Blood Rights

She nodded, pretending to be scared as she slowly reached for the blade in her back waistband.

He went back to work on the vampire, ripping his T-shirt down the front.

Chrysabelle froze, blade forgotten, and stared at the vampire’s bare chest. Except it wasn’t bare. A lacework of script decorated his flesh. Names, in a multitude of languages, covered almost every inch of skin and muscle. Her mouth opened, and for a moment, no sound came out. She pointed. ‘Vampires can’t be tattooed. The skin heals them away.’

‘They’re not exactly your typical ink.’ The varcolai glanced toward Fi. ‘We’ve got to try to clean this or something. It’s not getting any better.’

Chrysabelle backed up. The weapon-laden walls started to close in. ‘It won’t.’

The man and woman simultaneously turned to look at her. The vampire groaned and struggled to sit. The varcolai helped him to a chair, but Fi kept glaring.

‘What do you mean, it won’t? How do you know?’

Chrysabelle backed up a little farther and hit the desk. She had to get out of here. ‘It won’t heal, unless he feeds. Or—’

‘Or what?’ The vampire stood, one hand on the varcolai’s shoulder. This close, he seemed taller. And bigger. And not nearly as weak.

This wasn’t going to be well received. Call it a hunch. ‘Or you wash it out with holy water.’

The vampire snarled. ‘What the—’

‘And us, fresh out.’ The varcolai reached for her, but she bobbed to the side and spun past him.

‘He’s a vampire. Why do you care what happens to him?’ They must be his minions, enthralled by his power.

‘Because he’s straight up.’ Anger flashed in the varcolai’s eyes.

‘He’s straight up what?’

The varcolai rolled his eyes. ‘One of the good guys.’

One of the good guys? Since when did that apply to vampires trying to kill her?

The vampire, face back to human, grabbed a short sword off the wall and positioned the point at the hollow of her throat. His hand trembled slightly, clearly weaker than he let on. ‘You’re not exactly supposed to be trying to kill me either. Comarré.’

He spoke the word like an accusation. Had he read her mind? Maybe he was from the Rasputin bloodline. Must be careful. Relax. So he knew what she was. What vampire didn’t? ‘I came here for help, not to find the monster who tried to kill me in that alley. You can tell your friend Jonas he did a great job of setting me up. Twice.’

‘Jonas isn’t his friend—’ The varcolai’s brows rose. ‘Wait, this the chick who stabbed you?’ He whistled out a breath. ‘You really do need to feed.’

Fatigue bracketed the vampire’s mouth. ‘Me try to kill you? Other way around. I was trying to protect you. An unescorted comarré has the same chance for survival in this city as a duckling in a snake pit.’ The sword glimmered in the overheads. ‘Swear you’ll behave and I’ll put this down. I really don’t want to have to kill you.’

She grabbed the wrist holding the sword and did a fast calculation. No wonder he was on the verge of shutting down. ‘Big words from someone who hasn’t fed in eight or nine days.’

‘How do you know that?’ His voice held a small tremor. Not just weakness. By now, bloodlust would be crazing him. She knew what her scent did to his kind. Her touch could multiply that. He fought it well for one so hungry.

She released him. ‘Comarré know a lot of things.’ Shouldn’t he know that too? Most nobles did.

He kept the sword raised, the tendons in his wrist cording with the effort, but put a little distance between them as he went to sit behind the desk. He tipped his chin at the chair across from him. ‘Sit.’

She did, reluctantly.

‘What’s all this comarré business?’ the varcolai asked. ‘And what exactly did you stab him with?’

She reached into the back waistband of her trousers. The varcolai grabbed her elbow. ‘Easy now.’

‘I was only going to show you the weapon.’

He released her. ‘Fine, but nice and slow.’

Carefully, she pulled out the dagger she’d used in the alley and held it flat on her palm. ‘Golgotha steel.’

Fi, now hovering near the ceiling again, shook her head. ‘Looks like wood to me.’

‘Golgotha steel is wood.’ The varcolai’s eyes rounded as he took the blade and tossed it onto the desk. ‘Carved from the True Cross or the Tree of Life. I thought those blades were just stories.’ His gaze went back to Chrysabelle. ‘Someone’s well connected.’

The vampire swiped his free hand across his stubbled chin. His eyes fixed on the weapon. No doubt at close range he could sense its power. ‘And has deep pockets. A weapon like that could buy some serious muscle.’ He stood and leaned forward, keeping a firm grip on the sword and a reasonable distance from the Golgotha blade.

‘It’s time we started from the beginning. And by we’ – he narrowed his eyes on Chrysabelle and raised the sword to throat level again – ‘I mean you.’

Chapter Six

‘I’m not telling you anything,’ the comarré said.

‘Fine.’ Mal nodded to Doc seated in the chair next to her. ‘Lock her in one of the storage containers until she decides to get chatty.’ Then he could stop imagining his teeth sinking into her pretty neck and drinking until his brain floated. Drain her. He could give up the pretense of being fine too and go collapse somewhere. Golgotha steel. Bad, bad, bad … It was a wonder he’d lasted this long. Not that he hadn’t survived worse. He dropped back into his desk chair.