Bad Blood (44 page)

“How come she and Mal aren’t with you?”

“Went straight to Seven. Where’s Creek?”

“Still out.” Doc glanced at the main house. “How long before Chrysabelle gets home?”

“Maybe two hours. Why?”

“Her house is full of people. I know that’s not her favorite thing.”

Mortalis shook his head. “And she’s not going to be in any kind of shape to have people around. Who’s in there?”

“Luke and John Havoc, the mayor, Fi, Velimai, and Damian. The mayor’s driver is in her car.”

Mortalis rubbed at one of his horns, his gaze on the ground for a moment. At last he looked up again. “Obviously, Velimai will stay. It might not be the safest thing to send the mayor home at this time, but with both the Havoc boys, she should be all right.” He paced a few steps to one side, his head down like he was thinking. “We can’t put the comar back in the guesthouse with a vampire in there, but I don’t like the idea of leaving that vampire in there to begin with.” He lifted his head. “You have secure places on the freighter, right?”

Doc knew he meant the kind of places where they’d once locked Mal up, back when he’d strictly been on animal blood and the beast within him would occasionally rise up and try to get some of the human variety. “What are you suggesting?”

“Take the vampire there. Lock her up. Then she’s out of Chrysabelle’s hair and the comar can move back to the guesthouse. I’ll help you. No vampire is dumb enough to try something with a shadeux watching her.”

Doc looked at Fi. “What do you think?”

The corner of her mouth lifted as she shrugged. “Mal will hate that, but for Chrysabelle’s sake, I think he’ll be okay with it. Who’s going to guard the vampire? Make sure she doesn’t get out? Because if she does and she
really is working for Tatiana, having her loose in Mal’s home is a really bad idea.”

“True,” Doc said. “So how about we take Damian with us? Let him stand guard? Then Chrysabelle won’t even have to deal with him being in her guesthouse.”

Mortalis nodded. “Good plan. After that, the three of us will go track down Creek, let him know what’s going on and that the mayor’s on her own. No need for him to come back here and disturb Chrysabelle either.”

“Just one thing,” Fi said. “What car are we going to fit all of us into?”

“Easy,” Doc said. “We’ll take the vampire with us in Mal’s sedan back to the freighter, and Mortalis can follow behind in Dominic’s car.” He looked at the fae. “That is whose wheels those are, right?”

“Yes,” Mortalis answered. “If he didn’t have more vehicles than he needed, I’d worry about getting it back.”

“Hold on.” Fi threw her hands up. “I am not riding in the car with that vampire chick.”

Doc gave her a wink. “Don’t worry. She’ll be in the trunk.”

M
al was sure at least one bone in his right hand was broken. Did it matter? No, not in the slightest. Chrysabelle could break every single one if she needed to.
She should.
He still wasn’t letting go.

If he’d had breath to hold, he would have as Atticus lowered the needle toward her back. Her grip tightened, as if she could sense it. Maybe she could. The needle’s tip glowed red hot. The heat had to register, even with the breath work she was doing.

The needle pierced her skin with a sizzle. Mal tensed, expecting her to cry out or flinch, but she did neither. Not even a sudden inhale. Her strength amazed him.

Blood welled from where Atticus worked, his blind eyes seemingly focused on her back as his hand moved over her skin. The scent of blood mixed with the gold’s metallic tang and the occasional wisp of smoke. The beast, confused by the muddle, rumbled softly in Mal’s head but remained controllable.

Another bone in Mal’s hand fractured, but his pain was nothing compared to hers. It couldn’t be.

“First one finished.” Atticus spoke in such a small
voice that Mal wondered if he was even meant to hear it.

The new signum sparked to life as if lit from within, then the glow faded, melting away into the subtle light that always surrounded her. “Is that normal?” Mal asked. He kept his voice low, too.

“What?” Atticus asked, his head coming up.

“The glow.”

“Yes.” With a look that cut off any more talking, Atticus bent his head and went back to work.

A sharp sizzle and a trailing column of vapor rose off his needle. Mal’s jaw ached from clenching it. “How can she stand this? No human should be able to. It’s not possible.”

“I should not have allowed this. You’re breaking my concentration.” With a sharp exhale, Atticus lifted the needle and leaned back. “You assume the comarré is human.”

“I know she is. I’ve met her mother.”

Atticus’s eyebrows lifted, but he didn’t ask for more details. “Yes, well, you haven’t met her father. You won’t either. I can’t imagine you’d last long in his presence.”

Mal squinted. “Who
is
her father?”

“Not who.
What
.”

“You’re going to drop that bomb and then walk away from it?” Chrysabelle would want to know this when she came out of whatever pain-numbing trance she was in.

Atticus shrugged. “I only know rumors. Guesses. Nothing concrete.” He bent like he was going back to work.

“What do you know?” Mal’s temper shaded the edges of his vision red. The beast rumbled louder.

“All I will say is”—he paused as if searching for the words—“gold is not the only reason her blood tastes so divine.” With that, he shut Mal out, bending over Chrysabelle and applying the needle with greater concentration.

Mal thought on the signumist’s words, but shearing part of his attention away from Chrysabelle made little sense. There would be time for thinking later. Maybe she’d know what Atticus had meant.

The signumist continued down the length of her spine and back up the other side, implanting the signum and announcing each one as it was finished. Blood rose from the welted skin and trailed down her sides like ribbons. How she stood it, Mal had no idea. Halfway through the first side, he’d begun to shake with emotions he couldn’t name. He wanted to take her place. To hurt Rennata for making Chrysabelle go through this again.
To kill.
To shove Atticus away from her.
To maim.
To rage against the injustice of life. To cradle her in his arms and make the pain go away.

If Chrysabelle sensed any of it, she made no indication, but watching her go through this was more intense than he’d imagined. His hands had long since gone numb. Even the voices in his head had quieted. At least it went quickly.

Finally, Atticus lifted his needle. “Finished.”

The last signum lit up as the others had. This time the glow spread, brighter and stronger than before. The other new signum began to glow as well. Then the existing signum came to life. She moaned softly.

“Are you sure she’s supposed to glow like that?”

Atticus stood, flexing his hands. “You’re a vampire. All comarré glow to you.”

“Not that brightly. Each one of her signum look like the sun is shining through it.”

Atticus stopped moving his tray out of the way. “That can’t be.”

“It is. I’m watching it happen right now.”

Chrysabelle moaned again, louder this time.

“Something’s wrong.” Atticus frowned.

Mal jumped up. “What do you mean something’s wrong? Fix it. Now.”

“I can’t. What’s done is done.”

“Not good enough.” If not for Chrysabelle’s hands gripping his, he would have leaped across the table and clamped them around the signumist’s neck. “What’s happening to her?”

Atticus shook his head, his eyes darting from side to side as if seeking answers. “The power in the ring could have survived the melting, or…”

“Or what?”

“Her blood could somehow be tainted.”

A sharp chill dug into Mal’s gut. “Tainted how?” But he already knew the answer.

“When her original signum were stripped, was she hospitalized? An infusion of normal human blood could cause problems.”

“No. No human blood.” Just vampire. Once again, he was the reason she suffered.
Of course.

“Maybe it’s the power in the ring, then.”

Chrysabelle’s hands spread wide, releasing Mal’s. She lifted her head and opened her mouth like she was struggling to breathe, but her eyes stayed closed. “So… hot…”

“Hold her down,” Atticus said. “She shouldn’t move so
soon after having this done. The flesh needs to seal. I have to clean her off at least.” He hurried to the side counter.

Hands aching, Mal latched on to her upper arms and kneeled down so he could talk softly to her. “Hang on, Chrysabelle. It’s going to be okay. I know it hurts. Breathe.”
You can kill me later
, he wanted to say.
She probably will.
He bent farther so his head touched hers. “I’m right here. I’m not going to leave you.” But she’d leave him. Just as soon as she realized what he’d done.
She should.

Atticus came back with a bowl of steaming water scented with some kind of herb and a cloth. He began to mop the blood from her. She moaned and lifted her head again. Her eyes fluttered open. The summer blue of her irises was shot through with flecks of gold, making her eyes glow almost as much as her body. “Am I dying?”

A shudder ran through him. The voices rejoiced. He shook his head. “No, you’re not. Don’t say that. Don’t think that.”

“You’re not dying, comarré.” Atticus squeezed the cloth over the bowl. The water ran scarlet. “You’re having a reaction to the ring’s power. I’m sure this will pass when it settles into your body.”

She shivered as if cold and reached her hands out. Mal took them in his, but there was no strength in her grip. “I’m glad you’re here.”

He couldn’t answer. Instead, he nodded. Then a hard tremor racked her body. She cried out. Her body tensed, the outline of her muscles stark beneath her glowing skin. A second later, the glow was gone and she lay limp on the table.

“Is she…” Atticus shook his head.

“No,” Mal answered, relief flooding him. “I can hear her heart beating.”
Too bad.

“She will need much rest.” Atticus emptied the bowl into the sink. “Days of it.”

Then, as if nothing had happened, she lifted her head. “Holy mother,” Chrysabelle breathed out. “I’d forgotten how much that hurts.” She leaned up gingerly on her elbows, gathering the fabric around her front and looking over her shoulder. Her eyes were their usual blue, not a fleck of gold to be seen. “Am I sealed? Can I get dressed?”

Atticus’s mouth came open, but he said nothing.

Mal stared at her. “You just told me you were dying, now you’re ready to go home?”

“What? I never said that.” Her eyes were heavy-lidded and on the verge of closing. “I’ve been tranced out since Atticus said he was ready.”

“No,” Atticus corrected her. “You haven’t been.”

Afraid she’d realize she’d had a reaction based on the presence of his blood, Mal changed the subject. “I can explain to her on the way home. Is she really ready to get dressed?”

“This is most unusual,” Atticus muttered. “She may dress. Right now she feels little pain because the sealant in the washing water contains a variety of natural anesthetics, but when that wears off, the pain will return. It will be intense. She’ll probably fall asleep soon, but you should get her to wherever she’s going to convalesce, and quickly.” He picked up a small red pouch off his tray and handed it to Mal. “She’ll want this when she’s ready.”

He had a feeling he knew what was in that pouch, but he tucked it into a pocket without looking at it then grabbed the robe she’d discarded and held it out to her, closing his
eyes. “Get this on and let’s get you home.” And somehow, during the car ride to her house, he’d figure out a way to explain that more than just gold had gotten under her skin.

“H-how long are you going to leave me here?” Daciana asked.

Fi hovered a few feet off the ground in her ghost form. Being corporeal made her feel vulnerable around the bloodsucker, especially after her experience with Tatiana. “You’re a vampire, you can’t be afraid of the dark.”

“Just get in,” Doc said. “You’re lucky we haven’t ashed you yet. Once we find out if what you told us is true, we’ll come get you. If it’s not true, then you’re in serious trouble.” He pointed toward the shipping container’s interior.