Last Blood

“What are you going to do? Throw me overboard?”

He raised one brow.

“Bloody hell.” She grabbed the jacket she’d discarded and headed for the door. “You’re supposed to be helping me.”

She kept muttering to herself as she left the ship, her voice fading as he selected another blade for his last and final trip to see Chrysabelle. If he didn’t take care of her now, she’d only end up following him to Corvinestri and with his new life as a noble before him, he couldn’t take the chance that his unfortunate past would come back to haunt him.

Again the word “ghost” flitted through his brain. He shook it away. Too much to do to think about consequences.

First he’d need to find a meal. Going after the comarré hungry meant there was too much chance he’d lose control. He needed to be focused. To strike cleanly and swiftly.

But most of all, he needed the comarré dead.

Chapter Nineteen

Creek lay flat on the roof of the warehouse, a few of the ashes of the Nothos he’d killed still clinging to his clothes and souring the air. He kept his eyes trained on Mal’s freighter. If Tatiana spent the day there, he’d sneak in and—no, she was leaving. How about that. Had she killed Mal?

He kept watching, waiting to see what she’d do. She seemed to be talking to herself. He caught a few choice curses and almost laughed. She was complaining about Mal, so maybe she hadn’t killed him. A sharp whistle cracked the night air and he realized she was calling for the Nothos.

That wasn’t going to go well.

When the creature didn’t come, Tatiana cursed again, then scattered into a swarm of wasps and flew off. Apparently, she wasn’t in a mood to wait.

Not long after, a second dark figure emerged on the ship’s deck.

Mal.

Creek quietly crawled back from the edge and rappelled down the back of the building, where he crouched behind a stack of pallets. Mal was just stepping off the gangplank. He took off in a jog. Creek followed far enough behind that Mal didn’t seem to notice.

They headed into Little Havana. Once there, Mal slowed to a walk. There were a few people out at this hour, some just coming home, some on their way to early-morning shifts, and some who never left the streets. Mal picked a woman in a hotel maid’s uniform and started trailing her.

Creek kept up, his hood pulled low to hide his face. Once Mal looked back, but Creek ducked into a doorway and out of sight, and with the wind in his face, the tang of his KM-tainted blood stayed undetected.

Mal caught up with the woman when she cut through an alley. Creek caught up with both of them a second later, crossbow brandished. He wondered if Chrysabelle’s words would make any more sense after this.

“Let her go, Mal.”

The woman’s eyes were wide in terror, her struggles pointless with Mal’s hand over her mouth and his arm wrapped around her body. His eyes were dead black shot with silver. The beast was trying to get out.

He snarled, fangs gleaming. “I should have killed you when I had the chance.”

“Let. Her. Go.”

The woman whimpered. Mal opened his mouth wider and tugged her closer. Creek pulled the trigger and sank a bolt into Mal’s thigh. Cursing, he dropped the woman. She scurried away, praying in Spanish.

Mal yanked the bolt out. Tendrils of black danced above the collar of his T-shirt. He laughed and shook his head. “Is that the best you can do?” Then he lurched sideways, hitting the concrete block wall of the alley. He tried to right himself and failed. The white came back into his eyes as he slipped to the ground. “What…”

Creek leaned down and took the bolt from Mal’s hand. “What happened?” He wiped the blood off the titanium and onto Mal’s jeans, then tucked the bolt back into his bandolier. “See, I’ve started coating a few of my bolts with a paste made of laudanum and hemlock. Works on both vampires and varcolai that way.” And helped him keep his word to Chrysabelle. He smiled. “You should thank Chrysabelle the next time you see her, because she’s the reason I’m going to be a nice guy and not leave you here to toast in the sun.”

Mal grunted, and then his eyes rolled back and his head lolled to one side. Out cold.

With a sigh, Creek bent, hoisted Mal up by his armpits, then hefted him over his shoulder into a fireman’s carry. He bounced once to adjust the weight. “Damn, you’re heavy for someone who doesn’t eat. She couldn’t have fallen in love with someone a little lighter?”

He broke into a trot. The sun would be up soon, so he had no choice but to hustle if he was going to get Mal back on his ship and safe before morning.

Sweat trickled down his spine as he picked up speed. This definitely counted as his workout for the day.

The outside of La Belle et la Bête looked nothing like the fairy tale it had been named after. More like the building had been abandoned. Faded bits of gray-brown paint not yet worn off by time and weather still clung to the exterior. The three sets of louvered double doors on the first and second floors all had a few missing louvers and more peeling white paint. The simple balcony on the second floor didn’t look sturdy enough to hold a houseplant, forget about a person.

Not a sound emanated from the closed doors, and not a single tourist strolling by even glanced at the place.

Fi, in transparent ghost mode, leaned in toward Chrysabelle and Jerem. “I hate to tell you this, but I think this joint is out of business.”

“It’s not, I promise,” Chrysabelle said.