Blood Rights

‘Not fake exactly, but not real either. They’re a sort of fringe, like the masters they serve.’ He inhaled and the movement of air lifted a shiver from her. ‘They don’t have your perfume, your glow … your … ’ He swallowed, a purely reflexive action. ‘They’re nothing like you.’

She should pull out of his embrace. ‘I don’t like it.’

‘I don’t either, but this is not our world.’ He made no move to release her. ‘You’re not going to hurt anyone, are you?’

Our world. How staggering three letters could be. ‘Not at the moment, no.’

‘Then I’m going to let you go, but you’ve got to stay close to me. I doubt they’ve seen a genuine comarré before.’ Still, he held her tight. ‘If they think I’m your patron, they’ll leave you alone.’

‘You are my patron.’ Where they touched, his body had warmed to the same temperature as hers. She wondered if the heat was a boon or a bother.

‘You know what I mean.’ He sighed, ruffling her hair with the exhale. ‘One of these vamps thinks you’re available and we’re all going to be breathing ashes.’

‘Understood.’

With a reluctant slowness, his hands loosened and his arm returned to her waist. ‘Let’s find Dominic.’

The main room had seven arched doorways, each labeled with one of the seven deadly sins. Vanity had glistening gold-mirrored curtains covering the entrance, Envy had gilded chain mail, Sloth had nothing. Wrath’s doors were riveted steel and guarded by an armed shadeux fae, which was kind of like igniting both ends of a stick of dynamite – completely unnecessary and bound to result in someone getting hurt.

Mal directed them toward Lust. Beyond the heavy suede curtain, a red glass bar curved against the far wall. Vampires lay on embroidered chaises while the fake comarré flitted around them. Chrysabelle’s gut soured at the sight.

As she and Mal approached the bar, a woman came toward them, every inch of visible skin hennaed in delicate fae runes. Her sheer silks were trimmed in gold like a storybook genie’s, but her pointed ears and overlarge eyes gave away her true lineage.

Haerbinger fae.

Chrysabelle’s gut went from sour to ice-cold. The fae extended her hands palms up, the chains connecting the rings on her middle fingers to her wrist bracelets swaying. Why wasn’t she wearing gloves?

‘Surely this must be a special occasion for the noble Malkolm to grace us. Or have you decided to return to the Pits?’

‘Satima.’ Mal gave the fae a curt nod. His hold on Chrysabelle tightened. What were the Pits? He’d flinched just the tiniest bit at that question. ‘Where’s Dominic?’

Satima laughed, a lovely tinkling sound offset by the sharp teeth glistening behind her wine-stained lips. ‘Still the same charmer, I see.’ She turned her voluminous chocolate eyes on Chrysabelle and leaned in. ‘Hello there, pretty one. I don’t think I’ve met you before.’

Without thinking, Chrysabelle took a step behind Mal and grabbed hold of his leather coat. Haerbinger fae drank blood. Something he obviously knew too, as he moved to shield her further.

‘Satima.’ Mal’s warning echoed like distant thunder, rippling through Chrysabelle where she clung to him.

‘Now, now,’ Satima said. ‘There’s nothing wrong with a little sharing among old friends.’

Mal’s body completely blocked Chrysabelle’s view of the haerbinger. She leaned closer, putting her head down. His hands fisted. ‘I don’t share, and we’ve never been friends.’

Chrysabelle twisted against him, putting them back to back for better defensive position. Instantly, his body tensed like he’d been shocked. One hand reached back and pushed her away enough to separate them.

‘Hmph,’ she snorted. He hadn’t had a problem with touching her earlier. Beneath her shirt, she adjusted the sacre’s strap where it dug into her should— She stopped, realizing she’d rested the blade against him. Had he actually felt its heat through the leather sheath and the fabric of their clothes? Was that possible? But then she’d never known a vampire who could charm varcolai. Mal was one surprise after another.

Satima laughed again. ‘You’re wise to hide your pet in here. Come out, pretty one. I won’t bite unless asked. Or your patron gives his blessing.’

Chrysabelle stayed where she was.

‘Which I won’t,’ Mal assured her. ‘Now get Dominic before I start looking for him myself.’

‘Dominic’s not here,’ Satima said.

‘He’s here,’ Mal countered. ‘Get him. Now.’

Chrysabelle’s fists itched to teach the haerbinger a lesson about what a real comarré could do. Unfortunately, hitting the fae wouldn’t dissipate the attention they were already attracting. She snuck a glance around Mal. Satima sauntered away. That didn’t keep heads from turning to watch them or conversations from quieting in an attempt to hear what was going on. A few of the fringe vamps eyed her with more than curiosity.

Especially the one stalking toward her.

She tugged at Mal’s coat. ‘We have more company.’ Large company, with fangs showing, flames shaved into his close-cropped hair, and tiny gold hoops glinting at each earlobe.

The fringe vamp stopped in front of her, appraising her like she imagined one might a racehorse. Or a steak dinner. He held out his hand. ‘Come with me.’