Kristen Painter - Out for Blood

“Now who’s the liar?” The urge to touch him, to soothe him, surged through her. Instead, she walked back to the bed and occupied herself with straightening the coverlet. “Let me get a shower, then I’ll get you some blood. Will you ask Velimai to make me something to eat?”

His face human again, he nodded and looked toward her. “Of course. I guess you’ll want to see Damian after you eat. He’s at the freighter, guarding another—”

“Tatiana’s comar is at your freighter?”

“Yes. I know you don’t remember, but you said his name before you passed out. You must want to talk to him about something.”

She sank down on the bed and tried again to recall what the Aurelian had told her, but nothing came. “I must have thought he could help me find my brother.” She shook her head. “I’m not up to seeing anyone yet. Maybe in a day or two. Right now, I just want to shower, eat, and feed you. Then I need to do some thinking.”

He tipped his head to one side as if suppressing the urge to say something. “Your call, but don’t you think it’s possible the Aurelian told you something Damian might be able to help you with? Maybe he knew your brother?”

She shrugged his words away. “Without knowing more than the singular fact that I have a brother, how can he help me? I have no name to give him. No idea who my brother’s patron might have been. Nothing.” She sighed. “It’s so frustrating.”

“What if Damian is your brother?”

She glared at him. “He’s not. Don’t you think I’d know if he was?”

“No, I don’t. You didn’t even meet him when he was here. How could you know?”

“Stop pushing. I’ll talk to him, I will. Just not yet.” She rolled her shoulders again, trying to alleviate the uneasiness coursing through her. Mal’s insistence wasn’t helping her mood.

“Are you sure you’re okay?” He studied her as if she might suddenly grow a third eye.

“I’m well enough, considering,” she lied, nerves fraying slightly. “Please, just leave me alone to shower, okay? I’ll feel better after I eat.”

He held his hands up and headed for the door, grabbing a T-shirt off the end of the bed as he went.

She sighed. She’d apologize for snapping when she went downstairs, but he must understand she wasn’t quite herself at the moment. Why did he have to push so hard?

When the door closed, she walked to the bathroom, dropped her robe, and stared at the signum Atticus had replaced. Nothing about them looked any different than her other marks, and yet she knew that the gold had changed her. For better or worse remained to be seen.

Chrysabelle wasn’t fine—that much Mal knew. Her glow was different. Darker. He also knew that what she didn’t want to talk about—the power from the ring of sorrows being somehow responsible for her surviving the Aurelian’s sword—wasn’t just going to magically wear off. He never should have put his blood into her, never should have let her get the signum replaced, never should have let her go to the Aurelian alone. Never never never. Weakling.

He snorted in anger as he plodded down the steps from her suite, half agreeing with the voices. As if he had any control over any of those things. He’d no more let her die than she’d let him stop her from doing what she wanted. And now there was a price to pay.

How high a price? Who knew. But having the ring’s power coursing through her had to mean more than just keeping her alive when her life was threatened. That was too simple. He ducked into the hurricane shelter room that had served as his sunproof sanctuary and changed into his T-shirt, jeans, and boots. Power had a way of exacting a price for its use. Tatiana was proof of that. So are you.

He shut the door behind him and headed down the hall and into the kitchen. Velimai, the wysper fae who’d been Chrysabelle’s mother’s assistant, sat at the table with a cup of tea, scanning her e-reader. It was good she’d stayed on after Maris’s death. He didn’t like Chrysabelle being alone in this huge house, and with Velimai’s vampire-killing voice, the fae offered good protection should Tatiana come calling.

Velimai looked up when he came in. She signed something he didn’t understand, then pointed toward the upstairs.

“Yes,” he answered, guessing at what she’d asked. “She’s awake. And hungry. And a little cranky.” Who wouldn’t be around you?

The wysper offered him a wry smile, set her reader down, and headed for the refrigerator. She pulled out a few things, then gave him a questioning look and a nod toward Chrysabelle’s rooms as she went to the counter.

He pulled out a chair and sat, his back to the wall. “She’s in the shower. Should be down shortly.”

Velimai stopped seasoning a steak to give him a good, long look. She slowly mouthed, “You look tired.”

“I am.” Tired of always being at odds with Chrysabelle’s stubbornness. “And frustrated. She doesn’t want to talk about what happened.” He tilted his head back until it touched the wall, then closed his eyes. “Or what’s still happening. Or going to happen, depending on how you look at it.”

Two soft clinks on the tabletop brought his head back down and opened his eyes. Velimai tapped the top of the whiskey bottle she’d put there with a squat glass, then glided back to the range where the grill was heating.

“Thanks.” What he really needed was blood, but that could wait. No, now . He’d had enough practice in delaying his own gratification. Another hour or so meant nothing. He poured a couple centimeters of whiskey into the tumbler and tossed them back. The burn felt good. Substantial. Something he could quantify. Unlike Chrysabelle, who continued to bewilder him. “We’ll have to discuss it sooner or later.”

Velimai nodded. The steak sizzled as she laid it over the grill, the scents of searing, bloody flesh reminding Mal of his human days. A muted whir filled the room as the vent kicked on to suck up the smoke. She put down the tongs she’d been using, came back to the table, scrawled something on an e-tablet, then held it out to him.

She’ll talk when she’s ready. You & I know it’s the ring in her system. Maybe your blood too. But what can you do until she’s ready? Fight with her? No use.

Mal set the e-tablet down and leaned back. “No use is right. I just can’t help but wonder what the final cost of all this is going to be.”

Velimai sighed and went back to the steak.

“The final cost of what is going to be?” Chrysabelle cinched her robe a little tighter as she entered. Her hair was dry. Maybe she’d changed her mind about showering. The look in her eyes said she understood perfectly well what they were talking about.

He didn’t want to fight with her. Do it. But neither did he want to ignore something so critical. Velimai glanced at him, her expression plainly asking him to drop it. But he couldn’t. This was too important. This was Chrysabelle’s life. Her future. “The final cost of what’s going on with you. With the ring’s power in your system.”

“The ring’s power was destroyed when Atticus melted it down. I told you I’m fine. If you can’t accept that, maybe you should go.”

He canted his head to one side, trying to quell his building frustration. “Chrysabelle, don’t be—”

“It’s my house,” she said quietly. “I’ll be whatever I want to be, understood?”

He rose, thankful there was no sun in the sky to keep him captive here. “Let me know when you’re ready to be someone who wants to face reality, because if you think the ring’s power and my blood in your system aren’t somehow responsible for you still being alive, you’re wrong. And we need to figure out what else it means before something new happens. Tatiana’s still out there. The first sign of weakness in you and she’ll exploit it. You think she won’t?”