Flesh And Blood: House of Comarre: Book Two (House of Comarre 2) (13 page)

Darkness weighed on Mal like six feet of packed earth. He woke with a start, clawing at the empty blackness above him and half crazed with memories of his time in the ruins. But that wasn’t
where he was. He rested on a comfortable bed. No mold or must or damp corroded the air.

He sat up and blinked, his eyes picking out shapes and objects in the dark. He was in a large, well-furnished suite. Where, he wasn’t quite sure.

Then it came back to him. The drugged blood. The scent of Chrysabelle pouring out of Ronan. The indicators that she’d been there in the Pits.

He wanted to rail against the barge-load of refuse his life had become, but there was too much to figure out and not enough time to do it.

A table near the bed held an LED lamp. He clicked it on, illuminating the space.

He went very still. He knew this room. Had spent time here. He inhaled, figuring he deserved the torture. The honey-sweet fragrance of Chrysabelle’s blood still lingered in the suite, but then, it had been the last place he’d willingly drunk the blood she’d drained for him. And the last place he’d kissed her.

Chin dropping toward his chest, he shook his head at his own foolishness. How had things gotten to this point? Because he was a stubborn fool.

Now, Chrysabelle could be anywhere. Hurt. Suffering. Or worse. Crimson edged his vision. If Ronan had harmed her in any way, Mal would kill him. If he hadn’t already.

Fists outstretched, Mal tipped back his head and roared out the anger scraping his insides raw. Katsumi, Ronan, maybe even Dominic for condoning what went on in his club – they all deserved his wrath.

Rapping sounded from the door.

‘What?’ Mal shouted.

The door opened and Mortalis walked through. Before he could shut it, Katsumi barged past.

‘Oh, you’re all right. I was so worried.’ She wrung her hands, studying him as if he were a lost love come home. What a farce.

Mal leaped to his feet. ‘Like hell you were. You’re the one who gave me that doctored blood.’

Mortalis held his hands up. ‘Hold on. What doctored blood?’

Mal ignored him as Katsumi lifted her chin. ‘I may have given it to you, but I had nothing to do with it being tainted.’ She laced and unlaced her fingers with theatrical precision. ‘I had money on you. A lot of money. Why would I do anything that would ruin my chances of winning?’

Mortalis nodded. ‘She’s got a point.’

Mal scowled. ‘No, she doesn’t. Why are you defending her?’

Mortalis, standing slightly in front of Katsumi, gave Mal a glare. ‘I’m not defending her. I’m trying to sort this out.’

Katsumi had the audacity to feign hurt. ‘I thought I could do something to help, but if you’re going to act like such a child, then—’

Mortalis turned to her. ‘You want to help? Go find Ronan.’

‘He’s still alive?’ Mal asked.

‘Yes.’ Katsumi sniffed. ‘The fight was declared a draw. No winner. Mortalis brought you here. I took Ronan back to the cells, then went to get a med kit. When I came back, he was gone.’

No wonder she was so bunched up. She’d lost money and a willing fighter. ‘Mortalis is right. Go find Ronan so I can finish what I started.’

‘You’ll fight him again?’ Her eyes lit up with appalling glee.

‘No, I’m just going to kill him.’

She jabbed a finger at him. ‘You want to take him out, do it in the pit. We have an agreement and you owe me.’

‘Getting poisoned canceled any agreement between us.’

She started to argue back, but Mortalis stopped her. ‘Enough. You have a club to run while your head of security is missing.’

She poked a long, red nail into his shoulder. ‘It’s Dominic’s club. He has a problem with how it’s being run, he can tell me himself. I don’t need to hear it from his
boy
.’

Boy
? Mal raised his brows. Katsumi must have a death wish.

Mortalis stared down at her, his eyes black slits against his sooty skin. ‘You’d think a creature with no soul would take a little care around someone like me.’ He stepped toward her. ‘Unless you need reminding what my kind are capable of.’

Mal crossed his arms. ‘Never hurts to have a refresher.’

‘Bite me,’ Katsumi spat.

Mal sneered. ‘Not even the voices in my head are that insane.’

Mortalis laughed. Katsumi didn’t. With frost in her gaze, she stalked out, slamming the door behind her.

Mortalis didn’t wait for Mal to speak. ‘We need to talk.’

‘No, we don’t.’ Mal headed for the exit. He didn’t have time to make nice or buddy up.

Mortalis grabbed his bicep. ‘You can’t just go barreling out there and hope it all works out.’

Smoke trailed up from where the fae’s silver rings connected with Mal’s skin. He yanked his arm out of the shadeux’s six-fingered grip. ‘Watch me.’

The fae stepped into his path. ‘Katsumi’s hiding Ronan. I don’t have proof, but I can feel it. No one else claims to have even seen him in the holding cells after the fight.’

Mal shrugged. ‘That doesn’t surprise me.’ Katsumi couldn’t let him kill Ronan when there was money to be made. What else
did Mortalis know? ‘What about Chrysabelle? I know she was here. There was blood on the balcony railing.’

‘She cut her hand, but she’s fine. She went home.’ Mortalis frowned. ‘That was yesterday, by the way. You’ve been out for a while.’

‘All the more reason I need to talk to her.’ Mortalis might think she was fine, but what did the fae know about comarré? Mal wanted to see her. Had to see her. And he’d had enough blood these past few days that he could face her without dropping fang and salivating like some newly turned vampling.

‘I don’t think that’s a good idea.’

‘Duly noted. Get out of my way.’

Mortalis didn’t budge. ‘No. There’s more to this. I know it. The fringe have started to organize. There’s talk of putting Ronan in charge.’ He exhaled like the weight of a thousand secrets lay on his back. ‘Something’s going on and I may be your only ally right now, so either listen to me or don’t, but I’m willing to help.’

‘You work for Dominic.’ Mal planted his fingertips on Mortalis’s chest and pushed to emphasize his point, causing the shadeux to sway. ‘And he’s just as guilty as the rest of them, so your help’ – he pushed a little harder – ‘I can do without.’

Mortalis stood firm. ‘Dominic doesn’t know about any of this.’

‘He tell you to come down here and feed me that line of bull?’

‘No, because he’s not here, and he hasn’t been since Maris died.’

That slowed Mal down. ‘Where is he?’

‘I’m not at liberty to divulge.’

Chump. Mal shook his head, disgusted. ‘You’re such a company man, Mortalis. Your clan must be so proud of you.’

Mortalis lifted his head, aiming the tips of his horns in Mal’s direction. ‘My choices are not yours to judge. I certainly don’t judge yours.’

‘What’s that supposed to mean?’

‘You know what it means. You drank her blood.’

Mal cooled a notch. ‘Which is why I need to talk to her. To explain.’ To stop screwing up his already chaotic life.

‘Then I’m going with you.’

‘No.’ He pushed past Mortalis, headed for the door.

‘Tell Velimai I said hello. You know, from one deadly fae to another.’

His hand stopped on the knob. Son of a priest. ‘You’re driving.’

T
his time of night when the dying sun dusted the sky lavender and the early stars emerged, everything seemed draped in magic. Not the kind that waited around corners or bared its teeth when startled, but peaceful, benevolent magic. The enchanted dusk muted imperfections and smoothed rough edges. Chrysabelle could almost imagine that Maris was still alive, that the humming coming from the kitchen belonged to her. Chrysabelle knew it didn’t, but a strange compulsion made her lean up from the poolside chaise and check.

With a smile, Velimai stepped out of the house through the wall of sliding glass panels that were opened to the evening air. In her hands, a tray holding a flute of pineapple juice. She walked forward, almost floating in that way wyspers had of gliding like leaves on water. Chrysabelle’s imaginings faded in her wake.

With a wistful sigh, she lay back against the chaise, the journal she’d been reading closed against her chest. Not her mother. And it never would be. Meeting Creek had reminded her how very alone she was in this world. Yes, she had Velimai, but
Velimai wasn’t human, and on the days when she ached for the counsel of someone who understood what she’d been through or might grasp what it meant to be comarré, there was no substitute.

The journals came close at times like this. She could hear Maris’s voice when she read. Sometimes, though, reading Maris’s thoughts overwhelmed Chrysabelle, especially the little notes written directly to her. Those … those tore at her heart, gnawing on the parts that were trying to heal, keeping the pain fresh. And so the reading went slowly.

Velimai set the tray down, lifted the flute, and placed it on the small table beside the chaise. She tucked the tray beneath her arm and tilted her head to look at Chrysabelle.

Chrysabelle recognized that look. ‘I’m fine.’ She lifted her bandaged hand without wincing. The scratch on her elbow was almost gone. ‘Even my wounded bits.’

Velimai’s brows rose. Clearly, she didn’t believe that.

‘I’m fine, really.’ Chrysabelle tapped a finger on the journal. ‘Just missing her.’

Velimai nodded and signed,
Me, too, always.

Chrysabelle nodded. Velimai understood. At least to some extent. ‘Sit with me.’

Velimai leaned the tray against the table and took the chaise on the other side. Her hands flew as she sat.
You want to talk?

‘No. Just company.’

The wysper smiled softly, opening her mouth as if to say, ‘Ah, I understand,’ then sank back into the cushions.

Chrysabelle sipped her juice, a habit she’d yet to break. The fruit’s sugariness sweetened the blood, something Algernon had always enjoyed. Would she ever leave that life behind her? Would the day come when no reminders existed? Maybe in another hundred years, if she lived that long.

She opened the journal and began to read again, thankful the lack of vampire interaction in her life had not yet dulled her night vision to the point that she needed more than ambient light to see by.

My visit to the Aurelian was more fruitful and more frustrating than I could have imagined it to be. When I asked my one question, for she would not allow more than that, she answered without hesitation. ‘Chrysabelle is your daughter. You’ve cared for her these many years. Did you not feel in your soul she was your child?’ In that moment I felt both elation and chastisement. Thrilled to finally know what I had wondered about for so long, and admonished for not figuring it out myself. Should I have? Self-doubt overwhelmed me. What kind of a mother didn’t know her own child? A comarré mother, it seemed. ‘No,’ I answered. ‘I didn’t feel it.’

I shall never forget the look on the Aurelian’s face when she continued. In her eyes, it was plain that I was completely diminished. ‘I should not find it surprising, then, that you did not try to ask about your son.’

‘My son is dead. Rennata let it slip once.’

The Aurelian laughed. ‘Rennata lies.’

Alive? Coldness swept through me, my tongue numb and useless as I tried to comprehend. I thought back to that day. I’d fought with Rennata, over what I don’t remember. We fought often. In a fit of anger, she told me my firstborn, my son, had died at the hands of his patron.

Now, looking back, I can only imagine Rennata wanted to wound me as deeply as possible. She was never chosen to bear, and that weighed heavily on her, among other things.

Chrysabelle, my child, if you’re reading this, and I pray that you are, find your brother. Go to the Aurelian and use your one question to get his name and set him free as I have done for you. Please, I beseech you.

‘Holy mother.’ Chrysabelle breathed out the words like a prayer. She reread the passage from Maris’s journal as she sat forward. The same numbness her mother described seemed to sink into her bones, deadening the ache in her palm where she clutched the journal.