Blood Rights

Dominus dominus dominus. Over and over like a prayer, she chanted the title that would someday be hers. When this hell was extinguished and she’d received her reward.

The Castus bit into her shoulder and drank, his large body heavy on hers. His forked tongue flicked against her skin. She laughed hoarsely, open-mouthed and drunk with the promise of power.

Dominus dominus dominus.

Malkolm tried to insist they talk in his room. Chrysabelle refused. No way was she following the most notorious fallen vampire into a place he considered safe ever again. Malkolm Bourreau, vampire killer. The name Bourreau meant executioner in French. He’d been named for his human profession. Ironic how well it suited him now. Even so, her knowledge of him was a mere fragment of his shadowed story.

They’d ended up in one of the ship’s holds that had been converted into a mammoth gym. It suited her. Being able to put space between them was a very good thing. The massive overheads shed half their normal light and flickered as they dwindled further. This dependence on solar made her miss the wealth of the world she’d left behind. Adjustment took time, she reminded herself.

‘Talk,’ she said, not caring that her feet stayed planted in a fighting stance or the sword remained lifted, ready to strike. Whether it was the adrenaline or her body’s vampire-given ability to heal itself, her broken foot felt whole. Not that pain would stop her from fighting. She was tougher than that. And if he hadn’t learned by now that she could defend herself, it was time he figured it out.

‘You think I care what you know about me? I don’t.’ He prowled back and forth like a caged beast.

‘Then tell me.’

He snarled. ‘I’m cursed.’

‘So I’ve heard.’ She shifted slightly, keeping her body aligned with his movements.

He tore his shirt off as he turned, giving her another glimpse of the black scrawling that covered him. ‘Every life I’ve taken I wear on my skin. Every one. Every father, every mother, every child.’ He dropped the shirt and slapped his open palm against his chest. ‘Every name haunts me. The voices … ’ His hands tightened on his skull as he circled back. ‘They never shut up. Taunting me. Pushing me.’

She stared at his black-inked skin. How many lives did he bear? Thousands? Tens of thousands? ‘That must be difficult beyond words.’ She couldn’t fathom how he hadn’t gone insane.

‘It is.’ He spun on his heels to face her. ‘Especially around you.’ He came as close as her blade would let him. ‘Do you know what they tell me to do with you? Do you?’

She shook her head, unwilling to say anything that might stop him. There was power in knowing an opponent’s secrets.

‘Kill her, drain her, get away.’ Silver eyes drilled into her. ‘That’s what they scream into my ears when you’re around.’

She tried to steady her breathing and failed. Her pulse must be slamming into his head like a jackhammer. He stalked closer. The sword point scratched a bloody line into his skin, but she refused to back up even though the smell of him – bitter, spicy, and yet deficient – shredded her nerves. The desire to feed him, to give of herself, made her want to weep with disgust.

He stabbed his fingers at his temples. ‘That’s what they hiss into my ears around you. Over and over until I want to do it just to shut them up.’

His face contorted and he retreated a single step, pointing a finger at her. ‘You’re trouble and they know it.’

‘Me? Trouble?’ She forced a laugh, but it sounded feeble even to her ears. ‘I’m not trouble, I’m in trouble.’ Seriously in trouble if she didn’t get some distance, but backing up would make her look weak.

‘I should,’ he muttered like he was talking to himself. Or maybe the voices. ‘I should drink you dry and be done with you.’ He paced the floor, thankfully away from her.

She waved the sword after him. ‘Try it and I’ll be forced to defend myself.’ Of course, if what she knew about him was true, try might be all she did.

‘Don’t you mean behead me? Like you did your patron?’ He turned, hands clenched. His body tensed, cording the muscles in his chest. The names danced with the movement.

‘You’re the expert on beheading. You really think I’m capable of that?’

The silver in his eyes darkened for a second then flared back to life. ‘Yes.’ He shrugged while he walked. ‘No. I don’t know. Don’t care. Go back to your aunt.’ He crisscrossed his hands over each other. ‘I’m done with this. With you.’

She lowered the sword. ‘It’s not that easy. I need help, and you own my blood rights. That makes you responsible for me.’

‘I don’t want you or your blood rights. I just want to be left alone.’

Despite the situation, the rejection still stung. No lucid vampire turned down a comarré’s blood rights. Especially a Primoris Domus comarré. She almost laughed at herself. Yes, being a Primoris Domus comarré had really paid off, hadn’t it? How pathetic. ‘I told you it doesn’t work that way.’

‘Then find a way to make it work.’ He halted, his back to her, and stayed that way while he spoke. ‘How did your aunt get out of it?’

Chrysabelle hesitated. There was no reason not to tell him. He wouldn’t suggest it. ‘Libertas.’

‘What’s that?’ He rotated and shoved a hand through his hair, pushing the long black strands out of his eyes. 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">