Bad Blood (49 page)

“Go back to hell where you belong.”

He backhanded her. She slumped to the floor. The beast tore at his resolve. Time was running out to get Chrysabelle back before he turned completely. He scooped Chrysabelle’s limp body into his arms and turned. The
portal was on the floor behind him. He kissed her forehead and stepped through, his next step landing on the bathroom’s marble tile.

Upon seeing Chrysabelle, Velimai went almost transparent, her mouth opening and a soft keening wail slipping out.

The beast reared back in pain at the sound. “Wysper,” Mal ground out. “Control yourself. I did not do this.”

He strode to the bed and eased Chrysabelle’s body onto it with the last shreds of humanity he had left. He stared down at her, the beast clawing at his insides for escape. Rage poured hot through his veins, building the beast up. He shook his head.

Chrysabelle was dead. There was nothing left for him. No reason to keep the beast leashed. No reason to care whether he was cursed or not.

Sorrow freeing every desperate urge within him, he turned his head toward the French doors that led to her balcony. The curtains drawn over them darkened the room almost completely, but the pervasive light of day leaked under the bottom edge.

With one leap, he could be through the glass and into the sun. It was the wisest choice. For himself and for humanity, because he knew in his long-dead heart that the only other way to assuage the pain of her loss was to return to the darkness and blood that had once shrouded his world.

Death or the beast. Those were his options.

On the other side of the bed, Velimai trembled like a wind-whipped tree, tears streaming down her face, mouth open in silent pain. The one person who’d cared for Mal was gone. No one would mourn his passing.

He dragged himself toward the doors. The beast fought each step. He grasped a handful of fabric. The beast roared, snapping at the last of his resolve. The thrum of the voices reached a high-pitched whine of desperation and persuasion. He yanked the curtain back.

Sunlight seared his skin. At the pain, the beast broke free and hurled him back into the room’s shadows. He lay staring at the ceiling, wishing like never before that he could end it all. “Velimai,” he whispered, sorrow giving him the strength to use his own voice one last time. “Open your mouth and kill me.”

The fae sobbed. Not for him, he was sure, but for Chrysabelle. Still, he took the sound as a yes and braced himself.

A soul-deep gasp shattered the room’s silence, penetrating the chaos in his head. He turned. That wasn’t the sound he’d been expecting.

Chrysabelle arced off the bed, her eyes open, chest heaving. Her signum were lit up like they were on fire, like they had been at the signumist’s.

The beast stumbled in confusion. Mal got to his knees, control returning to him in waves.

She shook like she was freezing. Gold sparks filled her eyes. “I was dead,” she whispered. She glanced down at her stomach, one hand coasting over the bloodstain on her robe. She stopped suddenly and held her hands out in front of her. “My signum. What’s happening to me?”

“You can see that?” he asked. He pushed to his feet and went to her side. He wanted to gather her into his arms and crush her against him, but he held back.

She nodded, still trembling. “I feel… strange.”

“It happened when Atticus finished. Your whole body lit up like that.”

“The ring of sorrows.” She shook her head, pulling her robe aside to look at her legs. “The power is in me. It must have reacted with your blood. And Samhain.”

“You’re alive.” He sat on the bed. Every muscle that had ached with grief now tensed in relief. “That’s all that matters.”

Her mouth turned down and she looked toward the bathroom. “Is the portal still open?”

Velimai, tears long gone, stepped into Chrysabelle’s line of sight and shook her head.

“It’s not open, or you don’t want me to return?” She swung her legs off the side of the bed opposite Mal and got up, wobbling slightly. She grabbed the headboard. “Doesn’t matter, I’m going back. Get me my sacre. She knows my brother’s name, and this time she’s going to say it so I can hear it or—”

“No.” Mal stood. “She
killed
you. Do you understand? You’re not going back. Ever. It’s over. We’ll find another way.”

Velimai nodded. Chrysabelle, her tremors worse now, looked like she wanted to argue, but her eyes rolled back in her head and she slumped to her knees. Mal was beside her a half second later and had her in his arms. He put her back in bed. Stubborn, stubborn woman. But alive and he planned to keep her that way.

She stayed unconscious, but her heartbeat never faded, her breathing never faltered. He pulled up a chair next to the bed and settled in. Doc and Fi stopped by, tried to tell him something about a vampire being kept on the freighter with the comar then something else about Doc being the
new pride leader. Creek came with news of Samhain night. Then Mortalis to get an update for Dominic. He waved them all away, refusing to listen or talk. Nothing mattered until Chrysabelle was awake again. And no way was he leaving her side again until she was truly recovered from everything that had happened.

Hours slipped by. Velimai checked in on them from time to time, even bringing him a glass of blood once.

The edge of light beneath the curtains brightened, then warmed to gold, finally darkening to purple before vanishing completely. Still she slept, sometimes moaning softly, sometimes thrashing like someone was attacking her. There was little he could do but sit and watch. And hope.

When she quieted, he leaned over and brushed a strand of hair from her face. Eyes tightly closed, she turned her face into the pillow and uttered a single word.

“Damian.”

It’s hard to keep this section short because I am so fortunate to have so much support. I’m always afraid I’m going to forget someone. If I have, please know that at some point too late to make the appropriate changes to this acknowledgment, I woke up in a cold sweat with your name at the forefront of my memory.

To begin with, I want to thank my Creator for the gifts He’s given me.

Without question, I must thank my agent, Elaine. She’s everything I ever wanted in an agent and more. I feel blessed to call her friend. Big thanks to the whole TKA family.

Thanks to the entire publishing team at Orbit: my tremendous editor, Devi; her able assistant, Jennifer; Lauren, the high priestess of awesome covers; the amazing publicity guys, Alex and Jack, who go above and beyond; Siri, the production editor; the copy editors; and Mike, the best sales guy in the business.

Thanks to Rocki and Louisa, whose support really surpasses that word. They’re more than friends. They’re The Best. They make the hard days bearable and the good days great.

More thanks go to the rest of my “crew,” who give me feedback, support me, encourage me, and remind me I’m not in this alone: my parents, Matt, Jax, Laura, Leigh, Carrie, Carolyn, Briana, Denise, the Critwits, the Fictionistas, STAR, and the gang at Romance Divas.

Lastly, big thanks to my husband. In the book of my life, you’re the spine. Without you, I’d fall apart.

Kristen Painter
’s writing résumé boasts multiple Golden Heart nominations and advance praise from a handful of bestselling authors, including Gena Showalter and Roxanne St. Claire. A former New Yorker now living in Florida, Kristen has a wealth of fascinating experiences from which to flavor her stories, including time spent working in fashion for Christian Dior and as a maitre’d for Wolfgang Puck. Her website is at
kristenpainter.com
and she’s on Twitter at @Kristen_Painter. The series website is at
www.houseofcomarre.com
.

If you enjoyed BAD BLOOD,
look out for

OUT FOR BLOOD

House of Comarré: Book 4

by KRISTEN PAINTER

Chrysabelle wasn’t fine, that much Mal knew. He also knew that what she didn’t want to talk about—the power from the ring of sorrows being somehow responsible for her surviving the Aurelian’s blow—wasn’t just going to magically wear off. He never
should have put his blood into her, never should have let her get the signum replaced, never should have let her go to the Aurelian alone.
Never never never. Weakling
.

He snorted in anger as he plodded down the steps from her suite, half agreeing with the voices. As if he had any control over any of those things. He’d no more have let her die than she’d have let him stop her from doing what she wanted. And now, there was a price to pay.

How high a price? Who knew. But having the ring’s power coursing through her had to mean more than just keeping her alive when her life was threatened. That was too simple. Power had a way of exacting a price for its use. Tatiana was proof of that.
So are you
.

With a loud exhale to announce himself, he walked into the kitchen. Velimai, the wysper fae, sat at the table with a cup of tea, poring over her e-reader. She looked up when he came in.

She signed something he didn’t understand. She pointed toward the upstairs.

“Yes,” he answered, guessing at what she’d asked. “She’s awake. And hungry. And a little cranky.”
Who wouldn’t be around you?

The wysper offered him a wry smile, set her reader down, and headed for the refrigerator. She pulled out a few things, then gave him a questioning look and a nod toward Chrysabelle’s rooms.

He pulled out a chair and sat, his back to the wall. “She’s in the shower now. Should be down shortly.”

Velimai looked over at him from where she stood at the counter seasoning a steak. She slowly mouthed the words
You look tired
.

“I am.” Tired of always being at odds with Chrysabelle’s stubbornness. “And frustrated. She doesn’t want to talk about what happened.” He tilted his head back until it touched the wall, and closed his eyes. “Or what’s still happening. Or going to happen, depending on how you look at it.”

Two soft clinks on the tabletop brought his head back down and he opened his eyes. Velimai tapped the top of the whiskey bottle she’d put there with a squat glass, then glided back to the range where the grill was heating.

“Thanks.” What he really needed was blood, but that could wait. He’d had enough practice in delaying his own gratification. Another hour or so meant nothing. He poured a couple centimeters of whiskey into the tumbler and tossed them back. The burn felt good. Substantial. Something he could quantify. Unlike Chrysabelle, who continued to bewilder him. “We’re going to have to discuss it sooner or later.”

Velimai nodded. The steak sizzled as she laid it over the grill, the scents of searing, bloody flesh reminding Mal of his human days. A muted whir filled the room as the vent kicked on to suck up the
smoke. She put down the tongs she’d been using, came back to the table, and scrawled something on an e-tablet, then held it out to him.

She’ll talk when she’s ready. You & I know it’s the ring in her system. Maybe your blood too. But what can you do until she’s ready? Fight with her? No use.

Mal set the e-tablet down and leaned back. “No use is right. I just can’t help but wonder what the final cost of all this is going to be.”

Velimai sighed and went back to the steak.