Blood Rights

His thin mouth angled at one side, then smoothed out. He returned his attention to Mal and gestured him closer, holding a hand up to the twins to keep them back. Chrysabelle stayed with Mal. The fae kept his voice low. ‘Your comarré is armed.’

‘So are you,’ Chrysabelle whispered back through gritted teeth.

Mal grabbed her arm without taking his eyes off the fae. His fingers pressed the sheath of her wrist blade into her skin. ‘Name your price.’

Chrysabelle tugged her arm away, giving Mal her most evil glare. Unfortunately, he wasn’t looking at her.

The fae stared at her then shook his head. ‘Your comarré is poorly behaved.’

‘Thanks for the bulletin. You going to let us pass or not?’

‘For one of her varcolai bone blades, yes.’

Now Mal’s attention was on her. His eyes held a million things – surprise, distrust, anger. ‘Give him one.’

‘No.’ She was already woefully under-armed.

The fae crossed his arms. Barbs protruded along the lengths of his forearms. ‘Then no access.’

Chrysabelle advanced until the barbs were a breath away, then lowered her voice and pinned his gaze with hers, hoping the thumping music would keep her words from being overheard. ‘Let us in to see Dominic or you’ll have more access to my blades than you want, understood?’

The fae just stared. Chrysabelle’s body tensed, a thousand different fight scenarios cycling through her brain. He dipped his chin. ‘Foolish or brave, I do not know.’ He reached behind him and opened the door. ‘Go.’

She pushed through, keeping watch on the shadeux until Mal blocked her view. The twins did not follow. The downward sloping passage was narrow and hot and lit with red phosphorescent coating on the walls and ceiling, bringing to mind the entrance to hell.

Mal grabbed her shoulder, turning her. ‘What did you say to Mortalis?’

‘I threatened him. Why, is he an old friend of yours?’

His hand left her shoulder. If her mocking tone bothered him, he didn’t show it. ‘Do you know what a shadeux fae is capable of?’

How stupid did he think she was? Anyone remotely other-natural knew what a shadeux fae could do. ‘You mean the way they can latch onto your soul and suck it out of you, or the way they can slip inside a soulless creature and kill it before it even knows they’re there?’

He grunted. ‘Are you really carrying varcolai bone blades?’

‘Yes.’

‘Why varcolai?’

‘Remember how it burned when I sank one into your shoulder?’

He frowned. ‘Yes.’

That should be enough explanation. ‘Doc doesn’t need to know, understand?’ Her victory with the shadeux spurred new confidence. She turned to go. ‘We’re wasting time. Which way?’

He grabbed her again, this time pulling her to him. ‘Don’t ever do anything so foolish again.’

She laughed softly, but inside her nerves tingled hot and wary. ‘Your concern is touching, but I don’t need protecting. I don’t know what your experience with women has been, but when it comes to me, don’t apply it. I’m not like any woman you’ve ever known.’ She struggled to break the bonds of his hands. ‘Do you think we could get on with it? My aunt’s life is at stake.’

His grip tightened, and he brought his face within inches of hers. ‘So is yours.’ The red phosphorescence gave him a devilish glow. It suited him. Made her body ache to be bitten.

She shook her head, searching for something, anything, to diffuse the prickly heat of being so close to him. ‘If this is what you think passes for romance, no wonder you don’t have a woman.’

‘Romance? Why the hell would I romance you?’ He barked out a short, humorless laugh. ‘And getting a woman isn’t the problem. It’s keeping them alive.’

Chapter Twenty-two

Glad Chrysabelle didn’t respond, Mal strode past her, trying to deny the odd feeling of uncertainty building in his gut. Other than himself, he had never known anyone to face down Mortalis and live. Did he really want this woman at his back? No. The voices whined like hungry children.

He looked over his shoulder. She chewed her bottom lip. Not exactly the picture of a fear-inducing warrior. He cocked his head. ‘This way.’

How many times had he walked this passage, knowing what lay ahead meant pain and humiliation? Not enough. How many times had he done it to survive? How many times had he done it, half-hoping he wouldn’t?

Taking Chrysabelle’s blood meant never facing that kind of sacrifice again, but her blood came with too many strings. Too many! Too many! Drain her now. Of all the bloodsucking beings under the covenant, he was the last one who should be responsible for a human life. The voices roared their approval.

The passage widened. The jeers and cheers of a distant crowd threaded his memories as his steps took him closer to the Pits. He’d always dreaded this walk, but this time the dread clawed into him, shredding his resolve. He shook his head; the sounds of the crowds remained. Hell. The sounds weren’t just memories. The Pits were in use, and in a few yards he’d have to decide which way to take Chrysabelle – through them or through the holding cells. The crowds would probably ignore her if he kept her close and they didn’t look too hard, but she’d see into the Pits, see the match raging below, the beings within desperate to maim or kill in order to claim victory and the purse attached to it. Taking her through the holding cells would mean walking her past the combatants awaiting their turns. They would not ignore her. And she would know he’d once been behind those bars. Animal.