Bad Blood
The snick of a keycard in the lock broke them apart. Mal was uncommonly flushed. Chrysabelle’s chest rose and fell with exertion and adrenaline. The tattoo of her pulse must be deafening him.
“Damn it,” Mal growled.
A knock came after the handle was tried and no entrance granted. “Hello?” Amery called out. “My key’s not working.”
She patted Mal’s chest. “It’s okay.” She extricated herself from his arms and adjusted her robe as she went to let Amery in, the smile on her face impossible to remove. “It’s not like we can’t do that again.”
“Slim Jim.” Creek waved a greeting to the man. He was in his usual spot, out on his front porch, with a hound at his feet, a cheroot in his mouth, and an assault rifle across his lap.
He slung the gun up to his shoulder as he stood. “Hullo, Thomas. Good to see ya, son. Who you brung with you?”
“This is Damian. He’s a comar, like Chrysabelle.”
Slim Jim’s eyes lit up at her name. “Yep. Know jess who you’re talking about. Pretty sparkly thing, ain’t she.” He tugged at the brim of his Gators cap. “You’re just as sparkly, son. You kin to her?”
Damian sneaked a look at Creek before answering. “In a way, I guess we are.”
“Well, then, any kin of hers is all right with me.” He chomped down on the cheroot and inhaled, making the tip glow cherry red. “Y’all need a boat, I take it?”
“Yes, sir,” Creek answered. “Headed out to do some business with the coven.”
“Shady lot, those witches. But they pay their tab with me, so what do I care?” He motioned toward the dock. “Last one on the end is fueled up and got keys in it.”
Creek peeled off a few bills. “Same as usual?”
“Yep.” Slim Jim took the money, counted it, and tucked it into the front pocket of his overalls.
Creek and Damian started for the boat, but then Creek stopped. “Any chance you have one of those nice-looking guns to rent, too? In case of gators.”
Slim Jim smiled his missing-tooth smile. “Now, son, much as I tend to look the other way about things, you know you can’t possess a gun with your record.”
At least Slim Jim hadn’t called him a convict. But then Slim Jim probably would’ve killed Creek’s father, too, if he’d shown up and seen what Creek had seen. Slim Jim believed in biblical justice, Southern style.
Creek hooked his thumb toward Damian. “No, but he can.”
Slim Jim narrowed his gaze a little and patted the Bushmaster over his shoulder. “You know how to work one of these?”
Damian inhaled and, Creek imagined, took a guess. “Just aim and squeeze the trigger, right?”
The old man smiled. “Close enough. You can borrow the rifle on me, but the box of ammo’s gonna cost you.”
Creek peeled off another bill and handed it over.
Slim Jim added it to the rest. “Be right back.”
When the door to the cabin closed, Creek turned to Damian. “You don’t have a clue what to do with that, do you?”
Damian tapped the strap of the sacre sheath running across his chest. “This is all I need.”
“That and the other blades you’ve got hidden on you, right?” Creek shook his head. “We have no idea what we’re going to find out there. The last time I came for a visit, I almost died.”
Slim Jim came back out carrying a second Bushmaster and a box of ammo. “Here you go. You boys be careful now.”
They were on the airboat and headed for Aliza’s five minutes later. Damian seemed content to watch the scenery. “You know this area well?”
“The Glades?” Creek nodded. “I’m half Seminole. Spent a lot of time out here as a kid with my grandparents. My mother lives out here with my grandmother now, my sister, too, when she’s not at college. But we grew up in Little Havana. My father moved us there.”
Damian took his eyes off the water to stare at Creek. “What record was that man referring to?”
“My criminal record.”
Damian’s mouth thinned.
“I came home one night, found my mother beaten unconscious and my father about to do worse to my sister. So I killed him.”
Damian was quiet a few more seconds. His gaze went back to the water. “Seems like the logical thing to do.”
Creek raised an eyebrow Damian didn’t see. “Jury didn’t think so.”
“Human courts rarely understand the justice required in the real world.”
The comar got more interesting by the minute. “Agreed. That mean you’re okay with whatever’s about to go down?”
“Killing the witch will save Doc’s life, correct?”
“That’s the way I see it.”
“Then yes.”
More silence passed between them until Creek decided to do some fishing. “How well do you know Chrysabelle?”
“We’re from the same house, the Primoris Domus, but what I know about her comes from her reputation, not from really knowing her personally.”
“Meaning?”
“She holds the record for highest price ever paid for blood rights. She was always held up to us as the example of a perfect comarré. Most comarré get their first signum around ten years old and complete the first set by age twelve. The second set is typically completed in the thirteenth year. No more than that are required, but there are seven sets in all. By fifteen, the year she got her patron, Chrysabelle had the first four sets completed and had started on the fifth.” He shook his head and exhaled. “You have any idea how much pain that equals?”