Bad Blood

By the time he was halfway through bottle number three, Aliza’s spell was a distant ringing in his ears. He leaned onto the floor, bent his arm beneath his head for a pillow, and closed his eyes to wait out whatever fix Fi could come up with.

Door, Aliza whispered.

Doc just laughed, the sound like tiny bubbles bouncing off the walls.

Chrysabelle handed the bellman a tip as he left. The hotel room hadn’t just been for Mal and a place to ditch the fae. She was desperate for a few moments alone to center herself against the throbbing in her back. Time in the car hadn’t helped, but the stunt she’d pulled at Loudreux’s had really caused the ache to flare up.

“Nice.” Amery ogled the living room of the penthouse suite Chrysabelle had just booked them into at the Westin Hotel at the edge of the French Quarter.

“It should be for what it’s costing her,” Mal answered the fae.

“It’s all right,” Chrysabelle said. Mal was so defensive about her money. Maybe it bothered him that he didn’t have any to spend himself. He’d tried to return the bribe money she’d given him. She’d refused, telling him to hang on to it in case another situation arose. “The security of the top floor is worth the price.”

Mortalis went to the bank of windows, checking them for what she wasn’t sure.

“Crazy, though,” Amery continued. “That a four-thousand-square-foot hotel room has only one bedroom.”

Chrysabelle glanced at Mal, gave him a subtle roll of her eyes, then turned to the fae. “Amery, could you go out and get me something to eat? New Orleans is famous for its food, right?”

His eyes lit up. “Oh yeah, the food here is awesome. Jambalaya, crawfish étouffée, gumbo, grillades and grits, po’boys—”

“Whoa.” She held her hands up. “Whatever you think. It all sounds fine.” She reached into her inside pocket and fished out a few large bills. “Here. Get a lot of food. Comarré have large appetites.”

He took the money. “Do you want—”

“Yes. I want everything.” She smiled to soften her sharp tone, made worse by her back. “I’m not picky as long as it’s good, so don’t skimp.”

“Yes, ma’am.” He started toward the door, then paused, looking back at Mortalis. “Sir?”

“Do as she asked,” Mortalis answered without turning away from the window. His gaze seemed to be focused on something far below.

“Okay.” Amery nodded and left.

With another quick glance at Mal, Chrysabelle went to stand beside Mortalis. Not close enough to be within his personal space—that wasn’t something she was willing to challenge, considering his mood—but close enough to be noticed. “Something down there I should know about?”

He pulled his gaze up to stare out over the river. “No.”

She studied him for a moment. “You want to talk about it?”

“No.”

Pretty much what she’d figured. “Can you use your mirror to return to Paradise City and let the others know we won’t make it back by tonight? I would appreciate it. I’m sure they’re wondering.”

He planted his arm against the glass, flattening the barbs against his skin, still not looking at her. “They’ll be fine. They know how to handle themselves.”

Her try at being gentle was over. Pain had sapped her patience. She let some of her frustration edge her voice. “How can they? They don’t know what’s coming any more than we do. But, hey, if you’re satisfied that they’re going to be all right, then what do I need to worry for?”

“I don’t have a mirror with me.”

Mal settled onto one of the sofas. His brows lifted as if to say what now?

She stepped into Mortalis’s space then, trying to jar him just enough so that he’d take her seriously. “I find it hard to believe you didn’t leave yourself a quick out.”

Finally, he turned. His eyes held a distant thunder that caused the scars on her back to itch. Angry didn’t begin to describe whatever was going on with him. “I’m responsible for you while you’re here. I don’t need more blood on my hands.”

She wanted to ask what blood was already there and where it had come from, but refrained. At the moment, she wasn’t sure she cared. “I won’t move until you get back.”

“I won’t let her,” Mal added.

Mortalis peered at both of them as if calculating the risk. “I don’t believe either of you.”

Chrysabelle held up her wrist, turning it so he could see the veins, fat and ready to be drained. “Mal needs to feed. I need to drain. We’re not going anywhere.” She dropped her hand and walked to the bar. “You can believe what you want, but that’s the truth.” She took down a large goblet from the bar and set it on the coffee table in front of Mal. “I’ll fill that after I take a shower.” She gave Mortalis one quick look. “Do what you want.”

Not a word was spoken as she left. Inside the massive marble bathroom, she shut the door and eased her side against it to listen. The suite was well soundproofed. Only the low rumble of male voices came through, nothing intelligible.

With a sigh, she cranked on the shower’s hot water, stripped out of her clothes, and then bent, wrapping her hair in a towel to keep it dry. She stepped under the pulsating stream, letting it beat against her scars. The heat helped the pain. Reaching back, she turned the temperature up a little more, then braced herself against the marble.