Bad Blood

“I’m completely recovered.”

“Then why are you still in pain?” Because of your presence.

“No drama, remember?”

It infuriated him that she’d yet to make eye contact. In his mind, that confirmed that she knew she was wrong. “Don’t confuse my concern for you with drama. Ever.” Still she stayed turned away from him.

“Jerem,” he called out. “Take us to Mephisto Island.”

She laughed softly, finally turning his way. “My driver knows better than to listen to anyone but me.” The laughter died away. “I can’t afford to wait any longer to get the signum put back in. It will take me long enough to recover from that as it is.”

He slid closer. “What’s the rush? You have plenty of time.”

“The ring is back on the mortal plane. Detectable. That means I’m a target again.”

“She’s right about that,” Mortalis said.

Chrysabelle continued. “Plus, we have proof the Castus has been here in Paradise City. He attacked Creek, for crying out loud. What’s to stop him from showing up at my house? Or Tatiana? Or both of them?” She sighed and shook her head. “I don’t have time. Not until this is done.”

“At least take a day to recover from this trip. I know it wore on you.” Or you did.

“I’m fine.” She looked away again. “I’d rather have you with me than not, Mal. Please don’t make this any more difficult than it already is.”

He slid back, the weighted feeling of defeat pressing him into the sedan’s soft leather seats. You should be used to it. Raging at her would do no good, except to reinforce her stubborn desire to have her own way. He put his knuckles to his mouth and stared out the window. How could he love a woman this mad? Because you’re mad, too. Because he did love her. He knew that. She was a drug in his veins, not just because of her blood but her very being. Having her near stroked the tiny threads of humanity in him at the same time that her closeness aroused the dreaded blackness taking the place of his soul.

He was lost to her, brain, body, and beast.

And now, because of her hardheadedness, she might be lost to him. He turned, mesmerized for a moment by the shimmering glow that always surrounded her. He couldn’t imagine his life without that light. “Has a comarré ever died from getting signum?”

She snorted softly, facing him. “Asking those kinds of questions isn’t going to make me—”

“I’m not trying to make you do anything. I’m past that. I’m just trying to prepare myself for every possibility.”

The mirth left her face. “It’s happened. Not common, but it’s happened.”

Not the answer he’d wanted. Not at all. “Those comarré who didn’t make it, were they in perfect health to begin with?”

Tension settled into fine lines around her eyes. “All comarré who receive signum are in perfect health.”

Except you. But he didn’t have to say it, because it hung in the air between them like smoke.

Mortalis shifted and Mal realized that for the first time, the fae seemed uncomfortable with the conversation. Mal couldn’t recall Mortalis ever looking so miserable.

Mal shrugged. “So what do you think your chances are, then? Seventy-five percent? Fifty?”

“Stop it,” she whispered, her voice quieted by the rasp of anger. “I know what you’re doing and it’s not going to work.”

He went back to staring out his window. He’d said enough. She had plenty to think about until they got to Seven. But when they finally arrived, her mind-set seemed no different.

Mortalis sprang from the car before Jerem could open the door. Chrysabelle followed him, but Mal got out on his side.

Without further words, Mortalis led them into the club and down into the labyrinth beneath it. Minutes slipped away and with each one, Mal wondered how many more Chrysabelle had. What if she really did die getting the signum? It pained him to think of his miserable existence without her in it. He bent his head for a moment, wishing he could pray, wishing he could stop her, but the chances of either one happening without one of them getting hurt was nil.

Mortalis stopped in front of Atticus’s door and drew the runes to open it. When it did, he stepped aside. “If you want me to stay for any reason, I will. Otherwise, I’m going to your house to check on things, then home to Nyssa.”

“Sounds good,” Chrysabelle said. “I’ll be fine.” She shot Mal a pointed look with the last word.

“Very well. We’ll talk again soon, I’m sure.” He nodded at Mal and went back the way they’d come.

Chrysabelle started to enter the corridor to Atticus’s apartment, but Mal put his hand on her arm. “Wait.” He tapped his ear as if listening for something.

“What?” she asked, but he shook his head and put a finger to his lips. She furrowed her brow and looked down both sides of the long hall, then shrugged.

When the sound of Mortalis’s footsteps had disappeared, Mal drew her to him, his hands on her arms. “I know I can’t keep you from this path and I’m done trying, but if anything were to happen to you…” He paused, knowing what he wanted to say but not knowing how to say it. “I can’t lose you.”

“You won’t.” She half smiled as if to appease him. He knew she didn’t get what he was trying to say.

“Chrysabelle, I… that is…” Son of a priest, he could kill a man without blinking, but finding the words to speak to her was somehow harder? Pitiful. “You don’t understand. What I’m trying to say is—”