Flesh and Blood

That night at Puncture seemed years ago now. She’d been frightened and looking for help. Not much had changed. She still had plenty to fear, plenty she needed help with. Her life was no better for knowing him.

Once this trip to the Aurelian was done, his curse would be broken. The time would be right for him to move on. Start fresh. Let her do the same.

He stared past her, into the black waters of the Intracoastal. He’d been starting fresh for almost five hundred years. He could do it again.

Up ahead, the dock came into view. At the end of it, Creek stood alone, looking very much like a man with nothing good to report.

‘Doc’s gone.’ Creek shook his head, knowing the news wouldn’t go over well.

Chrysabelle rushed down the gangway. ‘What do you mean he’s gone?’

‘We made the first strike against the hellhounds, but they retreated—’

Mal shook his head. ‘Nothos don’t retreat.’

‘These did.’ Creek ignored Mal’s incredulous look and continued. ‘We tracked them back to Tatiana’s – she’s about an hour from here – then we saw another male vamp stuff a female varcolai into a car and take off with her. Doc said he knew the girl and went after her. I watched Tatiana’s a little longer, but got back to the street in time to see a fringe male throw an unconscious Doc into his trunk and peel off. I came back here as fast as I could.’

Mal cursed. ‘What did the fringe look like?’

‘I only saw him from the back. Short hair with flames carved into it, earrings—’

‘Ronan.’ The word came out of Mal’s mouth like a curse. ‘Head of security at Seven. Or was.’

Chrysabelle turned to Mal. ‘What would he want with Doc? You think he’s going to use him to get back at you?’

‘Get back at you for what?’ Creek asked, already imagining a few things.

‘Ronan and I have never seen eye to eye.’

‘Last time they fought was the night those fringe attacked me and I met you,’ Chrysabelle offered. ‘Mal beat Ronan up pretty badly. He’d want revenge.’

Mal shook his head. ‘Going after Doc isn’t his style. That kind of plan requires more thinking than Ronan has the capacity for.’

Chrysabelle crossed her arms. ‘Then what?’

‘The night we went to see Dominic, Doc talked to him about more than just the dead fringe he’d found.’ Mal shot Creek a look but kept talking. ‘I’m sure it had something to do with Fi. And the conversation didn’t go well.’ He paused. ‘Why was he staying at your house, Chrysabelle? Why would he leave Fi alone?’

Her gaze drifted downward. ‘I asked him if you two were fighting. He said no. He said it was a long story I was better off not knowing. I asked him if it involved Fi. He said yes.’ She looked up, tension playing across her pretty face. ‘Doc’s in trouble, isn’t he?’

Mal nodded, then jerked his thumb at Creek. ‘Where we need to go, he probably shouldn’t come.’

‘You mean Seven?’ Chrysabelle asked. ‘I think they let a few humans in now.’

‘It’s not the human part that concerns me. It’s the slayer part.’

‘He’s going.’ Chrysabelle headed for the house. ‘He’s the only one who saw what Ronan did.’

Mal cursed under his breath and took off after her, so Creek did the same. Both men caught up to her in a few steps, but Mal kept the argument going. ‘You want to take a slayer into Dominic’s club? You really think that’s the best thing to do? Dominic might not appreciate it.’

She glanced back at Creek like she was reconsidering. ‘Dominic doesn’t need to know what Creek is.’ She pointed at Creek. ‘And you’re not going to say a word about being KM.’

He held his hands up. ‘My lips are sealed.’

Her gaze shifted to Mal. ‘Neither are you.’

‘Not a word,’ Mal said.

Getting inside the club could be invaluable for future missions. ‘In fact,’ Creek added. ‘I’ll be on my best behavior.’

Even if his best behavior meant a few fringe got ashed.

Chapter Thirty

Doc floated and fell. Up. Down. Up. Down. In the abyss of ketamine, everything was nothing, and nothing made sense except the push and pull of unseen forces. His body had abandoned him, leaving him with the feeling of perfect weight-lessness. The universe swirled around him, through him. He became the universe. The Creator. The destroyer of all. Darkness filled his mouth and ears, scaled his eyes. He tried to grasp hold of something, tried to pull himself out, but he had no fingers. No hands.

He drifted.

Drifted …

Drifted …

The scalding scent of ammonia burrowed down through the darkness and yanked him out by the roots of his consciousness. He sputtered awake as he resurfaced. The ketamine sank its velvet claws a little deeper. He fought harder. Blurred images replaced the nothing. He lifted his sandpaper lids. Focused. Then wished he hadn’t.

Dominic stared down at him, the silver glow of his eyes almost blinding. ‘So, Maddoc, it appears your day of reckoning is at hand.’

Doc groaned and struggled to sit so he wouldn’t die lying down. His brain told his arms and legs to move. They didn’t. Then he realized his hands and feet were bound. Without the drug in his system, he probably would’ve been able to snap the rope, but he was too weak. His tongue was missing. Or made of cotton. Why was he fighting the universe’s embrace? He relaxed. The dark curtain began to close around him again. 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">