Bad Blood

The evening breeze brought the subtlest hint of something new and unnamable. His ears twitched forward, his whiskers quivered, and every muscle in his body flexed in anticipation.

The hunt was afoot.

He followed the scent for miles, dashing over broken streets and through abandoned lots, past burned out cars and down littered alleyways, mindful of nothing but the chase. The force of it was almost physical, pushing him forward as if something else drove him.

Halfway down a new street, his human memories kicked in and reminded him he’d been here not long ago. The familiar smell of blood slowed him down. He went a few more blocks, keeping to the darkest parts of the sidewalk. Few people were out at this time, but self-preservation was a strong instinct.

A spire rose against the bleak downtown skyline, outlined by the faint nudge of dawn just as it had been in his night terror.

Fear clawed at him. He should go, get back to Fi. His brain decided otherwise, shifting him into human form to break the desire to run. He hadn’t intended to, but seeing this through might be the only way to ditch the bad dreams. He stalked forward, found a way into the dilapidated church, and crept quietly through the sanctuary. In the mask of shadows, he listened and found what he was looking for. A heartbeat.

Using it as a beacon, he continued through the maze of rooms until he came to the one he’d peeked in on before. The door was open, a single hand-cranked light giving the room a soft glow.

Preacher sat in a rocker, a baby cradled in his arms, silent tears wetting his face. He rocked slowly, singing a lullaby. Or a hymn.

Doc couldn’t take his eyes off the sight. He felt glued to the spot, even though his instincts told him enough was enough.

A breath of wind sighed past Doc, enough to carry his scent. Preacher’s eyes opened. He tensed, nostrils flaring. “Who’s there?” he called out, shielding the child with his arms.

The words broke Doc’s concentration and he backed up, searching for a way out that wouldn’t put him in Preacher’s direct sight line. There was none. He sank into the shadows. He’d have to run for it. A few sounds came from the room Preacher was in—the rocking chair squeaked, the child shifted and yawned, fabric brushed over fabric, metal hissed as it was removed from leather. Preacher was preparing to fight.

“I know there’s a shifter out there,” Preacher said. “If you’re the one who killed Julia, so help me God, I’ll turn your hide into a rug.”

Footsteps approached. Doc darted back out to the sanctuary. Was Julia the comarré Doc had seen here before? The girl who was one of Dominic’s comarré. The same girl he’d been dreaming about. Dammit. Was that who Preacher had had the baby with? Doc ducked behind a pew as Preacher skidded into the open. A knife sank into the wood above him.

“Come out, shifter. Face your end like a man. I’ll kill you fast and painless and you can go to hell where you belong.”

“I don’t know anything about Julia,” Doc answered, trying to buy time. From his spot in a low crouch on the floor, he kept track of Preacher’s position while inching backward under the pews and toward the door. If he could just get outside, he could shift and put enough distance between them to be safe.

“Doesn’t matter. You’ve seen the child. You have to die.”

“I don’t care about the kid.” Although he knew a lot of people would. A half-vampire child, especially one whose vampire father could daywalk—the black market potential for the child’s blood alone was astronomical. An urge rose up in him to see the child again.

Preacher edged down one side. “Your words mean nothing.”

Doc pushed out from underneath the pews and crawled to the main aisle, opposite where Preacher stood. The double doors he’d come in were closed. A car drove by, lights shining through what remained of one stained-glass window. It was about the only one that wasn’t boarded up. Hopefully he could shift and jump through it before Preacher recognized him. Doc didn’t need him showing up at the freighter with his threats and crazy talk.

Doc took a deep breath and leaped, shifting in midair as he had on the freighter. He ducked his broad head to protect his soft nose. Glass shattered, most of it glancing off his sleek furred body. A sharp stinging in his flank made him yowl. He hit the sidewalk and his rear leg went out from under him. Preacher’s blade had found its target.

He twisted to yank the dagger out with his teeth, then, limping, set off as fast as he could. If the coming dawn was enough to keep the trail of blood he was leaving from attracting fringe vampires, he just might make it home.

Chapter Eight

Mal paced outside of the signumist’s apartments while Chrysabelle made her final arrangements and said good-bye. The hall disappeared in a haze of anger and screaming voices until all that remained were two jagged white lines. His hands fisted, his body tensed like piano wire.

Those scars on her back were his fault. Yes. His. Not Creek’s. No. She’d gone to the Aurelian to get an answer for him, not the Kubai Mata. You almost got her killed. Monster. Rage boiled up in Mal. For once the voices were right. Barely quelling a howl, he punched the wall. Concrete crumbled, lines cracking out from the impact. He pulled his fist away, mindless to the pain, mindless to the crunch of broken bones as he flexed his fingers. The voices laughed. Mindless to everything except the hard, ridged flesh streaking alongside Chrysabelle’s spine.

Because of his arrogance, she’d paid. His blood may have saved her life, but it had done nothing to preserve the perfection of her body, nothing to save her from all that pain. He punched the wall a second time, leaving blood on the concrete.