Blood Rights

A hand jiggled Chrysabelle’s shoulder. Then a voice spoke from somewhere very close to her. ‘Time to wake up. We’re almost there.’

Mal’s voice. The sudden rush of everything he’d told her swept over her. She wanted to comfort him, tell him everything would be okay, but none of that would help. She didn’t know everything would be okay. Doubted it, actually.

She rubbed her eyes as she sat up, only to realize she’d been leaning against him. Sleeping on him. No wonder she’d dreamed of him. Of what he’d been like before he’d been turned. Of what it would have been like to … Her face began to heat. She’d not had those kinds of dreams about Algernon, that much was for sure.

‘I’m up.’ She stood under the pretense of stretching. Desperately, her mind searched for something else to think about other than the horrors Mal had endured. ‘How much longer before we get there?’

Dominic sat across from them. If he had an opinion about her snuggling up with Mal, his face didn’t show it. ‘Forty, forty-five minutes. You need to strap in.’

She shook her head and reached into the overhead for her bag and the two shopping bags of stuff Fi had purchased. ‘I’ve got to change first.’ She trekked to the bathroom, thankful for the excuse to put some space between her and Mal. After the tenderness of his last kiss, she’d been shocked. Now he’d confessed his past to her, then let her sleep on his shoulder. She was downright worried.

Locking the door turned the bathroom light on automatically. Quite a bit different from the commercial jet she’d flown to get to the Americas in the first place, the bathroom on Dominic’s plane bordered on luxurious. The shower alone could have held three or four people. She set her bags on the polished glass countertop. The gold-backed mirror ran the length of the wall, reflecting her bedraggled image.

She frowned. Her clothes were beyond ruined. Dirty, stained, speckled with blood. Even a few small tears. Completely unbecoming for a comarré. Madame Rennata might not even see her if she showed up looking like this. Chrysabelle stripped down to her underwear and used a damp washcloth to clean up as best she could. What a relief to have fresh clothes waiting for her.

Time to see what Fi had gotten her, then she’d peel on her body armor and get dressed. She plunged her hands into the first shopping bag, reached beneath the tissue paper, and pulled out—

Sweet heaven. She closed her eyes and sent up a silent prayer. Forgive me, holy mother, but I think I’m going to kill a mortal.

Black leather pants with some kind of corset-style lacing on the back. Or the front, she couldn’t tell which. A matching leather vest and a long black leather duster lined with burgundy fabric. A tank top with a deeply scooped neckline. At least that was white, except for the flowered skull embroidered on the front. Three more tanks just like it in red, gray, and black – each with its own hideous embellishments. The urge to weep welled up like a hot bubble in Chrysabelle’s chest. The tanks would barely cover her cami bra.

The second bag held a large shoe box. She pulled it out and tossed the lid away. Short, lug-soled black leather boots that zipped up the side. What were they called? Combat boots? Shaking slightly, she set the box on the counter next to the other unacceptable items.

Disappointment weighed her down. The purchases were obviously Fi’s idea of cool, and for that, Chrysabelle did her best not to be angry. But these wouldn’t do. She just … couldn’t wear these things. The clothes reminded her of those worn by the pretenders at Puncture.

She took a few calming breaths. In through the nose, out through the mouth. Then she called through the cracked door, ‘Fi! Could you come here, please?’

Half a knock and Chrysabelle opened the door and pulled Fi into the bathroom.

‘Hey, what’s up?’ Fi smiled at the clothes laid out on the counter. ‘Hot threads, huh?’

‘About those.’ How to put this. ‘I’m not comfortable wearing such hot threads.’

‘Why not? You’ll look great in them. It’s what all the sexy vampire slayers are wearing.’ Fi scratched her arm, then her eyes went wide as if she suddenly realized Chrysabelle had on nothing but underwear. ‘Wow, you really are covered with those gold tattoos, aren’t you?’ She reached out toward the butterfly hovering near Chrysabelle’s navel.

Chrysabelle backed up. ‘Too sexy is part of it. It’s also that comarré are only supposed to wear white. Just like I put on the list with my sizes, remember?’

With a little grin, Fi shook her head. ‘I hate to tell you this, but all that long-sleeved, loose, and flowy white stuff makes you look like a Palm Beach grandma on her way to yoga.’

Chrysabelle clutched the back of her neck and massaged the knotting muscles. ‘Fi, it’s what I’m used to. What I feel comfortable in. I know it must be hard to understand, but—’

‘Plus those clothes you wear are no good for fighting. A blade could slice right through that thin fabric.’

‘I’ve never trained in anything else. And I need those clothes to cover the body armor I’ll be wearing.’ By not covering it, she’d be breaking yet another rule.

‘Leather makes great body armor. Plus white gets dirty fast. Shows the blood.’ Fi frowned, her mouth bunched to one side. ‘I’m sorry you don’t like them, but trust me, you’re going to look great. Very intimidating.’

‘I believe you. But I have to have something else.’ She calmed herself, though still the edge didn’t entirely leave her voice. ‘It’s very possible that my house, the Primoris Domus, could disavow me for breaking a law I have sworn to uphold.’