Forbidden Blood: A House of Comarré Novella (8 page)

Chapter Fourteen

Paradise City, New Florida, three months later

H
ere?” the doctor asked.

“No.” Maris stared at the clinic ceiling. Water spots browned several of the tiles.

He moved lower and pricked the skin above her ankle. “Here?”

“No.” She sighed in frustration and tried not to grit her teeth. The feeling had been coming back slowly, but that was her business and hers alone. “Nothing anywhere.”

The doctor shook his head. “No change, then.”

She shoved the cheap cloth gown down over her legs. “That’s what I’ve been trying to tell you. A little feeling in my hips, but nothing more.” Admitting that much had been an accident, but with practice, she’d raised her pain threshold. The scratch of his little metal tines barely registered now.

He made a note in his tablet. “I’ll leave you to get dressed, then.”

As soon as he shut the door, she hoisted her legs over the side and stared at her feet. Her toes were painted a soft pink. Dominic had bought the polish to surprise her, but what had surprised her more was her dangerous, anathema vampire had then painted her toes as well. She laughed softly. He was something else.

Her smile faded. So long as that something else didn’t turn dark. She knew how hard things would get once they’d run through the remainder of her funds, something they were already close to thanks to the medical care she’d needed. Poor Dominic. Because of her, he’d been forced to leave everything behind but the clothes on his back. If he hadn’t paid for the chartered plane that had brought them here before he’d been thrown out of Corvinestri, they might still be stuck there.

Like her daughter.

That thought alone was enough to refocus her efforts. She stared at her toes, willing her body to pay attention, praying the holy mother would give her one last chance to—

Her pinkie toe curled a half centimeter toward the floor.

A knock on the door drowned out her excited gasp. She shook herself, blinking hard and trying to act normal. “C-come in.”

“Marissa, it’s me.” Dominic entered, his sad but sweet smile letting her know he’d already spoken to the doctor.

“Maris,” she reminded him. Changing her name had felt right. He’d changed his surname to Scarnato, so he should understand, but he’d yet to call her by anything but Marissa.

“
Bella mia
, I am so sorry there is nothing new.” He took her hands and kissed each one. “Perhaps I should find a different doctor.”

“No.” She smiled to soothe him and hide her excitement over the first sign of movement. “We can barely afford this one.” Nor did she want to explain her signum to another doctor. As it was, she knew this one didn’t believe her story about an ex-boyfriend being an experimental tattooist. She tugged off the gown and pulled her tunic over her head.

“Things are about to change for us. You’ll see.” He helped her dress the rest of the way, gently lifting her legs and easing them into the loose linen pants she’d adopted as her new uniform. Beige wasn’t white, but it wasn’t much color either. Old habits died hard.

“Why?” She looped her arm around his neck as he picked her up. She leaned in to inhale his spicy scent. Instantly, it calmed her. He placed her carefully into her wheelchair, but she held on to his hand. “What are you working on?”

“Just a few new serums. Nothing special, but enough that I should be able to employ someone to help you soon.”

She grabbed his hand, the softest clanging of an alarm sounding in her head. “What kind of serums?”

“Just a few things that will make us some money.” He gave her a wink as he went to open the door. When he came back, he kissed the top of her head, then stepped behind the chair to push her out of the room.

His refusal to explain made her stomach twist. She wished she could see his face and read his eyes. Keeping her voice low as he wheeled her through the small clinic, she whispered, “Please, Dominic, don’t do anything dangerous.”

A nurse glanced their way. He laughed unconvincingly and gently squeezed her shoulder. “
Tesora
, what is danger after what you and I have been through?”

It was everything that appealed to him and everything she was trying to avoid. At least until she had a plan and was healed enough to fight again, because there was no chance she’d get her daughter away from the comarré life without spilling blood. It was a reality Maris had already accepted.

Even if the blood required was hers.

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 maitre d’ for Wolfgang Puck. Find out more about Kristen Painter at
www.­kristenpainter.­com
 and on Twitter @Kristen_Painter.

Kristen Painter. Photo © Kevin Roberts, Intimate Images.

Blood Rights

Flesh and Blood

Bad Blood

Out for Blood

 

If you enjoyed FORBIDDEN BLOOD,

look out for

BLOOD RIGHTS

HOUSE OF COMARRÉ, BOOK 1

by Kristen Painter
 

Chapter One

Paradise City, New Florida, 2067

T
he cheap lace and single-sewn seams pressed into Chrysabelle’s flesh, weighed down by the uncomfortable tapestry jacket that finished her disguise. Her training kept her from fidgeting with the shirt’s tag even as it bit into her skin. She studied those around her. How curious that the kine perceived her world this way. No,
this
was her world, not the one she’d left behind. And she had to stop thinking of humans as kine. She was one of them now. Free. Independent. Owned by no one.

She forced a weak smile as the club’s heavy electronic beat ricocheted through her bones. Lights flickered and strobed, casting shadows and angles that paid no compliments to the faces around her. She cringed as a few bodies collided with her in the surrounding crush. Nothing in her years of training had prepared her for immersion in a crowd of mortals. She recognized the warm, earthy smell of them from the human servants her patron and the other nobles had kept, but acclimating to their noise and their boisterous behavior was going to take time. Perhaps humans lived so hard because they had so little of that very thing.

Something she was coming to understand.

The names on the slip of paper in her pocket were memorized, but she pulled it out and read them again.
Jonas Sweets,
and beneath it,
Nyssa
, both written in her aunt’s flowery script. Just the sight of the handwriting calmed her a little. She folded the note and tucked it away. If Aunt Maris said Jonas could connect her with help, Chrysabelle would trust that he could, even though the idea of trusting a kine—no, a human—seemed untenable.

She pushed through to the bar, failing in her attempt to avoid more contact but happy at how little attention she attracted. The foundation Maris had applied to her hands, face and neck, the only skin left visible by her clothing, covered her signum perfectly. No longer did the multitude of gold markings she bore identify her as an object to be possessed. She was her own person now, passing easily as human.

The feat split her in two. While part of her thrilled to be free of the stifling propriety that governed her every move and rejoiced that she was no longer property, another part of her felt wholly unprepared for this existence. There was no denying life in Algernon’s manor had been one of shelter and privilege.

Enough wallowing. She hadn’t the time and there was no going back, even if she could. Which she wouldn’t. And it wasn’t as if Aunt Maris hadn’t provided for her and wouldn’t continue to do so, if Chrysabelle could just take care of this one small problem. Finding a space between two bodies, she squeezed in and waited for the bartender’s attention.

He nodded at her. “What can I get you?”

She slid the first plastic fifty across the bar as Maris had instructed. “I need to find Jonas Sweets.”

He took the bill, smiling enough to display canines capped into points. Ridiculous. “Haven’t seen him in a few days, but he’ll show up eventually.”

Eventually was too late. She added a second bill. “What time does he usually come in?”

The bartender removed the empty glasses in front of her, snatched up the money, and leaned in. “Midnight. Sometimes sooner. Sometimes later.”

It was nearly 1 a.m. now. “How about his assistant, Nyssa? The mute girl?

“She won’t show without him.” He tapped the bar with damp fingers. “I can give Jonas a message for you, if he turns up. What’s your name?”

She shook her head. No names. No clues. No trail. The bartender shrugged and hustled away. She slumped against the bar and rested her hand over her eyes. At least she could get out of here now. Or maybe she should stay. The Nothos wouldn’t attempt anything in so public a place, would they?

A bitter laugh stalled in her throat. She knew better. The hellhounds could kill her in a single pass, without a noise or a struggle or her even knowing what had happened until the pain lit every nerve in her body or her heart shuddered to a stop. She’d never seen one of the horrible creatures, but she didn’t need to in order to understand what one was capable of.

They could walk among this crowd without detection, hidden by the covenant that protected humans from the othernaturals, the vampires, varcolai, fae, and such that coexisted with them. She would be the only one to see them coming.

The certainty of her death echoed in her marrow. She shoved the thought away and lifted her head, scanning the crowd, inhaling the earthy human aroma in search of the signature reek of brimstone. Were they already here? Had they tracked her this far, this fast? She wouldn’t go back to her aunt’s if they had. Couldn’t risk bringing that danger to her only family. Maris was not the strong young woman she’d once been.

Her gaze skipped from face to face. So many powdered cheeks and blood red lips. Mouths full of false fangs. Cultivated widow’s peaks. All in an attempt to what? Replicate the very beings who would drain the lifeblood from their mortal bodies before they could utter a single word of sycophantic praise? Poor, misguided fools. She felt sorry for them, really. They worshipped their own deaths, lulled into thinking beauty and perfection were just a bite away. She would never think that. Never fall under the spell of those manufactured lies. No matter how long or how short her new life was.

She knew too much.

Malkolm hated Puncture with every undead fiber of his being. If it weren’t for the bloodlust crazing his brain—which kicked the ever-present voices into a frenzy—he’d be home, sipping the single malt he could no longer afford, maybe listening to Fauré or Tchaikovsky while searching his books for a way to empty his head of all thoughts but his own.

Damn Jonas for disappearing without setting up another reliable source. Mal cracked his knuckles, thinking about the beating that idiot was in for when he showed up again. It wasn’t like the local Quik-E-Mart carried pints of fresh, clean, human blood. Unfortunately.

The warm, delicious scent of the very thing he craved hit full force as he pushed through the heavy velvet drapes curtaining the VIP section. In here, his real face, the face of the monster he’d been turned into, made him the very best of their pretenders and got him access to any area of the nightclub he wanted. Ironic, considering how showing his real face anywhere else would probably get him locked up as a mental patient. He shuddered and inhaled without thinking. His body tensed with the seductive aroma of thriving, vibrating life. The voices went mad, pounding against his skull. A multitude of heartbeats filled his ears, pulses around him calling out like siren songs.
Bite me, drink me, swallow me whole.

Damn Sweets.

A petite redhead with a jeweled cross dangling between her breasts stopped dead in front of him. Like an actual vampire could ever tolerate the touch of that sacred symbol. Dumb git. But then how was she to know the origins of creatures she only hoped were real? She appraised him from head to toe, running her tongue over a set of resin fangs. “You’re new here, huh? I love your look. Are those contacts? I haven’t seen any metallic ones like that. Kinda different, but totally hot.”

She reached out to touch the hard ridge of his cheekbone and he snapped back, baring his teeth and growling softly.
Eat her.
She scowled. “Chill, dude.” Pouting, she skulked away, muttering “freak” under her breath.

Fine. Let her think what she wanted. A human’s touch might push him over the edge. No, he reassured himself, it wouldn’t.
Yes.
He wouldn’t let it.
Do.
He wouldn’t get that far gone.
Go.
But in truth, he balanced on the edge.
Fall.
He needed to feed.
To kill.
To shut the voices up.

With that thought he shoved his way to the bar, disgusted things had gotten this dire. He got the bartender’s attention, then pushed some persuasion into his voice. “Hey.” It was one of the few powers that hadn’t blinked out on him yet. Good old family genes.

His head turned in Mal’s direction, eyes slightly glazed. Mal eased off. Humans were so suggestible. “What’ll it be?”

“Give me a Vlad.” Inwardly, he died a little. Metaphorically speaking. The whole idea of doing this here, in full view of a human audience, made him sick. But not as sick as going without. How fortunate that humans wanted to mimic his kind to the full extent.

“A shot?”

“A pint.”

The bartender’s brows lifted. “Looking to get laid, huh? A pint should keep you busy all night. These chicks get seriously damp over that action. Not that anyone’s managed to drink the pint and keep it down.” He hesitated. “You gotta puke, you head for the john, you got me?”

“Not going to happen.”

“Yeah, right.” The bartender opened a small black fridge and took out a plastic bag fat with red liquid.

Mal swallowed the saliva coating his tongue, unable to focus his gaze elsewhere, despite the fact he preferred his sustenance body temperature and not chilled. A few of the voices wept softly. “That’s human, right? And fresh?”

The bartender laughed. “Chickening out?”

“No. Just making sure.”

“Yeah, it’s fresh and it’s human. That’s why it’s $250 a pop.” He squirted the liquid into a pilsner. It oozed down the glass thick and viscous, sending a bittersweet aroma into the air. Even here in the VIP lounge, heads turned. Several women and at least one man radiated hard lust in his direction. The scent of human desire was like dying roses, and right now, Puncture’s VIP lounge smelled like a funeral parlor. He hadn’t anticipated such a rapt audience, but the ache in his gut stuck up a big middle finger to caring what the humans around him thought. At least there weren’t any fringe vamps here tonight. Despite his status as an outcast anathema, the lesser-class vampires only saw him as nobility. He wasn’t in the mood to be sucked up to. Ever.

The bartender slid the glass his way. “There you go. Will that be cash?”

“Start a tab.”

“I don’t think so, buddy.”

Mal refocused his power. “I’ve already paid you.”

The man’s jaw loosened and the tension lines in his forehead disappeared. “You’ve already paid.”

“That’s a good little human,” Mal muttered. He grabbed the pilsner and walked toward an empty stretch of railing for a little privacy. The air behind him heated up. He glanced over his shoulder. A set of twins with blue-black hair, jet lips, and matching leather corsets stood waiting.

“Hi,” they said in unison.

Eat them. Drain them.

“No.” He filled his voice with power, hoping that would be enough.

They stepped forward. Behind them, the bartender watched with obvious interest.

Damn Sweets.

The blood warmed in his grasp, its tang filling his nose, but feeding would have to wait a moment longer. Using charm this time, he spoke. “I am not the one you seek. Pleasure awaits you elsewhere. Leave me now.”

They nodded sleepily and moved away.

The effort exhausted him. He was too weak to use so much power in such a short span of time. He gripped the railing, waiting for the dizziness in his head to abate. He stared into the crowd below. Scanned for Nyssa, but he knew better. She only left Sweets’ side when she had a delivery. The moving bodies blurred until they were an undulating mass, each one undistinguishable from the next until a muted flash of gold stopped his gaze. His entire being froze. Not here. Couldn’t be.

He blinked, then stared harder. The flickering glow remained. It reminded him of a dying firefly. Instinct kicked in. Sparks of need exploded in his gut. His gums ached, causing him to pop his jaw. The small hairs on the back of his neck lifted and the voices went oddly quiet, save an occasional whimper. His world converged down to the soft light emanating from the crowd near the downstairs bar.

He had to find the source, see if it really was what he thought. If it was, he had to get to it before anyone else did. The urge drove him inexplicably forward.

All traces of exhaustion disappeared. The glass in his hand fell to the floor, splattering blood that no longer called to him. He vaulted over the railing and dropped effortlessly to the dance floor below. The crush parted to let him through as he strode toward the gentle beacon.

She stood at the bar, her back to him. The generous fall of sunlight-blonde hair stopped him, but the fabled luminescence brought him back to reality. So beautiful this close. He rubbed at his aching jaw.
You’ll scare her like this, you fool. You’re all fang and hunger. Show some respect.

He assumed his human face, then approached. “Looking for someone?”

She tensed, going statue still. Even with the heavy bass, he felt her heartbeat shoot up a notch. He moved closer and leaned forward to speak without human ears hearing. Bad move. Her scent plunged into him dagger sharp, its honeyed perfume nearly doubling him with hunger pains. The whimpering in his head increased. Catching himself, he staggered for the bar behind her and reached out for support.