Last Blood

“But I’ll be human?”

“Yes.”

He stared at the apple. “You’re sure about this? That it won’t kill me?”

“Not a hundred percent, no.” She shrugged. “I’m sorry, I can’t promise you better than that. I just thought you’d want the chance. If not…”

He grabbed the apple. “I do.” A muscle in his jaw tightened. “If this doesn’t go good, what happens to Mariela?”

“I can… take her to the mayor. Let her grandmother raise her.”

“The woman who lied to me about Mariela being dead? No. You raise her. Promise me.”

Chrysabelle hesitated. That had not been part of any scenario she’d run. She was about to have a child of her own. Raising two couldn’t be that much harder, could it? “I promise. But it won’t come to that.”

He set Mariela down, but hung onto her hand, giving it a squeeze. “Give me a minute, sweetheart.” He took the apple. One last look at Chrysabelle, as if seeking assurance, then he bit into the fruit.

Juice ran from the corner of his mouth and the scent of spice and honey mingled with the waxy essence given off by the bank of votives near the altar. He took another bite and a shudder racked his body. He dropped to the ground, groaning.

Shouts erupted beyond the doors—Mal’s voice and a female one she couldn’t quite place at first until she heard the word “granddaughter.” A second later, a loud pop rang out followed by a guttural roar that sounded very much like Mal.

She had taken one step toward the exit, ready to fly to his side, when the church door flew off its rusted hinges. Wood splintered like confetti. Lola stood at the threshold, trembling, a gun in her hand. Chrysabelle imagined the shaking must be the pain of being so near sacred ground. Or nerves. Then she looked past Lola. Jerem stood behind Mal, who was on the ground. An armed group of fringe guards surrounded them. Jerem’s eyes glowed with varcolai rage and Mal’s eyes were bright silver. Suddenly she realized blood dripped from Mal’s thigh.

Rage narrowed Chrysabelle’s vision. “You shot him? You stupid—”

“Next bullet goes through his heart.” Lola pointed at Mariela. “Unless you bring the child to me.”

Chrysabelle didn’t need to see Mal shaking his head no in order to make her next move. She hoisted Mariela under one arm, hooked her hand through Preacher’s belt, and dragged them deeper into the sanctuary. “This child belongs with her father. And I can pretty much guarantee you’ll be dead before there’ll be a next bullet.”

Preacher wasn’t moving and Mariela began to cry.

“That is my granddaughter. She belongs with me.” Lola stepped a foot inside the church. The hand holding the gun shook so badly she almost dropped it, but she somehow put another foot forward. “And I intend to bring her home.”

Memories flashed in Lola’s brain at the sight of the child in Chrysabelle’s arms, memories of another little girl. Julia. And seeing this child now, there was no question she was Mariela. She was Julia’s twin at that age.

Her dead heart ached to possess her grandchild. To show everyone she was right, that she was the one best suited to raise her. So much so that the nerve-crunching pain razoring through her body couldn’t keep her out of the church. She pushed forward. The moment she crossed the threshold, her body went up in white-hot waves of agony. She hesitated, knowing she should turn back, knowing death lay in her path, but unable to stop moving. Something inside her had clicked on, pushing her forward. Tiny teeth gnawed on the soles of her feet with every step, but still she went deeper in.

She clenched the gun in her hand harder, trying to stop the shaking. “Give her to me,” she commanded. “I’m her grandmother.”

“And Preacher is her father. That bond comes first,” Chrysabelle said. “You want to see Mariela, you work it out with him.”

She raised the gun at the comarré. “I sacrificed so much for her.”

Chrysabelle shook her head, her expression full of disgust. “You told Preacher she was dead.”

“Only because I know what’s best for her.” Unable to hold on any longer, the gun fell out of her hand. And Preacher, who Lola had assumed dead by the way he lay crumpled on the floor, started to stir. His movement spurred her on. Her tortured steps grew ragged and off balance. He would fight her. Blame her. Accuse her of lying. He didn’t understand that she was the only one who could properly raise Mariela. She reached her hands out even as shots of lightning-fast pain danced through her muscles, making her twitch. The ability to care about her own life had vanished. “Give her to me. I have to have her. I did all this for her.” Tears streamed down her face. “For her.”

“You became a vampire for your own reasons.” Chrysabelle shook her head, fear reflected in her eyes. “Get out of here. Save yourself.”

But Lola knew that was impossible.

Preacher pulled himself up using one of the pews. He stared at her with a horrified look. “You foolish woman. You’re killing yourself.”

“Just like you killed my Julia?” Red edged her vision and the tang of smoke filled her nostrils. She stumbled to her hands and knees. Pain shot through the contact points and she clenched her jaw to keep from crying out, but a jagged sob left her anyway. A cry for her own life. For the life of her granddaughter. For everything she was about to lose and powerless to stop. If only she could get Mariela.