Bad Blood

Quietly, he grabbed a discarded beer bottle and pitched it toward the back of the alley. Something shot past, a ripple of heat over asphalt on a summer day.

He lunged, plunging the halm through the center of the thing, only to be thrown back against the wall. A rib cracked, but he held onto his weapon. The shimmer of movement turned toward him and solidified into a creature that Creek had only ever seen before in drawings. Castus Sanguis. The ancient ones.

Callous red eyes, hands with scythe claws, and skin that oozed foul fluid. The Castus was everything he’d been described as, but seeing him in person was infinitely worse.

Fear, something that not even the Nothos made him feel, stuck its cold hand into Creek’s chest and squeezed. The brightest KM minds had yet to come up with a way to destroy the Castus. They were reportedly undefeatable.

The demon’s hooves scraped the ground as he charged. Creek feinted, rolling beneath the outstretched arms and stabbing his halm through the demon’s side as he came up. The creature howled, seemingly more out of anger than pain.

“You dare strike me, mortal?” The demon struck out again, and again Creek escaped the blow within a hairsbreadth.

He didn’t bother answering. Instead he took aim and let the halm fly straight toward the heart of the beast.

The demon swatted the titanium quarterstaff away. It clattered to the ground far beyond Creek’s reach. Behind him, the alley went a few more feet, then ended in a tall building without windows or fire escapes. He was trapped in a concrete canyon.

With a blood-freezing laugh, the demon stalked forward. “Too bad the witchling wants you alive. Maybe just a taste…”

A blur of red filled Creek’s vision, knocking him to the ground. Acid pain tore through his shoulder. Fangs hit bone, tore flesh, snapped sinew. Blood gushed over his body, soaking his clothes. Then heat. And light. And the keening wail of a creature in pain.

Creek opened his eyes, forcing himself to his feet. His arm hung limp. The Castus staggered backward, his body a flickering wick of fire. He clawed at his maw and belly where the flames concentrated. His arm shot out, his hooked finger pointing. “Kubai Mata,” he snarled.

“Damn straight,” Creek answered. He took a step toward his halm. Maybe he could finish this demon off after all. His hand stretched toward his weapon. The earth tilted, throwing him to the ground again. His vision tunneled down to nothing, and the press of asphalt faded as his body went numb.

Chapter Four

The wait to get into Seven was ridiculous. Despite Mal’s presence, every vampire in the crowd around Chrysabelle had scoped her out at least twice. Even if she hadn’t seen the shifting eyes and flaring nostrils, she would have known something was up by the silver glazing Mal’s gaze. The attention was no surprise. The perfume of her blood was unmatched by Dominic’s fakes. Most fringe had probably never smelled anything like her before.

Someone brushed her from behind. Mal growled as she turned to see who it was. A fringe vamp raised his hands in surrender and scurried off. After the news she’d given Mal, his fuse must be very short indeed.

She couldn’t think about that now. Or how just seeing him had made her want to forgive what he’d done. Her body was weak, her emotions weaker. She must be strong. Must focus on what she needed to accomplish.

Like seeing Dominic and getting his blessing to use his signumist’s services. A bolder fringe bumped into her, his hands finding her arm and waist. Mal snarled like a rabid dog, snapping his jaw as all traces of humanity disappeared from his face. The guilty fringe disappeared into the crowd, and a moat of personal space opened around them, but more heads turned to ogle the genuine comarré and rare noble vampire. Mal shifted back to his human face, but that did nothing to quell the staring.

She sighed. She preferred the private entrance to Seven, but the ground between her and Dominic was unsure after what had happened at the witches’ house. He might not want to see her at all. She’d threatened him with the same thing herself, but he hadn’t carried through his plan of killing Doc and had agreed things were even after Mal had given his blood to the witches in exchange for them returning Dominic’s. Things should be square between them, but with a vampire like Dominic… who knew? It was probably a good thing Mal was with her.

The line surged a few steps forward. Speaking of the hulking, broody, rarely pleasant anathema vampire currently glued to her side, part of her was happy Mal had inserted himself back into her life. The same part that was grateful to still be alive. But the rest of her wasn’t so sure. Yes, she was alive, but at what cost? She had vampire blood in her veins now. Every time she remembered that, a wave of shock washed through her. Vampire blood. In a comarré. Although Mal was technically right about the latter. She wasn’t truly comarré anymore.

Thanks to him.

And so went the circle of thinking. Which was why it was time to stop thinking and start acting. Her fingers drummed the handle of the cane at her side. A cane she didn’t exactly need but one that served its purpose. She wasn’t ready to let anyone know just how healed she was. The wounds on her back should have kept her bedridden for weeks. But two days after Mal’s infusion, she’d managed a painful half hour in the gym. Not the hardest training she’d had, but training nonetheless.

All that remained were the vicious scars streaking down her back like lightning strikes from shoulder blades to tailbone. And the pain. But pain she could deal with so long as she didn’t overdo it and ended the day with a good hot soak. The scars worried her. She prayed to the holy mother they wouldn’t prevent the signumist from replacing the signum taken from her. If Dominic’s signumist was for real and not just a glorified tattooist.