Blood Rights (14 page)

Preacher’s nostrils flared. ‘I should have cleansed you when I had the chance.’

‘You had the chance. You failed. Fix them and I’ll give you another shot.’ Mal crossed his arms to keep from throttling Preacher until he begged for a stake.

‘Well then.’ Preacher rolled up his sleeves and went back to his work. ‘That’s a paycheck I look forward to cashing.’ He unpacked the rest of his bag, laying out tubing, needles, and a blood bag on a clean towel. ‘I’ll wrap her foot first. She should keep it elevated for a few days.’ Preacher went to work.

‘What’s your beef with him?’ Doc asked Preacher, tilting his head at Mal. ‘What’s he ever done to you?’

Preacher answered without turning and secured the bandages in place. ‘He’s a vampire.’

‘So are you, foolio,’ Doc said.

‘He’s unclean. And unrepentant.’ Preacher went back to his bag and added more tubing and alcohol swabs to the towel.

Doc raised his brows. ‘You better check yourself.’

He snapped the bag shut. ‘Unlike Malkolm, I dedicated my life to a higher purpose. I have not faltered from that mission.’

Doc scoffed. ‘You’re crazy as a crack whore.’

‘And you’re a house cat. We all have our crosses to bear.’ Preacher shot a look at Mal. ‘Metaphorically speaking.’

Mal narrowed his eyes at the crucifix that swung with the dog tags around Preacher’s neck. ‘Or not.’

‘You have any more lights you could turn on?’

Mal shook his head. ‘You could have had all the light you wanted a few hours ago. You chose to show up this late.’

‘You’re lucky I showed up at all. I owe you nothing.’ Preacher scowled, reached into his bag, and pulled out a headlamp. He adjusted it over his buzz cut and flipped on the LED.

Mal uncrossed his arms, blinking in the sudden brightness. ‘Do it already. Before there’s no reason to. Because then I’ll be forced to
cleanse
you.’

‘Patience.’ Preacher sprayed his hands and forearms with latex then bowed his head in prayer.

‘Freak,’ Doc muttered from his spot at Fi’s shoulders. His thumbs stroked her skin.

How Doc kept Fi corporeal, Mal had no idea. Just like he didn’t understand how the ex Marine could pray without his tongue bursting into flames. Mal walked past Doc and placed his hands on Chrysabelle’s burning skin. Her lips parted, but no sound came out. Light from Preacher’s headlamp sparkled off her signum as the man bent over Fiona’s arm and studied her veins. Something between Chrysabelle’s parted lips caught Mal’s eye. Tiny. Pointed. White.

He grabbed Doc’s arm and motioned with his head at her mouth. Doc followed Mal’s gesture. He stared, then looked back at Mal and mouthed the word ‘fangs’ like a question.

Mal shrugged and shut Chrysabelle’s jaw before Preacher noticed. Preacher thought he was helping a human. If he thought she was a vampire, he might not. Mal wasn’t taking the chance. Why would the comarré have fangs? Granted, they looked more like the baby teeth version, but still. Was she human or not?

Preacher lifted his head and twisted his headlamp to focus the beam. He moved to Chrysabelle first, securing a tourniquet of rubber tubing around her arm. Her vein popped up instantly. He repeated the process on Fi, slapping her arm to bring the vein up. Nothing. He shifted her arm to hang off the cot.

‘I may not get a vein on her. Leave her arm like that and I’ll try again when I’m ready.’

Moving back to Chrysabelle, he grabbed another length of tubing, attached the collection bag at one end and a needle at the other. He caught Mal’s eyes. ‘I don’t know how she’ll react, so be ready for anything.’

No kidding. Mal nodded. ‘I’ve been ready. Waiting on you.’

‘Beginning.’ Preacher swabbed the inside of her elbow with alcohol. He slid the needle into Chrysabelle’s protruding vein and let the bag rest on the floor. Blood spurted through the tubing and started filling the bag, thick and violet red. ‘The blood’s not getting oxygenated fast enough. Too much volume. Her body can’t keep up.’ He shook his head. ‘I’m not sure putting this blood into the other one is going to help.’

Doc’s head snapped up. ‘Quit jawing and hurry up. It’s the best chance Fi has.’

‘Your loss.’ Preacher shrugged.

The bag continued to fill. Despite the off-color, Mal’s fangs ached. So much blood. Right in front of him. The angry buzz in his head said the voices were aware of it too. He shifted his gaze
to her signum until the gold marks blurred into a shimmery glaze.

‘Done.’ Preacher taped a cotton ball over the puncture site then slid the needle out, carefully holding it higher than the bag, and returned to Fi. He handed the needle and bag to Doc. ‘Keep the needle high.’

He lifted Fi’s arm and slapped it a few more times. ‘All right, drop the bag to the floor and give me the needle.’

Doc handed over the needle and moved to the head of Fi’s cot. His hands went back to her shoulders. Preacher slid the needle into Fi’s vein and lifted the bag to shoulder height. Blood flowed through the tube and vanished into her. For a long minute, nothing happened. Blood fluxed from the bag to Fi. Both girls lay still. Mal watched. Listened. No change. Then another minute went by.

And another.

‘It’s not working.’ Doc’s head dropped to his chest. Anger radiated off him hot and sharp. ‘You son of a—’

‘Oh.’ Fiona’s eyes fluttered open with a gasp. ‘Wow,’ she whispered. ‘I feel … alive.’

Doc let go of her shoulders and grabbed her hand. ‘You are. Sort of.’ He looked at Preacher. ‘Get that thing out of her arm.’

‘Not yet, I need to—’

‘No, now. You don’t know what too much of that blood could do to her.’ Doc yanked the line out and pressed his fingers to the spot on Fi’s arm.

Everything decelerated into frame by frame slow motion. A crimson thread of liquid jetted through the needle. The scent of Chrysabelle’s blood replaced the air in the room. Mal’s head came up at the same time as Preacher’s. Fangs pierced the gaping maw of his mouth. Mal knew his face had gone feral and
his eyes silver, a sure reminder to Preacher of the difference between them.

Mal snarled a warning. Her scent alone was enough to intoxicate him, but the smell of her uncontained blood infected him like a virus. Her scent
became
his blood, his reason, his brain. Every inch of his flesh hummed with the drive to protect. Possess. The voices crammed his cerebrum with a frantic, high-pitched, jet engine whine. Blackness edged his vision, but this was no time to lose control. He shoved his demons back into his brain.

‘Mine,’ Preacher snarled back. ‘I need her.’

‘You need to be put down.’ Strength born of the moment surged through Mal. He landed a fist across Preacher’s jaw, throwing him into the wall. ‘Stay away from her.’

The needle lay on the floor leaking an ever-widening pool across the linoleum. Preacher jumped to his feet, eyes flicking from Mal to Chrysabelle to the blood and back again. Mal vaulted over Chrysabelle and landed squarely between her and Preacher.

Mal clenched his fists and roared, baring his fangs. ‘Back. Off.’

Preacher threw a punch. Mal blocked with his left forearm and rammed his right fist into Preacher’s gut. He retched and went to his knees, bile dripping from his mouth.

‘Praying’s not going to help you now,’ Mal growled. In his peripheral vision, Doc helped Fi off the cot.

‘Preacher’s here?’ Fi asked, narrowing her eyes at the other vampire.

‘Yeah.’ Doc pushed her behind him. ‘I’ll explain later.’

‘Doc,’ Mal called over his shoulder. ‘Take both girls below.’

Doc nodded as Preacher lunged to his feet and sprang forward. ‘She’s mine.’

Mal snagged him around the neck and hurled him to the floor. Preacher hung on and they rolled together. Fi shrieked. Doc scooped a limp Chrysabelle into his arms and hustled her and Fi out the door as Mal came to his knees.

‘Hell spawn.’ Preacher’s fist pounded Mal’s cheek.

Mal shook off the pain. ‘That the best you can do, jarhead?’ Amateur. What he wouldn’t give for a weapon. Or a quart of blood. His muscles were starting to tremble from exhaustion.

‘Get staked, anathema,’ Preacher growled.

‘You fringe don’t know when to quit.’ Mal clipped Preacher in the temple, opening a cut and snapping his head back until the floor stopped it. Hitting something beside the heavy bag, something that bled, felt good. With Chrysabelle out of the room, and the added bitterness of Preacher’s blood, his brain was starting to clear.

‘Her blood is pure. She should belong to someone worthy.’ Preacher shoved his combat boots into Mal’s chest, thrusting him back and cracking a few ribs. The pain barely registered.

‘You’ve outstayed your welcome, altar boy.’ Mal rolled to his feet. Preacher was a second behind him. They faced off, circling.

‘Give her to me and I’ll leave.’

Mal realized he had no idea if the transfusion had helped Chrysabelle or not. Time to bring this to a close. ‘You go home alone.’

Mimicking the combo he’d used on the bag earlier, he hit Preacher again and again until blood covered his fists. His or Preacher’s, he wasn’t sure. Preacher staggered back against the wall. His head wobbled on his neck like a doll’s, then he slumped to the floor.

‘Age plus nobility always equals a win. I tried to tell you that last time.’ Mal grabbed Preacher by the belt, his doctor bag by
the handles, and dragged them both out of the room. He kept going until he hit the end of the pier, then he dumped Preacher and threw his bag to the ground beside him. ‘Consider that your last chance to cleanse me.’

He slogged back to the ship to check on Chrysabelle. Fatigue overtook him as the exhilaration from the fight disappeared. Pain started to register. His right eye was swelling. He probed his ribs through his shirt. Two broken. Good thing he didn’t have to breathe. That was going to hurt in the morning. Or whenever he woke up after he collapsed into bed.

Back on board, he winced as he wiped his bloody hands on his pants. He followed Chrysabelle’s scent toward the room Doc had taken her to. A few doors away, and he knew Doc wasn’t done punishing him for what happened to Fi.

Sleeping in his own bed was no longer an option. Chrysabelle was already in it.

Tatiana couldn’t take her eyes off the mansion even as she slipped through the car door Octavian held open. Hers. Very soon. Especially now that she had a possible clue as to where the comarré might—

‘Hello, child.’

If she’d been less focused on the future and more on the present, she would have recognized his scent before she’d heard his voice. If the sound of words being dragged over gravel and broken glass could be called a voice.

Not now. She didn’t have time for this now. Not when she was so close to finding the comarré. She could scatter, but they’d find her. They always did. There was no running from the Castus Sanguis. She bowed her head in obeisance and shifted on the leather seat to face him.

‘My lord.’

He offered his hand. Dutifully, she kissed his ring, careful to touch as little of his skin as possible.

‘You seem troubled.’ The voice came from deep within the hooded black cape. No visible face, which suited her fine. She’d seen his face. Once was enough.

‘No, my lord, just … I have a lot on my mind.’ She concentrated on not gagging from the stench of sulfur and gangrenous flesh.

‘Ah. Then you may not be able to focus as much as I’d like on this plane.’

After her first trip to his dimension, she’d vowed never to return if she could help it. ‘My lord, please, I’m fine.’ She reached behind her neck, found the clasp of her locket, and released it, letting it fall from beneath her blouse to the car’s seat. She would not lose that memory again.

He twisted the amber gem in his ring and the world around her swirled away. She fought to maintain consciousness but when the blackness lightened to charcoal, she knew she hadn’t. The glassy black walls and disappearing corners were not her dimension. She was in theirs. And at their will.

She tested her surroundings. Not bound. That was something. Not that she could run. Where would she go? She was a rat, confined by an inescapable maze. She stretched her arms out, feeling for what was beneath her.

A bed. Her stomach churned. Not again. Please, not again. The last time it had taken her nearly a month to recover.

He approached, robe gone. Her memories of him had not been exaggerated. Veins throbbed with blood so powerful and ancient it had given birth to three races. A skirt of shadows covered him from the waist down, hiding his hooved feet. Behind him, knots
of darkness hovered. His brethren. He circled the bed, giving her a glimpse of his back where the blackened stumps from his torn-away wings still thrust from his shoulders.

‘We sense that the ring has not come into your possession as promised.’

‘It will, master. I will have it very soon.’

He spun, jaws extended, rows of fangs jutting forward. ‘You should have it already.’ Spittle stung her face.

‘It was … ’ No, no, that was not the right answer. If the Castus Sanguis found out about the girl, they would be furious. If they got to her first … ‘Yes, master, I should. I failed you, but I will redeem myself.’