In leopard form. I’ve always wanted to be on a first-name basis with a big cat. At least until he got hungry, then maybe I’d go over to Chrysabelle. Mal scares me a little. Mostly because, like Doc, there’s a good chance he’d bite me.

What’s next for Mal and Chrysabelle?

I don’t want to give anything away, but their lives won’t be getting any easier for some time …

D
igging graves is hell on a manicure, but I was taught good vampires clean up after every meal. So I ignored the chipped onyx polish. I ignored the dirt caked under my nails. I ignored my palms, rubbed raw and blistering. And when a snapping twig announced David’s arrival, I ignored him too.

He said nothing, just stood off behind a thicket of trees waiting for me to acknowledge him. Despite his silence, I could feel hot waves of disapproval flying in my direction.

At last, the final scoop of earth fell onto the grave. Stalling, I leaned on the shovel handle and restored order to my hair. Next I brushed flecks of dirt from my cashmere sweater. Not the first choice of digging attire for some, but I always believed manual labor was no excuse for sloppiness. Besides, the sweater was black, so it went well with the haphazard funerary rites.

The Harvest Moon, a glowing orange sphere, still loomed in the sky. Plenty of time before sunrise. In the distance, traffic hummed like white noise in the City of Angels. I took a moment to appreciate the calm.

Memory of the phone call from my grandmother intruded. When she told me the target of my latest assignment, an icy chill spread through my veins. I’d almost hung up, unable to believe what she was asking me to do. But when she told me David was working with Clovis Trakiya, white-hot anger replaced the chill. I called up that anger now to spur my resolve. I clenched my teeth and ignored the cold stone sitting in my stomach. My own feelings about David were irrelevant now. The minute he decided to work with one of the Dominae’s enemies – a glorified cult leader who wanted to overthrow their power – he’d signed his death warrant.

Unable to put it off any longer, I turned to him. ‘What’s up?’ David stalked out of his hiding place, a frown marring the perfect planes of his face. ‘Do you want to tell me why you’re burying a body?’