Flesh And Blood: House of Comarre: Book Two (House of Comarre 2) (9 page)

D
oc woke with a nasty film of fur coating his tongue. He spit, grimacing and tasting rat.

How long had he been out? Sun wasn’t up yet, he could feel that much, and the air had that predawn brightness to it. He stretched, sat up, and ran his hands over his stubbled head. By tomorrow night, the moon would be weak enough to stop influencing him. He could go back to being human and miserable, instead of being house cat and miserable.

The fog in his head dissipated slowly, and shreds of what had happened before he’d fallen asleep trickled in. He blinked, trying to bring the memories back faster. This always happened after any time spent in his cursed form. It was like his brain shrank when he changed and everything that wasn’t cat-related dropped out. He thought back over the hours before he’d passed out.

Chrysabelle had been here, looking for Mal, but Doc had been locked in and Mal hadn’t been here. But before that, Fi had shown up again in her new ghost form. And she still needed his help. Help he couldn’t give, but he knew someone who could.
Maybe. The one woman who might be able to help probably wouldn’t want to help Doc in any way. And seeing her meant facing his past. Dammit. When was his life going to smooth out and chill?

He sighed and got up, kicking the pile of rags he’d fallen asleep on.

For Fi, he would go see Aliza. He would face the woman who’d cursed him and ask for her help.

The price he’d have to pay for that help would be so out of his budget he couldn’t imagine. But to save the woman he loved, he would do anything.

Anything at all.

He staggered to his quarters and assessed himself in one of the few shipboard mirrors. He looked the way he felt. A few hours of sleep and a shower would fix him up. Aliza wouldn’t like his visit no matter what time he arrived, but her tune would change when he explained why he was there.

Help for her daughter in exchange for helping Fi.

She couldn’t say no to that, could she?

Unlike his dead brother, Nasir didn’t snore. Tatiana thanked the fates for small favors. She rolled his sleeping form off her and slipped from the bed, ignoring the robe puddled on the floor beside it, to walk naked to the windows. She pulled the curtains back and stared out at the vile, rose gold horizon.

The coming dusk throbbed in her bones, but not as much as the need to avenge what had been done to her and make things right between her and the Castus. The comarré had a day of reckoning coming, just as soon as Tatiana found her again. Her memory of the girl’s location in Paradise City had gone strangely dim. But find her Tatiana would. Then she would take great
pleasure in torturing Malkolm’s little whore until she gave up the ring of sorrows. Perhaps Tatiana would remove her fingers one by one, working her way up each knuckle until the girl was left with stumps. An eye for an eye, a hand for a hand. That was the kind of justice the Castus appreciated.

Tatiana smiled at her reflection in the glass, then glanced over at Nasir. A good lover always softened her disposition. And Nasir wasn’t just good. He was exceptional. Maybe he was trying to make himself indispensable so she wouldn’t send him back to that slum he called home. She shuddered. How anyone lived with only two servants she had no idea. Regardless, his skill in bed astounded her. He was completely focused on her pleasure. And then there were those little pots of oils and unguents he kept dipping into and spreading across her body. For a moment, she’d actually felt herself float off the bed, borne only by a sun-warmed breeze.

If those were a testament to his alchemical talents, he had real promise.

She let the curtains swing closed, walked back to the bed, and slid in alongside Nasir. She traced the black curls fringing his forehead. He’d fallen into line so much easier than his brother. Beyond the body-numbing sex, Nasir was much more eager to better his circumstances. And he was willing to be used. She adored that.

Resting back against the pillows, she began a mental list of things she’d need for her upcoming trip to New Florida. With Lord Ivan’s backing, funds were unlimited. She’d already sent Octavian ahead to find suitable accommodations and procure a car and driver. Although he was kine like the rest of her staff, he showed remarkable efficiency and a genuine willingness to please her. Both qualities she admired greatly.

Coming up with lodging would be a good test for him. Unlike the Continent, with its wealth of secret vampire-friendly hotels, the Southern Union had none. She was an Elder now, after all. She couldn’t be expected to remain cramped up in that ridiculous airplane hangar like the last time.

What else would she need? The Nothos hadn’t been as successful as she’d hoped on the last trip, but better they die than her. She’d take at least a dozen this time. Weapons, naturally. She lifted her right arm and admired her gleaming new hand. She couldn’t wait to see Malkolm’s face when she duplicated his beloved headsman’s sword.

Her comar should come, too. No point in being without a blood source if she didn’t have to, despite how much she hated having that creature around. So pure and light with that damnable glow, like some freakish reminder of everything she could never have. Gah. But there was no denying the power his blood gave her.

Maybe she should get Nasir a comarré before they left. Her fingers trailed down Nasir’s chest.

His eyes fluttered open and he smiled as he reached for her, pulling her under him.

She faked a protest. ‘It’s almost dusk, and I have much to do.’

‘Yes, I know,’ he whispered against her neck. ‘I can feel the night coming. But
enti qamari
– you are my moon. I could stay forever in your arms.’

Fates help her, she might have to guard herself around this one. ‘You flatter me.’

His mouth moved lower. ‘I speak the truth.’

A soft moan escaped her throat. ‘I … oh … we need to … yes, right there … talk … mmm.’

‘About what, my sweet?’ He scooped two fingers into a
small indigo pot on the nightstand, then drew a path from hip to hip.

Stars burst over her skin. ‘About … Oh. Oh! Um, about a trip.’

‘I will go anywhere you wish.’ His tongue felt like silk. ‘Anywhere.’

‘And … and … I’m going to buy you a present.’ The stars spread across her body in a wave of heat and light. Her eyes rolled back in her head. Bloody hell. She really needed to keep this one alive.

‘You are too good to me. Now, no more talking.’ His wicked mouth curved into a smile that sent trembles of anticipation through her. ‘I am very, very busy.’

Waves of pleasure washed over her, thinning her resistance to the rare pockets of happiness entwined with the painful memories from her past. They surfaced in a rush, and unable to hold them at bay any longer, she wept.

Mal’s world narrowed to the arena and the fringe beneath him that somehow,
somehow
had Chrysabelle’s blood in his system. Deep in the most primal part of him, Mal’s being screamed that she belonged to him. She was his and his alone, and no other vampire who laid a fang on her should be allowed to live.

Smelling her on Ronan painted his vision red and nearly released the beast he’d tried so desperately to control.

Now the beast pulled against his mental chains, the voices chanting along with the crowd for Ronan’s death. They hated Chrysabelle, but they loved death and destruction more.

Over and over, his fists destroyed Ronan’s face in a blind fury.
Kill, kill, kill.

However Ronan had come by Chrysabelle’s blood, no way had it been with her approval. She’d never knowingly allow
Ronan to drink from her, not after her last encounter with the arrogant fringe. Whatever Ronan had done—

The perfume of Chrysabelle’s blood hit him anew, catching him in midpunch and pushing a wave of need through him so strong he nearly collapsed. The voices whined. Only blood warm from Chrysabelle’s veins had that kind of effect on him.

Whispers of ‘comarré’ filtered through from the forgotten crowd and brought his head up. The crowd was transfixed on something above him. Echoes of a familiar heartbeat built in his head. He glanced toward Dominic’s balcony. The glass railing was cracked and the French doors open, but the balcony was empty. A streak of red marred the fractured railing.

No way in hell could Chrysabelle have been here. Seen him. Of everything he wanted, that was
not
one of them.

If praying would have helped, he would have willingly set his tongue on fire to do so. He pushed to his feet as the adrenaline drained out of him, leaving him foggy and numb. The beast and the voices went deathly quiet.

His hands hung at his sides, Ronan’s blood dripping off them. He had to find her. Talk to her. Figure out why she had been here.

But those were questions for another time. The poison regained his system, and a second later, his legs buckled. He fell to the concrete as cold and lifeless as the fringe he’d just been trying to kill.

Chrysabelle stumbled blindly through the streets of downtown. Her hand ached. Her head hurt. Her stomach verged on rebelling, but sheer will and righteous indignation kept her dinner down. She wanted to scream. To lose her cool. To be very uncomarré.

If Mal thought he still owned her blood rights, which he very well might, then he had every right to drink the blood she’d sent.
But why tell her he hadn’t? Was that his way of punishing her for not helping him? Was he that afraid of kissing her again? And how had Ronan gotten her blood? Dominic was at some secret penthouse on some island she’d never heard of. Surely his driver had delivered the blood Dominic had asked for. Or not. Maybe Dominic hadn’t even sent that note.

Nothing about tonight made sense, but with enough thinking, she’d figure it out. She needed a plan. Maybe she should go back to the freighter and confront Mal when he returned. Get it straight from the horse’s mouth, as it were. No, she might kill him if she did that without calming down.

Calming down. That was a good plan. Although killing him didn’t sound that bad either. Blood dripped off her fingertips. She needed to go home and take care of her hand. Killing something sounded much more appealing.

The sensation of being watched gnawed through her thoughts. She looked around and realized she wasn’t exactly sure where she was. Great. How far had she walked? Her car and driver were parked a few blocks away from Seven, but she wasn’t sure where that was from here. Seven was not, apparently, in a great part of town, but then Paradise City had more questionable areas than safe ones. Figured Dominic would pick this area. He’d probably gotten the building for a steal.

She checked the rooftops of the surrounding buildings, but just as before, they were empty. She rubbed the back of her neck, her hand brushing the reassuring hilts of her sacres. Wrapping her hand through one of the straps that crisscrossed her chest, she walked to the curb and started across the street to loop back the way she’d come.

A whisper of laughter brushed her ear. Several dark shapes flickered past the waning light of the next streetlamp. Dawn was
coming and the solar was weak. She turned in time to see more dark shapes in the street behind her.

The slightly musty stench of fringe vampires rose off the asphalt like steam. Considering the blood trail she’d been leaving, it was no wonder she was being tracked. Blood speckled the front of her tunic and the side of her pants. The scent alone must be driving them mad. She bit the inside of her cheek to keep from smiling. A little swordplay was just the thing for her current mood, and if someone got ashed, so much the better. All that solo training was fine, but there was nothing like a little field-work to hone one’s skills.

The fringe swept closer, dancing in and out of the shadows. She’d done nothing to cover her signum, so they probably knew what she was. Or thought they did. She spun in a slow circle, trying to count how many there were. More laughter. They thought she was easy prey.

How very, very wrong they were.

She gave way to the anger coursing through her veins. It bloomed bright and caustic, filling the marrow of her bones with a sense of indestructibility. Comarré were taught to suppress their anger, to banish it. Anger made a fighter vulnerable. Tonight she didn’t care. Comarré rules hadn’t helped her very much lately. All that propriety and sense of duty worked within the confines of noble society, but Paradise City was as far from noble society as heaven was from hell.

One after the other, the streetlights popped, shattering glass over the sidewalk in frosty shards. Laughter echoed down the empty road, bouncing off the abandoned buildings.

‘Come and get it,’ she whispered into the moonlit night.

Oily fringe-shaped stains leaked out of the shadows and closed in. A tall fringe, his hair a spiky mess, jumped onto the
hood of the closest car, denting its hood. His attitude announced him as leader. He planted his hands on his hips and smiled at her. ‘Well, well. Dinner has come to us tonight.’

A female fringe emerged from the shadows and leaned against the car. She glanced at him, then grinned at Chrysabelle. ‘This one smells sweet, Frankie, like candy.’ She strolled toward Chrysabelle, winding a strand of screaming-red hair around one finger. ‘I like candy.’

The rest of the crew surrounded Chrysabelle, posturing in their worn leathers and hard-edged grins. At least fifteen of them altogether. Not quite the odds she’d been anticipating, but she’d done nothing but train lately. She was ready for this. Sweat dampened the back of her tunic where the sacre sheaths crossed her spine.