Flesh And Blood: House of Comarre: Book Two (House of Comarre 2) (20 page)

‘Who wouldn’t?’ He stopped. ‘Look, I’ve come to realize you don’t respond well to pressure. You’re stubborn.’

So much for a new topic. She halted beside him, crossing her arms. ‘I’m not stubborn. You push too much.’ He could be so infuriating when he tried.

‘You’re determined to do things your own way, without help, and you’re not dealing well with the transition from the comarré world to this one—’

‘I’m dealing fine.’ Was that what he thought? She was trying. She should get some credit for that.

‘No, you’re not.’ He shoved a hand through his hair. It was so long it skimmed his shoulders. ‘I’m not a patient man. Not anymore. I’m tired of waiting. So whatever you need to do to get ready, do it. Now.’

She almost laughed at how ridiculous he sounded. So very much like a man of his time. Or a noble commanding his comarré. She uncrossed her arms and planted her hands on her hips. ‘Is that an order?’

‘It is what it is.’ He took a step forward, and a bolt whistled
through the space he’d just occupied. It sank into the concrete block of the abandoned storefront behind him, dropping hunks of debris to the ground. Cracks veined out from the impact.

He grabbed her, tossed her over his shoulder, and took off. She fought to catch her breath. Everything around her blurred into streaks of light and muted color. Her braid whipped out past her face like it was connected to a string. Beneath her, he ran with a lethal grace, his muscles moving as oily smooth as a serpent’s.

When he stopped, she had little idea how far they’d gone or in what direction. He hadn’t run for more than a minute, but at that speed, they could be miles away.

He slipped her from his shoulder but kept his body in front of hers as he turned to glance back the way they’d come. Her heart thumped in her chest as she leaned against the building behind her. From what she could see beyond the hulking vampire in front of her, none of the surroundings looked familiar.

She reached for the comfort of her wrist blades. ‘Where are—’

‘Quiet,’ he whispered.

She quelled the urge to punch him in the shoulder. It wouldn’t matter how much or how little noise she made. If that bolt had come from the person she thought it had, there would be small chance of escape. Why hadn’t she told Mal about Creek? Maybe she
was
stubborn. Determined to do things her way. No time like the present to make things right. She moved to stand beside him. ‘Mal.’

With a stern look, he clamped his hand over her mouth. His cool fingers felt good against her skin, and his scent burrowed into her brain. Neither of which were helping. She turned her head, trying to free herself. His hand didn’t budge. Now who
was being stubborn? She did the only thing she could think of that didn’t involve sticking a dagger into him.

She ran the tip of her tongue across the seam of his fingers.

He yanked his hand away like he’d been burned. He glared, then put her behind him again.

‘Listen to me.’ Better to tell him about Creek now than—

‘C’mon out, vampire. There’s no point in hiding or running. Let the comarré go and I won’t kill you.’ The sound of a cross-bow being cocked and loaded echoed from the street, but Creek wasn’t visible. ‘Well, I will kill you, but I’ll make it quick.’

—than to have Mal find out on his own. Which was right now, apparently. She edged out from behind Mal. An unnatural stillness permeated the night. ‘Put your crossbow up,’ she projected toward the street. ‘It’s not what you think.’

A disturbing growl emanated from Mal. His human face was nowhere to be seen. ‘What’s going on?’

‘We have company,’ she answered.

‘I noticed,’ Mal snarled back. ‘Why do you know more about it than I do?’

‘Because … ’ There was no good, short answer. ‘I just do.’

Creek emerged from the darkness to walk toward them, cross-bow aimed at Mal. ‘You’re an ugly cuss, you know that?’ He nodded at her without taking the weapon’s sight off Mal. ‘Walk to me. It’s all right – you’re safe now.’

‘Chrysabelle, stay where you are.’ Mal half stepped in front of her and bared his fangs at Creek. ‘She’s safe right where she is, and she’ll stay that way.’ The faint moonlight revealed he now gripped a jagged-edged black blade in his right hand. She hadn’t even seen him whip it out. ‘I wouldn’t go so far as to say that about you.’

This was going to get ugly. And then uglier. With a gentle shove,
she pushed past Mal to stand between the two men, turning her body sideways and raising a hand to each of them. ‘I’m fine. Both of you put your weapons down. No one is killing anyone.’

Neither of them moved except to raise their weapons higher. And Mal thought she was stubborn? ‘Creek, I am with Mal of my own free will. He’s my patron and as such—’

‘What did you say his name was?’ The tip of Creek’s cross-bow dropped a centimeter.

‘Malachi,’ Mal spat as he made determined eye contact with Chrysabelle. Obviously, he didn’t want his real name revealed. She understood, remembering when he’d used that false name with her, but really, Creek wouldn’t know vampire history any more than would a rock on the ground.

‘As I was saying, Malachi is my patron, and as such, you have no right to come between us, but he has every right to fight you should you choose to do so anyway.’ Which she really hoped he didn’t. ‘Leave us be, Creek.’

Mal twirled the knife through his fingers until it was a blur of black. ‘How do you know his name, Chrysabelle?’

Creek answered first. ‘Because we’ve met before, vampire.’

Great. Unsolicited help from the ex-con. She sighed. ‘He’s right. We did.’

‘When?’ Mal moved slightly closer to Creek.

‘The night I saw you at Seven,’ she answered, keeping her gaze on him.

An angry growl came out of Creek. ‘Was he the one who cut your hand?’

She whipped around toward Creek. ‘No.’

Mal responded a second behind her. ‘I would never hurt her.’

Creek came forward a step. ‘And yet I had to save her from getting punctured by a gang of fringe.’

She exhaled and rolled her eyes skyward before shooting Creek a hard glare. ‘Could you let me tell this story?’

‘Is that true?’ Mal asked.

‘Yes,’ Creek answered. ‘Her bleeding hand was drawing them like flies.’

Chrysabelle sighed. ‘I was holding my own.’

Mal reversed his grip on the blade and dropped his arm to his side. ‘Apparently not.’ He looked at Creek. ‘How many did you take out?’

Creek tipped his crossbow up to rest against his shoulder. ‘Five.’

‘Five?’ Mal stared at her. ‘How many were there to begin with?’

‘Okay, enough. I’m glad you two have bonded over my perceived inability to fend for myself, but this’ – she waggled her finger between Mal and Creek – ‘is not why we’re out here.’

Mal took a moment to study Creek. His nostrils flared. ‘Who are you anyway? Your scent’s too sour to be fully human.’

‘Don’t worry about who I am, vampire. Worry about protecting your comarré. If I have to do it again, you’re done with her.’

And just like that, the weapons were back in play.

Mal shook his head, his irises edged in silver. ‘She doesn’t need anyone’s protection. She could take you out with one hand tied behind her back. Whoever you are.’

Internally, she grinned at Mal’s assessment. ‘He’s just a guy who came to my rescue.’

‘Actually,’ Creek spoke up, ‘I’m more than that, Chrysabelle. I didn’t plan on telling you this way, but I think you need to know. I’m Kubai Mata. Sent to help protect you.’

Mal threw back his head and laughed. ‘Kubai Mata? The secret fairy-tale vampire-slayer organization? Oh, that’s rich.’

Kubai Mata? A wash of unease ran through her. Was that possible? She’d been educated to believe that they may have once existed but now were exactly as Mal described. A fairy tale of sorts. How would a human even know about them to make such a claim? Her stomach knotted with the feeling that her world was shifting too fast for her to keep up.

Mal tucked his blade away and looked at Chrysabelle. ‘You didn’t mention he was mental. Nice company you’ve been keeping.’ His gaze returned to Creek. ‘Slayers of any variety have a very short life span, so I guess I won’t be seeing much more of you. Kubai Mata.’ He shook his head. ‘Amazing. Come, Chrysabelle. We have work to do.’ He hooked his hand around her upper arm and began to turn them both around.

Creek stuck the butt of his crossbow against his shoulder and aimed. ‘Get your hands off her, vampire. I don’t care if you believe me or not, but you won’t hurt her while I’m here.’ His finger found the trigger. ‘Last chance.’

Mal rolled his eyes.

Creek pulled the trigger.

Before Chrysabelle could inhale to react, Mal shoved her out of the way, spun to the side, and snatched the bolt out of the air as it blasted past.

Creek fired again, but the second bolt whistled past Mal’s charging form, tearing the leather of his jacket under his arm.

Mal leaped at Creek, caught him around the waist, and slammed him to the ground. Together they rolled across the debris-strewn pavement.

‘No!’ Chrysabelle shouted. She yanked her sacre out of its sheath and ran toward them. Mal’s hands squeezed Creek’s
windpipe while Creek reared back to land a punch. She slipped her sword between them before Creek’s fist came down. If Creek really was KM, she needed to talk to him. ‘Enough.’

Both men froze, but neither made an effort to disengage.

She unsheathed her second sacre and added it to the mix, easing the points of the swords into the hollows of their throats. ‘Let’s go. Now. This foolishness is over.’

Slowly, they untangled and got to their feet, glaring daggers at each other.

‘If one of you kills the other, I’ll kill the survivor, understood?’

Of course, Mal spoke first. ‘No, you won’t.’

No, she wouldn’t, but right now she felt like it. ‘Try me.’ She pushed them farther apart, opening a tiny nick in Mal’s skin that healed in less than a second. She would hear about that later. ‘I don’t care if you hate each other, I don’t care if you get along, but if you’re both going to live in this city, you’re going to have to find a way to tolerate each other.’ Neither of them looked like they’d heard a word she’d said. ‘That means no killing. Each other.’

Creek pointed a finger at Mal. ‘Killing vampires is part of my job.’

‘Not this vampire,’ Chrysabelle said.

Mal straightened and stared Creek down. ‘Your job’s fatality rate just went sky-high.’

Creek shook his head. ‘You don’t get it. Neither of you do. This city is about to crumble before you – along with the rest of the world. Since the breaking of the covenant, bad things have begun to happen.’

‘Like you?’ Mal asked.

Creek ignored him. ‘Like nightmares coming to life and black
magic strengthening and evil’s foothold in this world growing larger. The more humans start to believe in the danger around them, the more power that danger has. Things you’ve never dreamed of will materialize on the strength of those beliefs. I’m not just here to protect humans from vampires. I’m the first line of defense against every unnatural horror about to rise up and take a bite out of this world. Vampires are just the beginning.’

Chrysabelle sheathed one sword. ‘Who put you in charge of protecting the human race?’ She’d always thought that designation belonged to the comarré.

Creek’s scornful look spoke volumes. ‘That’s always been the job of the Kubai Mata. We’ve been waiting for the day this would happen, and now that it has, we’re here.’

‘We? How many of you are there?’ she asked.

‘Enough.’ Creek backed up a step and jerked his chin toward Mal. ‘You step out of line toward her again, and you’re ash. I shouldn’t even allow you that much.’

Mal laughed. ‘You think you scare me?’ He cracked his knuckles. ‘I eat mortals like you for breakfast.’

Creek brought his crossbow back down. ‘Thanks for the reminder. Maybe there’s no point in giving you a chance.’

‘Both of you shut up,’ Chrysabelle snarled. ‘Mal hasn’t killed anyone in years.’ A rapid, muted thumping filtered in from the alley behind them. ‘What is that?’

Mal and Creek swiveled toward the sound. It got louder, but not much. The wind shifted, washing a sour wave of brimstone over them. Chrysabelle reached for the sword she’d sheathed as the tremble of recognition shook her spine. The sacre whined for blood, quivering to be used.

‘Nothos,’ Mal spat. ‘That can only mean one thing.’

Chrysabelle nodded. ‘She’s come after the ring, hasn’t she?’
Chrysabelle shoved the white-cold fear away and opened herself to the anger over Maris’s death, still fresh and close to the bone. Her sacre hummed, hungry, greedy, ready to engrave her pain on someone else’s skin.

‘You mean Tatiana?’ Creek asked.

Before either of them could confirm, the first Nothos came into view, all wrongly jointed and horse-faced, yellow eyes lit like embers, spittle dripping from its crowded jaw.

Creek’s smile split his face like a jack-o’-lantern as he nodded. ‘Looks like the hellhounds have arrived.’ He cocked the crossbow’s trigger. ‘It’s hunting time.’