Flesh And Blood: House of Comarre: Book Two (House of Comarre 2) (11 page)

Her refusal hadn’t stopped him from tailing her to the gates of Mephisto Island. Her driver was careless and made the task easy.
Creek had driven past the gates, given Chrysabelle time to get through, then circled around and entered without too much problem. The guard was some kind of remnant and easily susceptible to the bribe Creek had offered. For a few more bills, he’d learned her house number.

Scaling the estate’s walls had posed no real obstacle, and after watching the house for an hour or so, he’d gone home. Her security needed tweaking, although he could sense there were wards of some kind protecting the home. He’d come up with some ideas to tighten things and present them to her soon.

Soon
as in right after he found a way to run into her again and explain who he really was. Something he was still figuring out himself. The Kubai Mata were a shadowy group; even the information he’d been given had been very need-to-know. And apparently he didn’t need to know much. They’d commuted his sentence to time served and promised it would stay that way as long as he did their bidding, but that’s not why he played along. They’d provided his sister, Una, with a full ride to the college of her choice and a monthly stipend for her, his mother, and his grandmother. The women in his life were everything to him. For them, he would do whatever the KM wanted and not worry that the KM were part Freemason, part Templar, part Cosa Nostra, only more dangerous and in charge of some crazy power. Still, Chrysabelle had nothing to fear from him. The KM might make the Illuminati look like the Boy Scouts, but othernaturals and the humans who served them were the only ones who had anything to worry about.

He climbed out the only window that wasn’t boarded up to sit on the fire-escape steps overlooking the back alley. Few humans lived in this part of Paradise City by choice anymore. It was a vampire/remnant ghetto now, as full of fringe and fae as it was
rats. Nothing like it had been when he’d grown up here. He couldn’t imagine a better neighborhood to set up shop in. His sector chief, Argent, should approve whenever he decided to drop in for a visit.

When he did, he’d find that in the two days Creek had been here, he’d already located a well-established vampire club, sussed out its exits and entrances, started cataloging the regulars, and found the comarré. Not bad for a couple days’ work.

He took a long draw off the bottle and wished for a nice Cuban. Vampires picked up the smoke too easy, though, and he’d had to give them up for the most part.

The subtle breeze carried a little salt tang in from the ocean, cutting through the neighborhood’s general oily stench. The combination reminded him of the Glades, where his mother now lived with her mother, out on Seminole land. Both women and Una wanted him to move out there, to reconnect with his Native American heritage, but truth was, he didn’t feel like he belonged there any more than he felt like he belonged anywhere. Maybe when his time with the KM was done. He lay back against the metal stairs, stared up through the lattice of rusted iron and studied the sky. The stars sparkled and shimmered like the signum on the comarré’s skin.

She was like something out of a dream. Nothing in his training had adequately prepared him for seeing one of her kind in person. That sunbeam-blond hair, those eyes like the early summer sky, and those strawberry-red lips combined with all that gold ink made for one hard-to-ignore package. He’d known immediately she wasn’t one of Seven’s brand of comarré. Just like he’d known immediately he wanted to spend more time with her. And not just because of the mission. He sipped his beer and refused to let his head wander in that direction. Being
locked up had a way of sharpening a man’s desires to a razor-thin edge. He needed to focus on the comarré and forget about his own wants. The comarré and the ring she possessed were his responsibility now. His to persuade. His to protect. His to recover. He tipped the bottle again. A man could do serious harm to himself around a woman like that, tripping over his words and acting a fool. But he wouldn’t. Because he was stronger than that. He was KM.

In a small way, he felt sorry for her. Despite being free now, she’d spent her life in service to the vampires. Sustaining the one who owned her. That was the whole purpose of the comarré – keep the vampires happy and fed and away from humans. All the decisions in her life were already made for her.

Kind of like being in prison.

Yet there was more to the comarré than that, a darker, hidden side. He knew about the physical training they went through, the weapons skills that were drilled into them. That much was evident by the way she worked those swords, one in each hand. He whistled low and long. If that didn’t get a man’s attention, nothing would.

He rolled his head slowly side to side, watching the constellations wink in and out of sight through the cage of metal above him. Those gold tats of hers were something else. Straight-up amazing, if you knew what she’d had to endure for each one, and he did, thanks to the eons of knowledge that had been crammed into his brain in a matter of weeks. Without question, he knew more about the comarré than she did about the KM. Hell, even
he
knew more about the comarré than he did the KM.

He especially understood the pain she’d endured for those marks, since he’d been through the KM rituals. Women supposedly had a higher tolerance for pain, but he couldn’t imagine that
pale, slender female going through that kind of agony. Especially not for the sake of some vampire. Pissed him off, actually. No woman should have to endure pain at a man’s hands.

Una’s dark eyes flashed in his mind, her cries and the sound of their father’s hand cracking her cheek echoing in his ears. He’d come home at just the right time to save her. Just the right time to crucify himself. He clenched and unclenched his empty fist, feeling the snap of bones under his fingers as if he were there again.

Anger pushed him upright. He hunched his back, remembering the day he’d accepted the KM’s offer. He’d walked out of FSP an hour later, proof of the organization’s power. He exhaled hard. Out of one prison and into another. But the deal was worth it.

Worth the pain of the day he’d been sealed into KM service. The memory lingered on his skin, sharp and heavy and just as painful. Being bulletproof didn’t mean the bullet wasn’t going to hurt. Neither did it mean the pain would weaken him. Instead of being something to fear, pain was something to use.

He set his beer on the step beside him and was about to get up and go back inside when he went stone-still. Two vampires strolled into the mouth of the alley, oblivious to his presence. Just to be careful, he used some of his newly acquired skills to stop his heart and breathing. They kept walking. As a safety measure, he’d decided not to make any kills this close to his home, but temptation kissed his fingertips and made them itch for his cross-bow.

If the fringe looked up and saw him, he’d take them out. If not, he’d let them pass. Fringe weren’t specifically his mission, but if they were hunting humans or him, they were fair game. He wasn’t comfortable with them knowing his home base either.

Vamp One said something to Vamp Two that made Vamp Two throw his head back in laughter. As his gaze rose, his beady eyes locked onto Creek. Then the vampire pointed Creek out to his buddy. A second later, two sets of fangs gleamed in Creek’s direction.

So much for letting them skate.

Creek vaulted over the fire-escape railing and landed in front of the dentally challenged pair. ‘Evening.’

The vampires stared back in silence, perhaps stunned by his good manners.

Without waiting for a return greeting, he yanked his halm off his belt and flicked it open to its full six-foot length. Few understood the power of the quarterstaff, and as a result, few feared the weapon. He liked that. Surprise was always an advantage.

Like now.

He tucked the titanium rod beneath his arm and lunged forward, ramming the sharpened tip into Vamp One’s chest, ashing him instantly. Vamp Two took off, but Creek flung the halm like a spear after him. The halm pierced the vampire through the lower back, pinning him to the potholed asphalt.

The creature screeched and clawed at the ground, trying to free itself.

Creek pulled a knife from his boot and strolled toward the thing stuck, buglike, on his halm. With one hand on the quarter-staff, he planted his boot in the middle of the vampire’s back. Kid couldn’t have been more than twenty, twenty-one when he’d been turned. But that kid was long gone, replaced by a parasite.

‘Nothing personal,’ he muttered, and drove the blade down into the creature’s neck. He jerked the blade toward the ground, crunching through bone and cartilage with a few deft cuts. The remains went to ash moments after he’d severed the spine. He
wiped the knife on his jeans, then tucked it away, snapped the halm closed, and retrieved a small pouch from the interior pocket of his leather vest. A pinch of hawthorn powder went over the ashes, and they burned away like a lit fuse, leaving no trace of the kill. He did the same to the first one on his way back to the fire escape.

Fringe were good practice, and he’d need it to protect Chrysabelle and the ring in her possession from the noble vampire currently hunting her. At least until he convinced the comarré to turn the ring over to him. From the dossier he’d read, Tatiana was a tough customer and could not be allowed to possess the ring, whatever its powers were. Must be something else. The Kubai Mata wanted it badly enough to free a murderer from prison and put him to work.

Despite what they’d authorized him to do, he wouldn’t take the ring by force. He’d never use force against a woman. He would feel Chrysabelle out, see if she was open to giving the ring up. In theory, the KM were the good guys. Giving them the ring shouldn’t be such a hard thing to do. He leaped, snagged the bottom rung of the ladder, and climbed back to the platform.

From there, he swung his booted feet through the open window and back into the loft. In the meantime, he’d live up to the rest of the KM credo and protect the citizens of Paradise City from the monsters now living among them and the ones that were yet to come.

When he wasn’t getting to know Chrysabelle better, that was.

Doc missed the growl and hum of the old airboats, but there was something to be said for the silent running of the carbon fiber blades and electric engines of the newer environmentally mandated boats. He notched the throttle back as he swung around an
island of trees. The boat lost its plane, the air beneath it disappearing as the boat slowed and made contact with the water again. Ever since the run that had gotten him cursed, he hated the Glades. Hadn’t been out here since. There were mostly two kinds of people who lived in the Glades: those with a rightful claim to the land, like the Seminoles, and those looking to hide. His business was with the latter.

The cluster of houses, glass and steel boxes on stilts, broke the horizon line like jagged teeth. Strong morning sun glinted off the buildings. He adjusted his sunglasses. Even with his pupils narrowed to slits, the combination of glare off the water and unfiltered daylight was murder on shifter eyes this early in the a.m.

He approached the houses and grudgingly gave the witches props for living out here. Hard to sneak up on someone who had an unadulterated view in every direction. Not to mention the local inhabitants who did a damn fine job of keeping most people out to begin with. One of those inhabitants, a fifteen-foot gator named Chewie, lounged on the dock of the house he was headed toward, soaking up the morning sun like a teenager on spring break.

Doc’s back teeth ground against each other.
Hated
the Glades. He eased the boat toward the dock and got to his feet. Aliza’s air-boat sat beneath the house, out of the elements. He wouldn’t be getting that close yet. He reached into the bag at his feet, pulled out the chickens he’d brought, and dangled them in Chewie’s direction.

‘Come and get it, you overgrown suitcase.’

Chewie’s lids cracked open. Doc tossed the chickens in the opposite direction of the boat, and the gator slipped off the dock with a splash and disappeared into the black water.

The sound of a pump-action shotgun being cocked froze Doc where he stood. He lifted his hands. ‘I’ve got good reason for being here.’

‘Then start talking,’ Aliza spat. ‘My finger itches. And there better not be anything untoward in those chickens.’

He looked up. Aliza stood on the second-level porch, glaring down at him from the shadows of the eaves. Her lack of pigment made her look like a ghost, reminding him again why he’d come to see her. ‘The chickens aren’t drugged. I’m here because I want to fix things with Evie.’

‘Hard to talk to stone.’

He sighed. ‘I mean I want to help make things right.’

The shotgun came down half an inch. ‘How?’

‘There’s got to be a way to turn her back, right? I want to help.’ With hands still lifted, he splayed his fingers. ‘Whatever it takes.’

‘Why now? Why after all these years?’

He’d been hoping to explain things in a calmer, more rational manner. Not that that had ever been Aliza’s style. ‘I have a friend who’s in trouble and you’re the only one I know who might be able to help her.’

Aliza snorted. ‘Figures you’d want something in return. Why should I help you?’

‘You shouldn’t.’

She was quiet a moment. Hard to argue with truth, apparently. ‘What did you do this time?’

‘Nothing.’ Something splashed in the water to his left. He almost didn’t stop a wave of revulsion from rippling through him.