Flesh And Blood: House of Comarre: Book Two (House of Comarre 2) (47 page)

‘Touch her and I’ll kill you.’ Mal grabbed Chrysabelle first, Creek a second after him. Together they put her between them and faced the comars.

Rennata’s nostrils flared. ‘If anyone is to be killed, vampire, it will be you.’

‘You want her?’ Mal snarled. ‘You’ll have to go through me.’
Drain them. Kill them.

‘Make that
us
,’ Creek said, snapping out his halm.

Chrysabelle squeezed Mal’s shoulder. ‘It’s okay,’ she said, her voice thick with determination. ‘I’ll go with them. Rennata is right. I am in violation. I have not come this far to become a coward now.’

‘No one would ever call you a coward,’ Creek said.

‘Not twice anyway.’ Mal turned to her. ‘I say we fight.’ The voices yowled in agreement.

‘I’m game,’ Creek said.

She shook her head. ‘No.’

‘You’re sure you want to do this? Creek and I will get you out of here if that’s what you want.’

Creek nodded. ‘In a heartbeat.’

‘I’m sure. And I know you both would.’ She smiled grimly. ‘What’s the worst they can do? Take the name comarré from me? They cannot change who I am.’ She lifted her chin and stared Rennata down with a fierceness that made Mal proud. ‘I am done being comarré anyway.’

‘If you’re sure,’ Mal said one last time.

‘I am.’ She cupped his face, kissed his cheek, then shifted and did the same to Creek. ‘Thank you both. But I must see this through.’

She slipped from between them and into the grip of the comars. Fear flashed in her eyes, belying her brave smile. Mal’s gut told him he was a fool to let her go. Beside him, Creek radiated anger, no doubt feeling the same way. But Chrysabelle was a stubborn woman, and if he’d learned anything about her, it was that she would choose her own path, regardless of what anyone else said or did.

Rennata glared at them as all but two of the comars disappeared with Chrysabelle down a hall. The remaining comars brandished swords that matched Chrysabelle’s, leveling them at him and Creek. Rennata pointed to the door. ‘Outside. Now. You may wait for her there.’

Creek approached the woman, his arms tensed at his sides. ‘The grand masters will be interested to hear your treatment of Chrysabelle.’

‘Tell them what you like,’ Rennata said with a shrug. ‘I don’t report to them.’

Mal snarled at her, snapping his fangs. The beast stared out through his eyes.

She twitched, then sniffed. ‘You don’t scare me.’ With a twirl of her robes, she marched after Chrysabelle. The comars closed in on him and Creek. Another went ahead and opened the door, gesturing for them to leave.

Creek pushed past them, muttering under his breath. Mal followed behind to join him on the portico. Thankfully, it was dark out. One of the comars slammed the door behind them.

‘You have some knowledge of their rituals. What are they going to do to her?’ he asked the slayer. Every fiber of his
being wanted to rush back in there and find a way to get her out.

Creek clenched his fists. ‘Some comarré rituals I know. This is one I don’t.’ He stared through the windows, but even Mal couldn’t see beyond the sheer curtains. ‘I say we go back in, bust some heads, and get her out of there.’

‘I can’t get farther than the main hall. Wards.’ A million rescue scenarios played out in Mal’s head, none of them making him feel any better, since he couldn’t act on them. He needed something else to think about. ‘We should figure out how we’re going to get back.’

Creek was about to speak when the door opened. Two comars held Chrysabelle under her arms. She was limp, almost lifeless. They dragged her through the door and dropped her at Mal’s feet.

Creek swore as the door shut.

Mal had no words for what he saw. Whining flooded his brain. Red haze clouded his vision. As red as the blood drenching her back. She moaned softly. Mal went to his knees beside her. The runes along her spine, the signum that had gotten her in to see the Aurelian, were gone.

They’d cut them out of her skin.

Doc ran because he could and because he hadn’t run, really flatout run, since the curse had taken away his true form. Now, as a leopard, he flew over the cracked sidewalks and pitted downtown streets. Those who saw him were either othernaturals who didn’t look twice or humans out to see something exciting. Tonight was their lucky night.

Block after block disappeared until he started to run out of the neighborhood most othernaturals considered safe. He neared Little
Havana, the smell of vampire spice teasing his sensitive nose. He rounded the next corner to loop back around. A small group of brawling fringe cluttered the street. Weapons clanked and flashed as they fought. He ducked into an alley and climbed the fire escape like it was a metal tree. From the roof, he took another look. The fringe were getting ashed fast. Two down. Now three.

They fought one of their own. Sort of. The fringe in the fatigues was Preacher. Doc would have recognized that shaved head, cross-wearing freak of a vampire anywhere. He’d long been on a mission to ‘cleanse’ Mal, but Preacher hadn’t shown himself since their last run-in.

The fourth fringe went up in a cloud of ashes. The last one took off running. Preacher flipped a dagger into him and brought him down, adding a final pile of ashes to the asphalt.

Preacher’s fighting abilities against Mal weren’t so hot, but against fringe he did pretty well. Or had he gotten better? Was he practicing on the fringe to hone his skills to come after Mal? Why kill them off so close to his home, then?

Preacher collected his weapons, crossed himself, and took off in the opposite direction. Doc followed, keeping to the rooftops to avoid being noticed. His leopard mind loved the height almost as much as the chase.

He stayed with the ex-marine until they were deep in Little Havana. Preacher was headed home, if you could call an abandoned Catholic church any kind of home for a vampire. But Preacher wasn’t a typical vampire.

Sure enough, Preacher ducked inside the old cathedral. Doc made his way down to the street level and, staying to the shadows, followed through the same side door Preacher had used. Normal vampires couldn’t enter without searing pain, but fae and varcolai didn’t share that characteristic.

There was plenty of darkness to hide in, but he remained cautious. No matter how strange Preacher was, he was still fringe with all the inherent abilities, including night vision and excellent hearing.

Doc crawled under the pews. Dust tickled his whiskers. His lip curled. He hated being dirty. A strange cry, almost animalistic, reached his ears. He headed toward it, nudging open a door with his broad nose and peering through.

In the room beyond sat a young girl decorated with gold marks like Chrysabelle’s but without the refinement. One of Dominic’s comarré. She smiled at Preacher and he back at her. He bounced in an odd rhythmic way, until he turned and Doc realized what he was doing.

Rocking a baby.

The comarré handed him a bottle of what looked like strawberry milk. For a baby? Preacher shook a couple drops onto the inside of his elbow. Doc inhaled. Not strawberry. Blood.

A chilling thought ripped through him. If that child was Preacher’s and the comarré’s … if it was half vampire … Doc shook his head. That shouldn’t be possible, but why else would they put blood in the milk? He crept backward slowly. No wonder Preacher was killing off fringe left and right. Doc could think of about a million different people who’d like to get their hands on a vampire child. None of them good.

M
al could be thankful for two things. One was that Creek had gotten them a ride home. The plane was old but seemed serviceable, much like the man Creek had forcibly persuaded to fly it for them.

The second and most important was that Chrysabelle was still alive. Barely. But she was.
Too bad.

Other than that, he wanted to destroy things until the pain he felt over what had been done to her went away. Pain he had caused.

If she hadn’t gone to the Aurelian to find a way out of his curse, she’d be fine, not bleeding out in the back of a cargo plane.
All that blood …

And he’d accused her of being selfish and stubborn.

The voices, overjoyed at how close she lay to death, raged in his head until their ranting turned into a sharp, white drone. He shoved it down and did his best to ignore it.

She lay on her stomach on a makeshift bed of tarps and packing blankets. She’d not regained consciousness long enough to do more than ask for water once and mumble something he
couldn’t understand when he’d lain down beside her and stroked her hair.

He was only vaguely aware that he wept. He’d been a fool not to tell her how he felt. That he cared for her. Deeply. The confession frightened him. Caring for someone made you vulnerable. Worse, it made them vulnerable, too. And tonight had proved that Chrysabelle’s vulnerability was a very difficult thing for him to endure.

She moaned and opened her mouth, but said nothing. He brushed the hair off her cheek, sticky with sweat. What they’d cut her with, he didn’t know, but the wounds Rennata – because he had no doubt she was the one who’d carved away Chrysabelle’s signum – had left seemed unchanged in the hours they’d been airborne. Not even the slightest sign of healing yet. Chrysabelle was suffering and there was nothing he could do. Nothing. Even after they got back to Paradise City, what then?

Helplessness was not a feeling he enjoyed, but it trumped knowing he was the reason her life was bleeding out of her. The pain she’d endured … he couldn’t imagine it.

He reached down and slipped his fingers through hers. ‘I’m sorry,’ he whispered. He closed his eyes and wished he could pray.

He woke when the plane’s hum deepened. How could he have slept? He lurched upright. Creek sat across from him.

‘How is she?’

Mal listened hard over the plane’s engines. ‘Her breathing is shallow, and her pulse is pretty weak. She’s not doing well.’

Creek frowned, stress lines creasing his face. ‘Good thing we’re landing soon.’

‘How soon?’

‘Half an hour. We’ll need a car.’

‘I’ll find one.’ He’d hot-wire whatever was available. ‘I don’t understand why she isn’t healing.’

‘Has to be from whatever the bastards cut her with.’ Creek stretched, rolling his head from side to side. ‘When we land, you take her home. I’m going to get my grandmother. She’s a healer.’ He shrugged. ‘Can’t hurt.’

Mal nodded, surprised to feel such gratitude toward the slayer. ‘Worth a shot.’

The landing gear dropped with a loud
thunk
.

Creek grunted. ‘Hold on to her. This may not be the smoothest landing.’

Mal shifted her so she lay braced between his legs, her upper body resting on his thighs, her cheek on his hip. He looped his arms under hers and held on as best he could. Creek held on to her legs. Mal tipped his head back against the metal shell of the plane, letting the vibration rattle through his brain and compete with the voices.

Blood scent pierced every part of him, needling into his senses and burying him in a rock slide of hunger. Her body suffused warmth into his skin, making it impossible to ignore. Eyes shut, eyes open, made no difference. There was no escaping the building need.

And yet, he did, forcing it aside, because a part of him had become stronger than that need. The part of him that cared for her. He would do whatever was necessary to heal her and no matter what the voices whispered, he would protect her. From himself, if necessary.

‘Here we go,’ Creek yelled.

The creak and shudder of the plane touching down felt more like it was coming apart. He held on to her as they jolted onto the
tarmac. The tires squealed in protest and the smell of burning rubber permeated the air. They were home.

Night was heavy on the city, dawn hours away. He left her with Creek while he found a limo not far from where they’d landed. It reeked of Tatiana. If she’d destroyed Chrysabelle’s portal, had she meant to trap them in Corvinestri? Maybe she’d already left in pursuit of them. Either way, the vehicle was his now.

The car was unlocked, so he threw it into neutral and yanked the parking brake into place, then he jumped out and wrenched the hood up, tearing the latch off the frame. Using the metal support bar meant to hold the hood open, he touched the solenoid to the positive battery post. Sparks bit his skin, but the engine purred to life.