Blood Rights (7 page)

‘Or perhaps it is exactly your wish.’ Grigor eyed her warily from his seat. He hadn’t moved once, just stared at her. Damn his preternatural gift of sight. Had he looked into her? Seen her true purpose? She’d done her best to bury that information. The other lords sat and collected themselves.

Grigor’s gaze continued to bore into her. ‘I suggest we make
no decision until Lord Algernon’s murderer is brought to justice.’

Tatiana drew her spine straighter and faced Grigor directly. ‘I believe justice, in its own way, has already been served.’ She turned slowly, making eye contact with each of the Dominus. ‘I visited the comarré’s quarters personally. Stepped over the threshold without need of invitation.’ She finished her sweep by returning to Grigor and opening herself up so that he might see her memories for himself. ‘The comarré is dead.’

‘Death is not an indicator of guilt.’ Grigor’s eyes went down to thin slits.

‘Are you accusing me of something?’ Rage bubbled up in Tatiana’s gut.

Ivan shoved back his chair. ‘That is uncalled for, Lord Grigor.’

Grigor raised his shoulders, then let them fall. ‘There is but one fatal sin among our kind.’

Syler scrolled his finger through the air and words appeared behind it, drawn out by his powerful black magic.

Thou shalt not kill thy brethren.
One by one, the words dripped away until the air cleared.

She trembled at what was being suggested. ‘I had nothing to do with Lord Algernon’s death. Nothing. He was … a friend.’

Zephrim snorted. ‘You have no friends, Tatiana. You have acquaintances, those who tolerate you, those who fear you.’ He looked behind her at Mikkel. ‘Those who enjoy your good favor and pray it lasts.’ He shook his head. ‘You are exactly what you’ve striven to become. The best of the worst. The cruelest of the noble. You’ve not only lived up to your house’s reputation, you’ve surpassed it.’ His fingers tapped the tabletop. ‘I believe you recently killed one of your servants, did you not?’

‘Remuneration has already been sent to the family,’ she said. Those who came to work for the Families knew what they were getting into. Most hoped to earn the bite that would forever change their future.

He stood. ‘As to Grigor’s suggestion that no decision be made until Lord Algernon’s murderer is found … I second it.’

‘Motion passed.’ Timotheius rapped his ring on the table again. ‘The council is adjourned.’

‘Nothos,’ Chrysabelle spat out the word. ‘I thought you were dead.’

The assassin rose from his chair without the grace most vampires usually possessed. A blade flashed in one hand. By the looks of him, he still hadn’t fed. And by the smell of him, her dagger had left a lasting impression in that alley. He was weak. Easy to take down.

‘Nothos? Not hardly. And as blood delivery girls go, you fail. Unless Jonas meant
you
were the delivery.’ He made an attempt to retract his fangs, got them halfway gone, and failed. Could Nothos do that? She didn’t think so. ‘Not going to happen.’

‘You’ve got that right.’ She straightened her arms, unsnapping the locking mechanism on her wrist blades. They shot forward and she snagged them in her fists. ‘Guess I will finish what I started after all.’

She threw the first blade, but he ducked, letting it thwack into a copy of
Schender’s Compendium of Pandimensional Beings
. No loss.
Schender’s Compendium
was first-year stuff at best. The second dagger found its mark in the vampire’s shoulder. A thin wisp of smoke curled off the new wound. Varcolai bone blades had that effect. She snatched a third from her ankle holster.

He leaped over the desk, arms out to grab her, but the wince
when he landed gave him away. He was more than hurt. He was about to collapse. His eyes rolled back in his head.

Check that.

He
was
collapsing. Definitely not Nothos then.

A half second after he thudded to the floor, his face went from human to full on noble vampire, proving her right about him not being Nothos. The big man who’d let her in came charging through the door. He was varcolai – or shifter in human terms, and of the feline variety by the scent of him. Another being followed him in. Chrysabelle blinked as the temperature dropped a few degrees – a ghost? What kind of vampire kept this sort of company?

‘What did you do to him?’ The man ripped the dagger out of her hand.

‘Hey!’ She grabbed for the blade, but he was quicker than she anticipated.

‘Sorry, princess. Can’t have you perforating the boss.’ He threw it out the door and, by the clattering, down the steps. ‘Fi, get corporeal and give me a hand.’

‘On it.’

With a quick shimmer like rising heat, the ghost was suddenly earthbound. She grabbed Chrysabelle and held her arms tight to her sides. The ghost’s cold touch reminded her of Lord Algernon. Fi leaned in, eyes flinty with anger. ‘You stake him dead, and I disappear. I’m not cool with that, you comprehend?’

Chrysabelle head butted Fi and knocked her backward.

‘Ow.’ Fi tumbled into a bookcase. She shook herself and felt her forehead. ‘I’m bleeding! I’m not supposed to bleed.’

‘We better get a look at that wound.’ The varcolai kneeled beside the vampire.

‘I’m right here, kitty cat,’ Fi said.

‘Not you, babe. Him. And I told you about calling me that when we’re not alone.’ He turned his attention back to the vampire. ‘Hang on, boss, this is gonna sting.’ He pulled the pale dagger out of the vampire’s shoulder and turned it over in his hands. ‘What kind of bone is this?’

Chrysabelle reached for it, but he tossed it over his shoulder before she could grab it. He growled and his eyes glimmered gold.

‘Move and I’ll tear your throat out, got it?’

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.’

‘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.

‘You got it, bro.’ Doc rubbed his hands together in overacted glee.

The comarré didn’t budge. ‘If you’re trying to scare me, it won’t work. I don’t frighten easily.’

The tough act was hot, he’d give her that. ‘What’s your name?’

‘Anna.’

She lies.
He closed his eyes for a moment. He didn’t need the voices telling him what he already knew. ‘You scared pretty easily in that alley, Anna. I could taste the fear coming off you.’
Should’ve tasted more.

She crossed her arms. ‘I thought you were trying to kill me.’

He gestured with the sword. ‘And you don’t feel that way now because … ?’

She smirked. ‘How’s your shoulder?’

Doc failed to stop a laugh. It came out a snort. Fi elbowed him in the ribs, but since she’d returned to ghost form, her arm went right through him. Unfortunately.

‘Did Jonas really send you?’

‘Yes.’