Flesh and Blood

Each minute that ticked by filled Mal’s head with another reason why he shouldn’t be here, in a place he’d vowed never to re-enter, about to fight for a woman who was only out for herself. Then he reminded himself that if Katsumi really could get Dominic to help him remove the curse he was under, life could be … bearable again. The voices howled at that thought. He pushed them down. No matter what happened, he would not let the beast out. Yes, you will. He already had a reputation. He didn’t need every fringe vamp out to make a name for himself knocking at his door looking to take on the big, bad anathema.

Son of a priest. What was he doing here?

Fighting. He could do that. Had been doing it all his life.

He paced from one side of the small anteroom to the other, every muscle in his body aching to coil and strike, every bone remembering the damage he’d earned in this place. The pain. The humiliation. Loser.

He would use those memories. Let them fester until the rage exploded out of him with an unstoppable force. Kill, kill, kill. No, he wouldn’t kill. No matter how hard the voices pushed. He wouldn’t give Katsumi the satisfaction. A kill paid more, but he didn’t care about that. All he needed was for his opponent to concede. A fair win. That was enough. Never.

Who would Katsumi put up against him? He had a good idea it would be Ronan, the fringe vamp who was Seven’s head of security and the one combatant Mal had never beaten, thanks to the weakness produced by inadequate blood supply. Ronan would jump at the chance to fight Mal again, that was certain.

Ronan would be cocky, ready to trounce Mal like he had so many times in the past. Ronan would want to punish Mal for the blade Chrysabelle had sunk into Ronan’s shoulder. Nothing worse than being humiliated by a comarré. Not in Ronan’s world anyway. But then, all he knew of comarré were the weak imitations Dominic managed to produce.

What would Chrysabelle think if she knew Mal was about to step into the Pits? Not that he cared what she thought. Not that she cared what he did. She still hadn’t tried to contact him. Probably wouldn’t either. Now that she was free, why should she? She’d gotten what she wanted. He was anathema. Beneath her.

Wouldn’t she have a fit if she knew he’d finally drunk the blood she’d sent over? Not all of it, just two containers’ worth. He hadn’t seen a way around it. If he fought while weak and lost, what would be the point of fighting? And if he won after drinking her blood and Dominic was able to get the voices out of his head, he’d let Chrysabelle off the hook for helping him, since technically she would have helped already by giving him the strength to win.

Except, if she found out, she would want him to kiss her again. The voices howled. But they had nothing to worry about, because that was not happening. Just like he was not thinking about the softness of her mouth or the sweetness of her—

A sharp rapping on the door interrupted his thoughts.

He leaned against the wall and tucked his hands into the pockets of his leather pants and did his best I’m-so-confident-I-almost-forgot-I-was-here look. ‘Come.’

The soft beeps of buttons being pushed on a keypad echoed through the steel door, then the lock snicked open. Katsumi entered and shut the door behind her. Her hair was wound in an elaborate knot and secured with tasseled picks that coordinated with the red and black silks she wore. She looked like she’d already won. ‘Are you ready, Malkolm-san?’

‘Don’t I look ready?’ Ready to lose.

Her nostrils flared. Could she smell Chrysabelle’s blood on him? He doubted fringe could pick up on things like that. ‘You look like a man about to change his past.’

‘I’m not here to change my past. I’m here to change my future.’ He peeled off the wall. ‘Let’s go.’

‘Not so fast.’ She reached into her long embroidered coat and extracted a bag of blood. ‘A little something to help you.’ She tossed it onto the small table beside him. ‘From Dominic’s best comarré.’

The voices spun into a frenzy. Drink, drink, drink. He didn’t need the blood after drinking Chrysabelle’s, but refusing would make Katsumi suspicious. He grunted in derision. ‘Dominic’s comarrés are as real as you are noble.’

The reminder of her fringe status earned him a brief flicker of anger. ‘Their blood is still better than the average human’s.’

‘I wouldn’t know.’

‘Which is exactly why you need to drink it. Or have you reconciled with the daughter of Dominic’s former whore?’

He stopped suppressing his anger. His face shifted into the hard angles and sharp lines only nobility could achieve. His fangs extended. ‘Use that term for either of those women again and I’ll kill you faster than the sun rises on South Beach.’

Katsumi smiled. ‘So, you do still care.’

‘Leave. I’ll be out when I’m done.’

Her brows rose. ‘Drink the blood now.’

‘You like to watch. Is that it?’ He stepped toward her and went for a more menacing tone. ‘I’m not here for your entertainment, ane-san.’ He laced sarcasm into the Yakuza term of respect for little sister to remind her how far she’d fallen. ‘Get out.’

She crossed her arms. ‘No. I won’t have you go in there weak. I have a lot of money on this fight. Drink it or you can forget I ever offered to help you.’

He snatched up the bag, sank his fangs into the plastic, and drank. More, more, more. The blood was almost sour, like the barely remembered taste of citrus, so different from the complex, drugging sweetness of what ran in Chrysabelle’s veins. Or maybe it had just been so long since he’d had human blood that he’d forgotten the taste. Either way, he couldn’t understand how Dominic made any money off his fake comarré if this was the best of what they produced.