Flesh And Blood: House of Comarre: Book Two (House of Comarre 2) (4 page)

He waved one heavily jeweled hand in the air. ‘Yes, of course, but without the ring’s power, we are vulnerable. We must be invincible. Unstoppable. No matter what the sacrifice, we must
have the ring. The power it unleashes … ’ He shook his head and turned back the way he’d come. ‘The ancient one assures me it is great.’

‘Have I given any indication I am unwilling to sacrifice?’ She lifted her arm, causing the sleeve of her ivory silk blouse to fall back from her wrist and reveal the metal hand that had replaced her missing one.

He paused, his gaze darting to her new appendage. The gilded mantel clock ticked toward midnight. His mouth softened. ‘No, my pet, you have been perfect. As willing as I could have hoped for.’ He smiled. ‘As I knew from the start you would be.’ He drew to her side, pulled her against him, and kissed the hard, scabbed joining of metal and flesh. ‘Why else would I have given you the gift of navitas?’

Beneath her calm expression, she seethed. He may have given her navitas, the ritual in which a vampire was bitten by a different sire so they might take on that vampire’s lineage, but the pain from the process had been hers alone to bear. ‘One might say you offered it to me because I not only shared your ambitions, but because I also have the wherewithal to accomplish whatever might be necessary to realize those ambitions.’

Lines of irritation bracketed his mouth. His hands tightened painfully on her hips and he leaned in as silver tarnished his pupils. ‘Calling your sire weak is rash, even for you, gypsy.’

She hated that name and all it reminded her of, but she robbed him of that satisfaction and smiled sweetly instead. ‘I would never call you weak, my lord.’ She stroked his cheek with her flesh hand. ‘Would I have accepted your offer if I hadn’t seen how strong and capable a leader you are?’ Her palm trailed down to his chest, her fingers sliding beneath the placket of his shirt to caress his hard, muscled chest. ‘Of course not, my lord.’

‘Good.’ The silver in his gaze diminished and a guarded smile returned to his mouth. He lifted her right arm and squinted at the metal prosthesis. ‘Otherwise, I might find it necessary to remove the gift I procured for you.’ He dropped her arm. ‘I assured you I would find someone to fix what had been done to you without anyone else knowing. There was no need to kill Zafir.’

‘I didn’t kill him, my lord,’ she lied, knowing he meant to catch her. ‘As I told you, he made unwelcome advances. I pushed him away and a lamp broke. I was lucky to escape that fire myself.’

He eyed her suspiciously. ‘And what of your missing hand? Any luck finding that yet?’

‘No.’ She and Octavian had searched every centimeter of the room where the comarré whore had cut off her hand and every possible escape route but had found nothing. She could only assume the girl had taken it. Or perhaps Malkolm had – but she’d never imagined her former husband the sentimental type. ‘Do you think she’ll use it against me?’

‘It’s not her I worry about but her friends. They are an unsavory lot.’ His smile came fully alive and he lifted her chin with his fingers, kissed her firmly, then shook his head. ‘The path ahead will not be an easy one.’

Was anything she’d done for him? Or anything in her life for that matter? She caressed the Tepes star that dangled from a thick gold chain around his neck. She could see herself in the bold ruby square at its center, a beast of a gem compared to the chip that decorated her locket. ‘Nothing worth having ever is.’

He laughed. ‘That’s my Tatiana. Not afraid of anything, are you, love?’

‘No. Nothing.’ Nothing he’d ever find out about. Nothing that would ever happen again. She forced a smile as the dulcet tones
of Sofia’s little-girl laugh echoed in her memory. ‘Shall we discuss your plan of action?’

He slipped his arm around her waist and led her toward the door. She knew instantly what he wanted. Since Mikkel’s death, Ivan had become exceedingly amorous. If he hoped to woo her as a means to keep her loyal, he was dead wrong. ‘Yes, but not just now.’ His fangs extended, his face shedding its humanity to reveal his true visage. ‘It will make for wonderful pillow talk afterward, I assure you.’

‘I look forward to it, my lord.’ She laughed, fluttering her lashes, leaning into him and savoring the moment she’d be able to walk over his ashes on the way toward leading the vampire nation into a new age of domination.

Sweaty and miserable, Doc stumbled into the hold that had been modified into a gym and collapsed to his hands and knees on the mats. He gave in and quit fighting the inevitable. By now, the need to mentally command his body to change was gone. Instinct took over and a moment later he found release in his animal form. If you could call the pitiful house cat that was his only option a true form. It wasn’t. Not to him. Or any other straight-up shifter.

Never would be either. Even if he had to live with this hellacious curse for the rest of his unnatural life.

He sprawled on his side, panting with the effort of holding off the shift for so long. He lifted a paw. The claws were tiny pinpoints. He hated this form. Just like he hated that for at least one night a month, he had to assume the shape of a creature so small and lame compared to his true self.

Varcolai were not humans born with the ability to shift into animal forms; they were animals born with the ability to take on
human shape. Being Doc the human wasn’t any more difficult than breathing, and it was a damn sight less humiliating than walking around looking like a house pet. Except when nature sank her full-moon teeth deep and reminded him what he really was under that smooth, vulnerable skin.

Then being human became virtually impossible. So he gave in, shifted to his lesser form and hid from the world.

His pride leader, Sinjin, had cast him out as soon as Doc had told him about the curse. What good was a house cat to a pride of big cats? His cursed form wasn’t the only reason Sinjin had ordered the pride to shun him. He closed his eyes against the truth, but that didn’t stop it from staring back at him.

There was the little matter of what he’d done to get cursed. He’d dealt in certain pharmaceuticals. Not street drugs, but the kind of amped-up concoctions that othernaturals paid big for. Really big. Hell, that kind of scratch let a player make the rules of the game. But with big rewards came big risk. He’d known that.

Just like he’d known the risk in working for Sinjin’s enemy.

With good reason, Sinjin had a major beef with Dominic – owner of the nightclub Seven, powerful alchemist, and New Florida’s leading drug lord. Sinjin had owned Seven long before Dominic had come to town, back when the club had been a broken-down scum hole of a joint, but then Sinjin lost the building and the business to Dominic in a poker game. To this day, Sinjin swore Dominic had used his alchemy to win. Dominic denied it, of course, but that hadn’t stopped Sinjin from declaring Seven off-limits to the pride. Anyone who went there was subject to pride law.

The other major varcolai clan in Paradise City, the wolf pack, were under no such orders. Their members worked at Seven and
benefited from the cash and perks Dominic freely doled out. Doc wondered if it wasn’t the anathema’s way of punishing Sinjin and his pride a little more.

Damn vampires. Doc hissed because he couldn’t curse, but the anger leaked out of him like air from a punctured tire. He might hate Dominic, but he didn’t feel that way about Mal. As screwed up as Mal was, he’d saved Doc’s life. Brought his torn and broken body home and given him to Fi, who’d nursed him back to health after a pack of street dogs had treated him like a chew toy. Sure, Fi had thought he was her new pet, but once they’d gotten past that little surprise … He bent his head in grief. Cripes, he missed her. If he’d been able to go leopard, he might have saved her life.

Evie, the witch he’d sold the juice to, was to blame. If she hadn’t insisted on testing the goods before he split, none of this would have happened. How was he supposed to know Dominic’s drugs would turn her to stone? How was that his fault? Talk about killing the messenger. He lifted his back foot to scratch behind his ear.

If only he’d rolled out of there before Aliza, Evie’s mother, had figured out what went down. If only, if only, if only …

Damn that albino freak and her whacked-out daughter.

He rolled over and stretched. House cat or not, it felt good to be in animal form. He yawned. He should find a spot to curl up in and sleep until the sun rose.

The stitching along the edge of the mat was frayed, leaving a tail of string right out in the open. He looked over his shoulder. Not like anyone was around anyway.

Satisfied, he bounced to his feet and swatted at it, then sat back on his haunches. This body came with some damn foolish urges, that was for sure.

A small, dark streak sped through the corner of his vision. The musky, meaty smell of rat filled his nostrils. The quivering anticipation of the hunt ran through him hot and electric.
Hell, why fight it?
With a soft chirp of anticipation, he was on his feet and moving.

The rat darted out into the narrow corridor. Even without the overhead solars, Doc’s night vision was on point. He chased after the rodent, eager, hungry, saliva pooling for the kill.

Passageways and stairs disappeared beneath Doc’s padded feet. Whiskers brushed metal as he rounded corners and ducked pipes. All that mattered was the long-tailed meal and where it went next.

The passageway ahead angled through the heart of the freighter and into the belly of the main hold. The solars grew weaker, dimming as the game took him in deeper. Squealing, the rat slipped between a couple empty boxcars, two of many that formed a maze through the ship’s gut.

Doc pursued, turning the corner so sharply his ribs grazed the hard edge of the first container. He barreled through, the scent tangible on his tongue, the kill moments away. He exploded out into the open and skidded to a dead stop. The sight on the other side erased all thoughts of the rat and the hunt.

A familiar shape walked among the boxcars. Long dark hair, backpack tucked over her shoulders, flashlight in hand. What little light there was passed through her translucent form.

Numb recognition froze Doc.

The circle of her flashlight beam pinpointed something. She walked toward it, stared at it for a moment, then nudged it with her foot.

In a flash, a thin, dark shape lunged up and grabbed her. Her mouth opened in a silent scream. The flashlight tumbled from
her hand and landed with the beam pointed at her. The shape was human, bones with a little skin stretched over them. It clung to her. Fangs, white in the flashlight’s beam, tore into her throat. Blood spattered, soaking the front of her sweatshirt. The creature gorged itself as the fight drained out of the girl’s body. Her fists stopped battering. Her feet stopped kicking.

The creature raised its face and stared with cloudy eyes into the light. A remnant of flesh hung from its scrawny jaw.

The creature was Malkolm. The girl was Fiona.

The image flickered and disappeared.

C
hrysabelle smiled with the satisfaction of another day well spent and a new night well begun. Nothing like a long, hot shower after an intense day of training. She tucked her damp hair behind her ears and pulled her white terry robe closer. It would be a long time before she broke the habit of wearing white, but why should she? It was as natural for a comarré as breathing.

The delicious smell of whatever Velimai was making in the kitchen wafted up from the first floor. Chrysabelle leaned on the countertop and stared into the bathroom mirror. Every day, every night the same. She’d wake up, train, shower, eat dinner, and read Maris’s journals, looking for an advantage against Tatiana. She was in a rut. Did it matter? She was happy. Mostly. Free to do what she wanted. At least until Tatiana came knocking again. Unless Chrysabelle got to her first. But that would take planning, and so far, she’d yet to come up with anything.

She sighed as the niggling reminder of Mal’s unpaid debt wormed through her consciousness again. Something else to be dealt with in time. Not now, but soon. She reached for one of
Maris’s journals and carried it downstairs to read until dinner was ready.

This journal dealt with the time leading up to Maris’s decision to claim libertas, the comarré ritual in which a comarré might fight her patron for her freedom. If the comarré lost, the patron was granted a new comarré. If the comarré won, she went free. Either way, the loser ended up dead.