Blood Rights

‘Praying’s not going to help you now,’ Mal growled. In his peripheral vision, Doc helped Fi off the cot.

‘Preacher’s here?’ Fi asked, narrowing her eyes at the other vampire.

‘Yeah.’ Doc pushed her behind him. ‘I’ll explain later.’

‘Doc,’ Mal called over his shoulder. ‘Take both girls below.’

Doc nodded as Preacher lunged to his feet and sprang forward. ‘She’s mine.’

Mal snagged him around the neck and hurled him to the floor. Preacher hung on and they rolled together. Fi shrieked. Doc scooped a limp Chrysabelle into his arms and hustled her and Fi out the door as Mal came to his knees.

‘Hell spawn.’ Preacher’s fist pounded Mal’s cheek.

Mal shook off the pain. ‘That the best you can do, jarhead?’ Amateur. What he wouldn’t give for a weapon. Or a quart of blood. His muscles were starting to tremble from exhaustion.

‘Get staked, anathema,’ Preacher growled.

‘You fringe don’t know when to quit.’ Mal clipped Preacher in the temple, opening a cut and snapping his head back until the floor stopped it. Hitting something beside the heavy bag, something that bled, felt good. With Chrysabelle out of the room, and the added bitterness of Preacher’s blood, his brain was starting to clear.

‘Her blood is pure. She should belong to someone worthy.’ Preacher shoved his combat boots into Mal’s chest, thrusting him back and cracking a few ribs. The pain barely registered.

‘You’ve outstayed your welcome, altar boy.’ Mal rolled to his feet. Preacher was a second behind him. They faced off, circling.

‘Give her to me and I’ll leave.’

Mal realized he had no idea if the transfusion had helped Chrysabelle or not. Time to bring this to a close. ‘You go home alone.’

Mimicking the combo he’d used on the bag earlier, he hit Preacher again and again until blood covered his fists. His or Preacher’s, he wasn’t sure. Preacher staggered back against the wall. His head wobbled on his neck like a doll’s, then he slumped to the floor.

‘Age plus nobility always equals a win. I tried to tell you that last time.’ Mal grabbed Preacher by the belt, his doctor bag by the handles, and dragged them both out of the room. He kept going until he hit the end of the pier, then he dumped Preacher and threw his bag to the ground beside him. ‘Consider that your last chance to cleanse me.’

He slogged back to the ship to check on Chrysabelle. Fatigue overtook him as the exhilaration from the fight disappeared. Pain started to register. His right eye was swelling. He probed his ribs through his shirt. Two broken. Good thing he didn’t have to breathe. That was going to hurt in the morning. Or whenever he woke up after he collapsed into bed.

Back on board, he winced as he wiped his bloody hands on his pants. He followed Chrysabelle’s scent toward the room Doc had taken her to. A few doors away, and he knew Doc wasn’t done punishing him for what happened to Fi.

Sleeping in his own bed was no longer an option. Chrysabelle was already in it.

Tatiana couldn’t take her eyes off the mansion even as she slipped through the car door Octavian held open. Hers. Very soon. Especially now that she had a possible clue as to where the comarré might—

‘Hello, child.’

If she’d been less focused on the future and more on the present, she would have recognized his scent before she’d heard his voice. If the sound of words being dragged over gravel and broken glass could be called a voice.

Not now. She didn’t have time for this now. Not when she was so close to finding the comarré. She could scatter, but they’d find her. They always did. There was no running from the Castus Sanguis. She bowed her head in obeisance and shifted on the leather seat to face him.

‘My lord.’

He offered his hand. Dutifully, she kissed his ring, careful to touch as little of his skin as possible.

‘You seem troubled.’ The voice came from deep within the hooded black cape. No visible face, which suited her fine. She’d seen his face. Once was enough.

‘No, my lord, just … I have a lot on my mind.’ She concentrated on not gagging from the stench of sulfur and gangrenous flesh.

‘Ah. Then you may not be able to focus as much as I’d like on this plane.’

After her first trip to his dimension, she’d vowed never to return if she could help it. ‘My lord, please, I’m fine.’ She reached behind her neck, found the clasp of her locket, and released it, letting it fall from beneath her blouse to the car’s seat. She would not lose that memory again.

He twisted the amber gem in his ring and the world around her swirled away. She fought to maintain consciousness but when the blackness lightened to charcoal, she knew she hadn’t. The glassy black walls and disappearing corners were not her dimension. She was in theirs. And at their will.

She tested her surroundings. Not bound. That was something. Not that she could run. Where would she go? She was a rat, confined by an inescapable maze. She stretched her arms out, feeling for what was beneath her.

A bed. Her stomach churned. Not again. Please, not again. The last time it had taken her nearly a month to recover.

He approached, robe gone. Her memories of him had not been exaggerated. Veins throbbed with blood so powerful and ancient it had given birth to three races. A skirt of shadows covered him from the waist down, hiding his hooved feet. Behind him, knots of darkness hovered. His brethren. He circled the bed, giving her a glimpse of his back where the blackened stumps from his torn-away wings still thrust from his shoulders. ns class="adsbygoogle" style="display:block" data-ad-client="ca-pub-7451196230453695" data-ad-slot="9930101810" data-ad-format="auto" data-full-width-responsive="true">