Flesh and Blood

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.

Chapter Forty

Mal 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. 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">