Last Blood

“Whenever you leave the house, I want you to wear your body armor.”

“Mortalis, I have the gold from the ring of sorrows sewn into my back. Death isn’t a permanent thing for me anymore, remember?” She picked up her sacre, comforted by the sword’s height in her hand.

He raised his brows. “You carry another life inside you now. Do you trust that gold to protect your unborn child’s life as well?”

She closed her eyes for a moment, knowing he was right. “No. And this child is everything to me.” Including her only connection to the Mal she loved. She looked toward the sliders. “Wearing that armor isn’t going to keep Mal from coming back, though.”

Mortalis followed her gaze. “He’s drawn by the memory of your blood, I’m sure.” He sighed. “We need to take the threat level down.”

Her hand tightened around the hilt of her sacre. “I’ll do it.” She’d known this moment might come, just hadn’t expected it so soon.

Mortalis frowned. “Do what?”

She tipped the blade toward the sliders. “Reduce the threat level.”

“I didn’t mean kill him.” Mortalis looked a little shocked, which for him meant slightly elevated brows. “I meant find a way to reduce his cravings for your blood.”

She grimaced, but let the weapon drop to her side. “You want me to leave a glass of blood on the porch for him? Because I don’t feel like that’s a step in the right direction.” Although, if it meant helping Mal, she was all in.

A light turned on in his eyes. “In a way, that’s exactly what you need to do.” He nodded, clearly thinking through what he was about to tell her. “Let me explain…”

As soon as Chrysabelle went inside, Mal dropped over the security wall and onto the unoccupied neighboring property. No matter how much he wanted to sink his teeth into the comarré he owned, he wasn’t about to take on a wysper or shadeux fae to do it. The voices chimed in agreement.

For all the grief Chrysabelle had put him through, for the hell she’d made his life, she would give him blood. She owed him that much. Yesss…

He pushed through the overgrowth that had once been manicured landscaping. Whoever owned the property had let it fall into disrepair. He glanced toward the house. No lights, no sense of life inside. Was it completely abandoned? If they were winter people, they’d be here now. He peered through the branches of a bottle brush tree. Certainly more comfortable than the rusted freighter he called home. And so conveniently located. Chrysabelle had asked him to move into the new yacht she intended to buy. How would she feel about him living next door? Like he cared. With a twisted smile, he started forward to investigate, but an odd rustling caught his attention. He looked up. A flicker of white glimmered in the sprawl of palmettos a few yards ahead. He inhaled.

Warm fresh blood. Just under that, the tang of wet animal.

Launching toward the source, he caught the buck around the throat. It was wet and slippery from its swim to the island. He squeezed harder. It thrashed in his grip, punching the tip of one slender antler through his shoulder. He flipped the deer over and threw his weight onto it to hold it down. Its dark eyes went wide and it let out a loud, whistling snort.

Mal’s fangs punched through his gums and he struck, biting into the animal’s neck with one swift contraction. The struggling beneath him weakened as he drank, the taste of blood and salt water mixing. Finally the creature went limp. Mal sat back, fed if not satisfied.

He pulled his jacket away from his shoulder. The wound had begun to knit closed, but he recognized the signs of weakness. Animal blood was a poor substitute for human.

He twisted to look toward Chrysabelle’s house as he pushed to his feet. And human blood was a poor substitute for comarré. The taste in his mouth wasn’t even close to the taste he craved. He scrubbed his hand across his face, wiping away the last drops of blood.

He would get what he wanted. Even if he had to wait.

Chapter Five

Creek whipped out his halm, snapping his wrist to open the titanium weapon to its full length. “What the hell are you doing here?”

Annika stepped in front of Octavian. “He’s one of us. He’s the operative.”

“A vampire.” Creek knew the mistrust in his voice bordered on disrespect, but he didn’t care.

“Yes,” she answered. “You know we employ them.” She glanced back at her guest. “Octavian has given much to the cause. He was human when we first recruited him.”

Weapon still raised, Creek studied the vampire’s face, memories coming with Annika’s words. “I know who he is. I’ve seen him with Tatiana. How can you be sure he’s not working for her?”

Annika pushed the halm down. “He’s loyal to us. You have my word and that’s all you need. Put your weapon away. Now.”

Inhaling, Creek twisted the center of the halm and retracted it. Annika’s word would have to stand. And as much as he trusted her, he couldn’t shake the feeling that there was more to Octavian than she thought. The Florida State Prison had honed his ability to assess people. Getting released hadn’t changed that.

Octavian held his hands up. “I’ve been through enough to get here. I don’t need to have my loyalty questioned.”

Annika shot him a look. “No one’s questioning your loyalty anymore. Now enough of this. You two have to work together. I suggest you get past your doubts. Both of you.”