Bad Blood

“It better be, if you didn’t stay to help.”

“Mal.” Chrysabelle put her hand on his, her touch drawing every bit of his attention. “Mortalis’s priorities lie here with us. Creek can take care of things, especially with Damian. He’s had the same training I have. He knows how to handle himself.” She grabbed her glass of sweet tea, downed the rest of it, and stood. “Let’s go. I’m ready as soon as I grab my coat and sacres. Mortalis, you’re driving. Amery stays here. No argument. This is my neck on the line. We’re playing it my way.”

Mal wanted to smile but didn’t. When Chrysabelle got forceful with someone else besides him, it was rather entertaining to watch. Mortalis hesitated, maybe thinking about arguing. Whatever he decided, it wasn’t that. “Fine.”

Twenty minutes later, they were parked half a block away from the home of the current guardian, again in the Garden District, but this house wasn’t quite so grand. Very nice, but not the in-your-face grandness of Loudreux’s. A light rain had begun to fall, graying out the last of the sun’s afternoon rays.

“Mortalis, Mal and I are doing this alone,” Chrysabelle said, her hand on the door handle. “I think you going in might only complicate things more.”

Surprisingly, Mortalis nodded from the driver’s seat. “I don’t like it, but I agree. Especially if you kill him.”

She sighed loudly. “No one’s killing anyone. Not me, not Mal, so stop saying that.”

“Chrysabelle, you don’t—”

“Enough, Mortalis. I don’t want to hear it. Mal, let’s go.” She jumped out of the car.

“Right behind you.” Mal joined her on the sidewalk.

Together they went through the gate and walked up to the front door. “As planned,” she whispered.

“As planned,” he answered.

She rang the bell. Seconds ticked by, then they heard footsteps. The door opened and a smokesinger fae, this one with horns as black as soot, greeted them. He gave Chrysabelle a quick once-over, but his gaze lingered on Mal, his eyes narrowing. “What the hell are you doing on my porch?”

Chrysabelle stepped into his line of sight. “You’re Sklar? The city’s guardian?”

“Yes. Who are you?”

She smiled in the same charming, blinding way Mal had only seen once before. “We need your help.”

The smile had zero effect. “You need to get off my porch.” He still stared at Mal. “If you think I don’t know what you are, you’re wrong. Coming to my house was not a smart move—”

“The way I see it,” Mal began, “is that I paid to be here, so here I am.” He pulled a small amount of power into his voice, holding the eye contact. “Since you agree with me, you’re going to invite me in.”

Sklar blinked and shook his head. “What are you—”

Mal pulled more power. “Invite us in.”

Only a brief hesitation this time. Sklar backed away from the door, opening it wider as he did. “Please, come in.”

Chrysabelle squeezed Mal’s hand, then went inside. Mal followed quickly. “Shut the door, Sklar.”

The fae did as he was told.

“Is there anyone else home?” Chrysabelle asked.

“No,” Sklar answered. “Who are you again?”

“We’re friends,” Mal told him, keeping his power of persuasion smooth and even. With a fae like this, a slight hitch could mean losing him. From what Mortalis had said about smokesingers, an angry one was not something either of them wanted to contend with. “Let’s sit down and discuss this.”

“Yes, let’s.” Sklar led the way into a sitting room. He pointed to a massive sofa in front of an equally massive fireplace. “Make yourselves comfortable.”

Mal sat as Sklar did, making sure they were across from each other and he was able to make eye contact.

Chrysabelle stayed at the entrance to the room as they’d discussed. In case anything went wrong, she’d be able to get out in time. Hopefully.

“Where would you live if not in New Orleans, Sklar?” Knowing and using the fae’s name made the persuasion more personal and a little easier for Mal to control. Focusing like this also meant the voices took a backseat.

The fae’s lavender eyes went dreamy. “Brazil. The beaches, the music, Carnivale… Mardi Gras is close, but not the same.”

Mal wished he could look at Chrysabelle and see if she was as surprised as he was. But it made sense. Rio de Janeiro had been a fae haven since the Redeemer statue had been erected, making it virtually impossible for vampires to inhabit the city under its holy watch. “You want to move to Brazil. You want to retire from the very stressful life of guardian of New Orleans and spend the rest of your days on the white, sandy beaches of Brazil, soaking in the sun, listening to the samba beats, dancing in the Carnivale. This is your dream and you’ve decided to make it happen.”

Sklar nodded. “Yes, it is my dream.”

“New Orleans is dirty and crime-ridden and has no beach. You don’t like the music here and Mardi Gras is mobbed with tourists. Besides, Brazil has no vampires.”

“Not a single bloodsucking undead.” Sklar was a million miles away in Rio by now.

Mal ignored the comment, unwilling to lose his concentration for something so petty. “Ten minutes after we leave, you’re going to the elektos to resign. You have no memories of us being here. You’ve been alone all day, thinking about this decision. Nothing will dissuade you.”