Blood Rights

Her long-sleeved tunic was damp with sweat. She grabbed it at the neck, tore it down the front, and shimmied out of it. Good. Her trousers went next. Better. She grabbed up the tunic and ripped a strip of silk from it, then used it to tie up her hair on top of her head. Much cooler. Much better.

Now in her white cami bra and bikini underwear, she approached the door. Careful steps so she didn’t fall. Everything needed extra concentration in this much heat.

The dead bolts weren’t locked. She tried to open the door, but it wouldn’t budge. Think. Locks on the other side? That seemed right. Her head felt thick and flighty, full of moths and molasses.

Locks were no problem. Needed shoes first. She circled slowly, eyes on the floor. There. Her kidskin slippers sat under the bunk. She fished them out and tugged them on. Hot hot hot. She paused to fan her neck. That felt good. Back to the door. She positioned herself in front of it, lined up just right, and channeled her years of training. Deep breath. Centered and calm.

She side-kicked, shifting her weight into the movement, and connected with the door just below the handle. With a metallic gasp, it buckled outward. A second kick and the bent metal collapsed into the hallway.

She smiled, despite the sharp ache across the arch of her foot. Maybe it was the slippers. She stepped out of them, hopped over the broken door, and went in search of the vampire who’d left his scent all over her.

He could fix what was wrong with her. She felt it in her blood.

Chapter Eleven

Mal had run through the streets of Paradise City until the first line of pink fired the horizon. Not jogging like the white-collar office jockeys he passed in the early hours before dawn, but real running. Flat-out. As fast as he could. As far as he could. He’d outsweated a racehorse. Definitely outpaced one. He’d come back, showered, scrubbed his fevered body, and still her scent leeched onto him, sucking away the will to keep his fangs out of her pale skin. How many times during that run had he imagined her beneath him, pliant and willing? Begging for his mouth. How many times had he imagined the taste of her, as sweet and rich as her scent?

Now in the hold-turned-gymnasium, his bare fists pounded the heavy bag. Thinking about the taste of her during the run was why he was here. And thinking about it now wasn’t making things better.

The seams of the bag strained. Jab, hook, cross. The force she’d exerted over him last night had scared him. And nothing scared him. Sweat rolled down his temple. He ignored it. The way she’d been, the way she’d affected him … he’d felt possessed.

The thoughts he’d had. Jab. The urges. Hook. That’s what scared him. Cross. Not the taking of blood, but the completion of the taking. She’d almost compelled him to … Enough. Maybe he should spend the day in a bottle of whiskey and just forget. Maybe he should get Doc to take her into the city and turn her loose. He had enough problems of his own without protecting some runaway comarré who didn’t seem to want the protection anyway. Jab, hook, cro—

‘Vampire.’ The word wafted past him like a plea.

His fist hung in midair. For the first time, that name didn’t drip with disgust. On the contrary, it drifted round and ripe through the shadowy space. Spoken with a smile. Full of the kind of promise his body didn’t need to hear. Especially not now.

He turned.

Holy Hades.

The comarré strolled toward him in nothing but two slips of white silk and a spacey smile. More white bundled her blonde hair in a messy knot. Somewhere inside him, buried under his black heart, the minucule piece of him that remembered being a man woke up.

‘I’ve been looking for you,’ she said.

‘I … ’ Forget it. He had nothing.

She passed through one of the circles of light cast by the large overheads. Sparks shot off her. He scrubbed a hand over his face, not believing what he was seeing. She had more signum than just what was on her hands, feet, and face. The lacy gold mapped her entire body. A finely wrought filigree of stars, vines, flowers, butterflies, ancient symbols, and words ran from her feet, up her legs, over her narrow waist, spanned her chest, and finished down her arms to the tips of her fingers. Gilded, head to toe. No wonder she glittered like lost treasure.

He moved backward as she came nearer, bringing that narcotic scent with her. ‘Where are your clothes?’

‘I’m hot.’ She laughed. Her eyes were pale, glassy lavender. Lavender?

‘Doc,’ he called. This might require backup.

‘Do you need a doctor, vampire? Are you sick?’ She sauntered closer. ‘I know how to heal you.’

He put power into his voice. ‘Stay where you are.’

She giggled. ‘You think you can use your persuasion on me, silly devil?’ She shook her head, blonde tendrils quivering around her face. ‘My patron had those gifts too. That means I’m immune.’

‘Anna, stay.’ His fangs punched through his gums.

Her eyes fixed on him, barely blinking. ‘My name’s not Anna. It’s Chrysabelle.’

‘Okay.’

‘Say it.’ The tone of her voice shifted in an instant from satin smooth to steel hard. ‘Say it.’

Alarms went off in his brain as his body went up in flames. His human face disappeared into ridged bone and sharp fangs. ‘Chrysabelle.’

‘Even better with that face.’ She purred a low, throaty hum of approval. The sound sent a chill skittering down his spine. No way was this typical comarré behavior. Something was very wrong.