Bad Blood

“Done.” But the man better watch himself or death would be a merciful dream compared to what Mal would do to him. Yesss, the voices hissed. Blood blood blood.

Mortalis pressed his hand to a panel of concrete. A blue-green glow emerged on the wall, outlining the shape of a door. He stuck a finger into the middle of the space and began to draw. The light followed his finger and runes appeared in the air.

“Those are signum,” Chrysabelle whispered. “This is comarré magic.”

Mal nodded. “Like the portals at Tatiana’s.”

“Yes,” Mortalis answered. The last rune drawn, he pressed the door once again. This time it opened. He walked through. “Quickly.”

Chrysabelle went next, Mal behind her. When he was through, the door slid shut again. “Just like the portals at Tatiana’s.” He looked at Mortalis. “Are we stuck here for a certain length of time, or can this door be opened at will?”

“At will. Follow me.”

Here, carpet lined the corridor’s floor, and the walls were drywalled and painted. A minimal number of antiqued sconces lit the way. Less like a prison cell but still not close to the same richness Dominic and his staff enjoyed.

At the hall’s end, a simple paneled wood door awaited them. Mortalis pressed a small button by the doorjamb. Muted chimes sounded from within. Chrysabelle leaned against the wall, the cane in front of her. Mal wondered if the walk had tired her. Her pulse hadn’t increased, so if she was in pain, she hid it well.

Several moments later a man answered. He wore the familiar white tunic and loose pants Mal had come to know as the comarré uniform, but he bore no signum that Mal could see. The man stared past them into the corridor beyond. “Mortalis. Good evening. Forgive me, I must have forgotten I had work tonight. No matter. I can prepare quickly.” He smiled softly, his gaze shifting across them. “What is the name of the comarré to be marked?”

Chrysabelle glanced at Mal, then back at Atticus. Her pulse had kicked up the moment Atticus had opened the door. Mal doubted it was pain. Something akin to fear played in her eyes. No doubt memories of the past signum she’d endured. And here she was, ready to take on more. That she could face something that scared her so deeply amazed him. Her brother best appreciate what she was doing to find him. Mal reached out for her, not entirely sure what comfort he could offer, but she shook her head slightly. He retracted his hand without touching her. Just as well. Comfort had never been his strong suit. More like killing.

“Good evening, Atticus. No work tonight, not exactly. But I do have a comarré with me.”

Atticus tipped his head a little and flared his nostrils. “And a vampire. This is… unusual. All is well?”

“All is well. May we come in?”

“Of course.” Atticus stepped aside.

Darkness and shadow cloaked the apartment’s interior. Atticus went ahead of them. “Let me turn on some lights. I don’t normally use them. Seems wasteful.” He smiled again. If he was being held against his will, he seemed happy enough about it. “Lights, please,” he commanded.

Instantly, soft illumination removed the darkness. Minimal but expensive furnishings filled the space. Several closed doors led off the main room. Atticus walked a distinct path to take a seat on the rounded-edge sectional. He held his hands out, displaying intricate signum on his wrists. That was a good sign, Mal guessed. Like you’d know. “Please, sit.”

Chrysabelle passed Mortalis to sit beside Atticus. Her chest rose and fell, matching the pace of her heartbeat as she tucked the cane against her side. “You’re a real signumist.”

Atticus turned toward her. “Yes.” He leaned in toward her an inch or so. “And judging by the perfume of gold that surrounds you, you’re a real comarré. Haven’t been around one of you in a long while.”

Mal crossed his arms. What kind of games was this guy playing? “You can take one look at her and figure out she’s real.”

Atticus faced Mal. “I suppose you can.”

“Mal.” Chrysabelle’s voice held a warning.

Atticus lifted his hand, displaying a sun-shaped signum on his wrist similar to the one Chrysabelle bore on the nape of her neck. “It’s all right. The noble one does not know our ways. He does not realize I am blind.”

“Blind?” Mal uncrossed his arms and lurched forward. “You’re going to let a blind man engrave your skin with molten gold? How can you think for a minute this man knows what he’s doing?”

Chrysabelle pushed to her feet, blocking his path. She grabbed his arm with her free hand, the strength of her grip bordering on painful. The fear had vanished from her eyes and her voice was low and stern. “Mal, all the signumists are blind. It’s a requirement. To keep the purity of the comarré intact.” She softened her voice and her hold on him. “They work on every part of our bodies. It’s the comarré way.”

Images of an almost naked Chrysabelle swarmed his brain, of the delicate swirls and patterns that covered every inch of her. Heat rose in his body, matching the whine in his head. He shook her hand off him. Mal wanted her touch, but not this way. Not when she thought he needed to be restrained lest he do something foolish. He relaxed, let the tension out of his body in a noticeable way for her sake, then lowered his voice. “You’re telling me there are enough blind people interested in the job of signumist that it just happens to work out that way?”