Flesh And Blood: House of Comarre: Book Two (House of Comarre 2) (49 page)

Kubai Mata
: an ancient secret society designed to protect mankind against othernaturals should the covenant be broken.

Libertas
: the ritual in which a comarré can fight for their independence; ends in death of comarré or patron.

Navitas
: the ritual in which a vampire can be resired by another, to change family lines, or turn fringe noble.

Noble vampires
: a powerful race of vampires descended from fallen angels.

Nothos
: hellhounds.

Patron
: a noble vampire who purchases a comarré’s blood rights.

Remnant
: a hybrid of different species of fae or varcolai.

Sacre
: the ceremonial sword of the comarré.

Signum
: the inlaid gold tattoos or marks put into comarré skin to purify their blood.

Vampling
: a newly turned or young vampire.

Varcolai
: a race of shifters descended from fallen angels and animals.

I must thank my editor, Devi; her assistant, Jennifer; Alex, Jack, and the entire publishing team at Orbit for making this book a reality. You’re an awesome group!

Big thanks to the folks who provided me with translation help: Alessandro and Kimberly Menozzi for their Italian translations; Bob Rivera for his Latin translations; Ahmed El Anjanar for his Arabic translation. Any mistakes are mine.

And then there is the crew that supports me, reads for me, gets me writing, helps me brainstorm, talks me off ledges, and keeps me encouraged: Richie, Matt, my parents, Jax, Laura, Leigh, Carrie, Carolyn, Briana, Dayna, Emily, the staff at Romance Divas, my truly amazing agent, Elaine, and the two writers who inspire me daily with their dedication, their work ethics, and their skill with words, Rocki and Louisa.

Lastly, thanks to all the readers out there for taking a chance on one more vampire series.

Kristen Painter
’s writing résumé boasts multiple Golden Heart nominations and advance praise from a handful of bestselling authors, including Gena Showalter and Roxanne St. Claire. A former New Yorker now living in Florida, Kristen has a wealth of fascinating experiences from which to flavor her stories, including time spent working in fashion for Christian Dior and as a maître d’ for Wolfgang Puck. Her website is at kristenpainter.com and she’s on Twitter at @ Kristen_Painter.

Find out more about Kristen Painter and other Orbit authors by registering for the free monthly newsletter at
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if you enjoyed

FLESH AND BLOOD

look out for

SOULLESS

by

Gail Carriger

Miss Alexia Tarabotti was not enjoying her evening. Private balls were never more than middling amusements for spin sters, and Miss Tarabotti was not the kind of spinster who could garner even that much pleasure from the event. To put the pudding in the puff: she had retreated to the library, her favorite sanctuary in any house, only to happen upon an unexpected vampire.

She glared at the vampire.

For his part, the vampire seemed to feel that their encounter had improved his ball experience immeasurably. For there she sat, without escort, in a low-necked ball gown.

In this particular case, what he did not know
could
hurt him. For Miss Alexia had been born without a soul, which, as any decent vampire of good blooding knew, made her a lady to avoid most assiduously.

Yet he moved toward her, darkly shimmering out of the library shadows with feeding fangs ready. However, the moment he touched Miss Tarabotti, he was suddenly no longer darkly doing anything at all. He was simply standing there, the faint
sounds of a string quartet in the background as he foolishly fished about with his tongue for fangs unaccountably mislaid.

Miss Tarabotti was not in the least surprised; soullessness always neutralized supernatural abilities. She issued the vampire a very dour look. Certainly, most daylight folk wouldn’t peg her as anything less than a standard English prig, but had this man not even bothered to
read
the vampire’s official abnormality roster for London and its greater environs?

The vampire recovered his equanimity quickly enough. He reared away from Alexia, knocking over a nearby tea trolley. Physical contact broken, his fangs reappeared. Clearly not the sharpest of prongs, he then darted forward from the neck like a serpent, diving in for another chomp.

‘I say!’ said Alexia to the vampire. ‘We have not even been introduced!’

Miss Tarabotti had never actually had a vampire try to bite her. She knew one or two by reputation, of course, and was friendly with Lord Akeldama.
Who was
not
friendly with Lord Akeldama?
But no vampire had ever actually attempted to
feed
on her before!

So Alexia, who abhorred violence, was forced to grab the miscreant by his nostrils, a delicate and therefore painful area, and shove him away. He stumbled over the fallen tea trolley, lost his balance in a manner astonishingly graceless for a vampire, and fell to the floor. He landed right on top of a plate of treacle tart.

Miss Tarabotti was most distressed by this. She was particularly fond of treacle tart and had been looking forward to consuming that precise plateful. She picked up her parasol. It was terribly tasteless for her to be carrying a parasol at an evening ball, but Miss Tarabotti rarely went anywhere without it. It was of a style entirely of her own devising: a black frilly
confection with purple satin pansies sewn about, brass hardware, and buckshot in its silver tip.

She whacked the vampire right on top of the head with it as he tried to extract himself from his newly intimate relations with the tea trolley. The buckshot gave the brass parasol just enough heft to make a deliciously satisfying
thunk
.

‘Manners!’ instructed Miss Tarabotti.

The vampire howled in pain and sat back down on the treacle tart.

Alexia followed up her advantage with a vicious prod between the vampire’s legs. His howl went quite a bit higher in pitch, and he crumpled into a fetal position. While Miss Tarabotti was a proper English young lady, aside from not having a soul and being half Italian, she did spend quite a bit more time than most other young ladies riding and walking and was therefore unexpectedly strong.

Miss Tarabotti leaped forward – as much as one could leap in full triple-layered underskirts, draped bustle, and ruffled taffeta top-skirt – and bent over the vampire. He was clutching at his indelicate bits and writhing about. The pain would not last long given his supernatural healing ability, but it hurt most decidedly in the interim.

Alexia pulled a long wooden hair stick out of her elaborate coiffure. Blushing at her own temerity, she ripped open his shirt-front, which was cheap and overly starched, and poked at his chest, right over the heart. Miss Tarabotti sported a particularly large and sharp hair stick. With her free hand, she made certain to touch his chest, as only physical contact would nullify his supernatural abilities.

‘Desist that horrible noise immediately,’ she instructed the creature.

The vampire quit his squealing and lay perfectly still. His beautiful blue eyes watered slightly as he stared fixedly at the wooden hair stick. Or, as Alexia liked to call it, hair
stake
.

‘Explain yourself!’ Miss Tarabotti demanded, increasing the pressure.

‘A thousand apologies.’ The vampire looked confused. ‘Who are you?’ Tentatively he reached for his fangs. Gone.

To make her position perfectly clear, Alexia stopped touching him (though she kept her sharp hair stick in place). His fangs grew back.

He gasped in amazement. ‘
What
are you? I thought you were a lady, alone. It would be my right to feed, if you were left this carelethly unattended. Pleathe, I did not mean to prethume,’ he lisped around his fangs, real panic in his eyes.

Alexia, finding it hard not to laugh at the lisp, said, ‘There is no cause for you to be so overly dramatic. Your hive queen will have told you of my kind.’ She returned her hand to his chest once more. The vampire’s fangs retracted.

He looked at her as though she had suddenly sprouted whiskers and hissed at him.

Miss Tarabotti was surprised. Supernatural creatures, be they vampires, werewolves, or ghosts, owed their existence to an overabundance of soul, an excess that refused to die. Most knew that others like Miss Tarabotti existed, born without any soul at all. The estimable Bureau of Unnatural Registry (BUR), a division of Her Majesty’s Civil Service, called her ilk
preternatural
. Alexia thought the term nicely dignified. What vampires called her was far less complimentary. After all, preternaturals had once hunted
them
, and vampires had long memories. Natural, daylight persons were kept in the dark, so to speak, but any vampire worth his blood should know a preternatural’s
touch. This one’s ignorance was untenable. Alexia said, as though to a very small child, ‘I am a
preternatural
.’

The vampire looked embarrassed. ‘Of course you are,’ he agreed, obviously still not quite comprehending. ‘Again, my apologies, lovely one. I am overwhelmed to meet you. You are my first’ – he stumbled over the word – ‘preternatural.’ He frowned. ‘Not supernatural, not natural, of course! How foolish of me not to see the dichotomy.’ His eyes narrowed into craftiness. He was now studiously ignoring the hair stick and looking tenderly up into Alexia’s face.

Miss Tarabotti knew full well her own feminine appeal. The kindest compliment her face could ever hope to garner was ‘exotic,’ never ‘lovely.’ Not that it had ever received either. Alexia figured that vampires, like all predators, were at their most charming when cornered.

The vampire’s hands shot forward, going for her neck. Apparently, he had decided if he could not suck her blood, strangulation was an acceptable alternative. Alexia jerked back, at the same time pressing her hair stick into the creature’s white flesh. It slid in about half an inch. The vampire reacted with a desperate wriggle that, even without superhuman strength, unbalanced Alexia in her heeled velvet dancing shoes. She fell back. He stood, roaring in pain, with her hair stick half in and half out of his chest.

Miss Tarabotti scrabbled for her parasol, rolling about inelegantly among the tea things, hoping her new dress would miss the fallen foodstuffs. She found the parasol and came upright, swinging it in a wide arc. Purely by chance, the heavy tip struck the end of her wooden hair stick, driving it straight into the vampire’s heart.

The creature stood stock-still, a look of intense surprise on his
handsome face. Then he fell backward onto the much-abused plate of treacle tart, flopping in a limp-overcooked-asparagus kind of way. His alabaster face turned a yellowish gray, as though he were afflicted with the jaundice, and he went still. Alexia’s books called this end of the vampire life cycle
dissanimation
. Alexia, who thought the action astoundingly similar to a soufflé going flat, decided at that moment to call it the Grand Collapse.