House of Comarré Omnibus, page 133
part #0.50 of House of Comarré Series
Abuela’s face disappeared.
Bittersweet liquid coated her tongue. She turned away from the foul taste, but it clung to her. The wetness clogged her mouth and ran down her chin.
“Drink.” The command was hollow and distant, as if spoken through a tube miles away.
Her throat convulsed, but the convulsions didn’t stop there. They echoed through her, lighting an icy spark that fired a hunger unlike anything she’d ever felt. She sucked at the source of the liquid. Blood, her new brain told her. Blood that is now life.
Her body came back to her, weakly at first and hard to control, like a toddler’s. Shaking, her hands reached up for the limb that pressed against her mouth. Her eyes opened.
As crystalline as if cut from glass, Luciano smiled down upon her. It was his wrist she clung to, his blood she swallowed. “That’s it.” He nodded. “Drink.”
She did, trying to ignore the sounds drilling into her head. The tick of the clock on the bedside table, the soft gurgle of water through pipes, the scurry of tiny feet somewhere very far away. She inhaled out of habit and a thousand scents filled her nose. Dust, fabric, cleaning chemicals, cosmetics, water, but above all… blood.
“That’s enough, cara mia.” Luciano pulled his wrist out of her fingers with a small struggle. He nodded. “Already your strength grows.” He licked clean the blood left behind, the twin puncture wounds healing before her eyes.
“I need more.” Need did not begin to describe the craving in her belly.
“I know. Your hunger will be overpowering for a few days.” He patted her leg. “I’ll get you some more right now. Stay in this room, understand?”
“Yes.”
“Bene. I shall return shortly.”
As soon as he left, she jumped off the bed. Literally. The small amount of effort she exerted landed her several feet away. She walked to an overstuffed club chair taking up a corner of the room, reached down, grasped one of its bun feet, and lifted. Single-handed, she brought it above her head.
Amazing.
She dropped the chair and her hands went to her face, feeling for the strange angles of her new nature. The hard ridges rose over her cheekbones and brow. A mirror. She tried the door on the right side of the room. It opened into a large bath.
She flicked the light switch and blinked as the illumination flooded the space. The grains of sand in the tile’s grout lines were visible. How was that even possible? She turned toward the gold-hued mirror.
The monstrous face she’d expected to see stared back at her with the same silvery gaze the rest of the nobles had. She ran her fingers over her skin, studying each new slope and rise. Peered closer at her luminous eyes. Not monstrous. Powerful. Intimidating. Noble.
Human face. But the thought only caused her human face to flicker over her skin. She concentrated and it came back. She leaned in. The fine lines around her eyes and mouth were gone, her forehead smooth. Not a strand of gray showed through the root line where her color was growing out. In fact, there was no root line anymore, just a head full of silky, bouncy brunette hair. And her eyes… her eyes had never been anything special, but their ordinary brown was gone, replaced by a hundred shades of the same color. Her eyes were spectacular.
The moment she stopped concentrating on her human face, it disappeared and her vampire one returned.
Curling her lips back, she turned her head side to side to see the fangs that now jutted from her upper jaw. Also intimidating. She growled at herself, then laughed at her childishness. Her tongue tested the fangs’ sharpness. The jagged tip of one pricked the surface and caused a small drop of blood to well up.
Saliva pooled in her mouth and her stomach clenched. She swallowed and looked back toward the door. If Luciano didn’t return soon, she’d have to head out on her own. She couldn’t go much longer without—
The suite door opened. “Lola? I’ve brought you a decent meal.”
She stepped out of the bathroom and a new emotion swelled alongside her hunger.
Luciano had brought one of Dominic’s comarré with him. The slim young man smiled at her, his eagerness spilling off him like a delicious perfume, but everything about him—his gold marks, his bleached blond hair, his age—reminded her of the last time she’d seen Julia.
“Bloody hell,” Mal snarled. “This isn’t a game.” He was fully aware that his anger came from fear. The fear that he’d hurt Chrysabelle. Or worse. The voices applauded.
Chrysabelle exhaled slowly. “So you acquiescing to my every desire over the past few days was due to some fugue state born out of your joy at still being alive?”
“Life with me is never going to be easy. I told you that.”
She nodded. “Yes, you did.” She hesitated like she was looking for the right words. “I know this isn’t a game. It’s your life. It’s our life. For what we’re about to go up against, you need to be at your most powerful. Drinking my blood out of a plastic cup isn’t going to get you there.”
“I’ve made it through worse with less.” What you deserved.
“But you don’t have to this time.” She grabbed the hand he’d pulled away from her. “Stop fighting me. We’ve done this once already without Mortalis there to protect me. It’s going to be fine.”
He glared at her. “The last time we did this, I had chains the size of tree trunks holding me back. And they were starting to give.”
“But they didn’t.” Mortalis gave Mal a stare that had frustration written all over. “And she’s right. You need to go in strong. The numbers are not on our side this time.”
Mal leaned back, casting his gaze at the twin strips of overhead lighting. Chrysabelle’s fingers caressed the palm of his hand. He closed his fingers over hers. “You’re asking a lot of me.”
“I know,” she said. “But if I’m willing, you should be, too.”
He tipped his head to look at Mortalis. “You’re sure you can do this? Sure you can manage the beast if I can’t?”
Mortalis nodded. “If I can’t, Amery will step in to help, too.”
“Great,” Mal cracked. “Two shadeux inside me. Sounds like a freaking picnic.”
“Mal.” Chrysabelle’s voice went soft and breathy, and she leaned into him, her warm body pressed against his. The small contact was enough to amp up his hunger and spin the voices into an unbearable whine. She blinked, her blue eyes pleading. “Do this for us.”
He dropped his chin, and after a moment stared up at her from his lowered lids. “You and I are going to talk later.”
She canted her head to one side. “About what?”
“About the inappropriate use of feminine wiles.”
She smiled and, damn it, he liked it. “That’s a yes, then?”
He nodded. Doc was right. Love had made him soft. And stupid.
“Do you want me to sit on your lap?”
“No.” The word came out louder and sharper than he’d intended, but her question had driven home just how intimate an act they were about to partake of in front of Mortalis. Mal had never been an exhibitionist, and he wasn’t about to start now. “Just sit where you are. Give me your wrist.”
Her frown morphed into a more understanding look, and she extended her arm. Without another glance at Mortalis, Mal rested his hands beneath her wrist. The flesh there was unadorned, the signum scrolling away from the spot where the veins showed through her pale skin. He closed his eyes as he took her scent into his body. Son of a priest, she undid him, and despite the fae’s presence, Mal let out a soft sigh of pleasure.
Her heat traveled through his fingertips, urging him on. His face shifted and his fangs dropped. Lifting her wrist higher, he pressed his mouth to her skin and bit down.
She inhaled, a half gasp, half laugh that shot straight to his remaining humanity and reminded him what it felt like to be a breathing, daywalking, warm-blooded man who had once known the pleasure of a woman.
The voices drowned that feeling in seconds, their cries and whimpers filling his head until the chaos scratched at his skull. He sucked at the bloodstream harder, wanting this over before the inability to stop overpowered him.
As if called, the beast lifted its head. The names scrambled across his skin like rats, colliding and gnashing their teeth. Still drinking, he focused less on the blood and more on his control, but the voices began to fade and the beast’s raging grew no worse.
Before any of that changed, he released Chrysabelle. He wasn’t quite sated, but the victory of being able to stop was satisfaction enough.
He dropped her arm and pressed back into the seat as the hot-cold power of her blood struck him, shooting jolts of pain through his bones and tightening his muscles. The pain vanished seconds later, leaving him with a euphoric sense of well-being, a beating heart, and the need to breathe.
He let out a long breath. “I can’t believe I just did that.” He straightened, the pounding of his heart exaggerated by the rush of what had just happened. “How was that even possible? Could my curse be broken?”
“I don’t think so.” Chrysabelle cradled her arm to her chest. “More like it’s the ring’s power, protecting me.” She glanced at Mortalis. “As soon as we get back, you’re going to make that meeting happen, right?”
He nodded. “Amery has already agreed to help me.”
Barely listening to anything but the rush of blood in his ears, Mal rolled his shoulders as a fresh charge of power coursed through him, buoyed by the release of no longer being enslaved by the curse. The voices had gone oddly quiet. Not silent so much as hushed. As if they were trying not to be heard.
Slowly, the whispers filtered through the sound of his breathing and his pulse. He stood as comprehension struck him. He grabbed hold of the bulkhead. “I need to go lie down.” Without waiting for a response, he made his way toward the back of the jet.
He shut the bedroom door, locked it, and dropped onto the bed. The voices grew louder. He squeezed his head between his hands, trying to shut them up, but still they raged. The beast joined them and the maelstrom of mental pressure increased tenfold.
The torture seared his brain. He rocked back and forth, still holding his head, wondering if it would split in his hands from the pain.
Chrysabelle might be safe, but the next human to cross his path wouldn’t be. Drinking from her had reignited a fury in the voices unlike anything he’d experienced before. They sank their teeth into him, chewing through his resolve, weakening his control.
The question was not if he’d ever kill again, but when.
Chapter Thirty-Five
Let her go,” Creek snarled as he lunged for his grandmother. Yahla was closer, grabbing Mawmaw up and using her like a shield. Now she hung limp in Yahla’s arms, only the rise and fall of her chest an indicator that his grandmother still lived. And somewhere in the night, Annika was out there, hopefully coming up with a better plan.
“You tried to kill me.” Yahla’s eyes narrowed to slits of bottomless black.
“You used me. Took control of me. I think we’re even.” He took a step forward. “Put my grandmother down and I won’t try to kill you again.”
“You lie.” Yahla slanted her head back and coughed, expelling a raven that flew at Creek.
He grabbed the bird as it dove toward him, wrung its neck, and tossed it off the porch. In his peripheral vision, it disappeared in a cloud of dust before it touched the ground.
In the distance, a dog barked. Creek hoped it was Pip. If Yahla had done anything to that dog, Mawmaw would kill her, then find a way to bring her back from the dead just so she could kill her a second time. Yahla’s feathers flew out around her, lifted by an unseen wind. “You have no respect.”
“You’ve given me no reason to respect you.” A tiny movement near the back of the porch caught his attention. Annika. What was she planning?
Yahla tossed her feather hair. “I am done speaking to you. I only waited until you arrived to take this woman’s soul. To let you see what you had caused.” She squatted, taking Mawmaw to the porch floor; then Yahla opened her mouth in the same unnaturally wide way she had when she’d killed Argent.
With no idea what Annika was up to, Creek couldn’t wait any longer. He leaped forward, grabbing fistfuls of Yahla’s feathers and hurtling them both through the side railing. Splinters flew as wood cracked and they hit the ground.
Squawking with fury, Yahla swiped at him, slicing his cheek and forehead with a handful of talons. Blood trickled into his eye. He pulled her close enough to pin her arms and caught sight of Annika crouched against the lattice that covered the house’s stilts.
“Face her to me and shut your eyes,” Annika yelled over Yahla’s cawing.
Creek rolled onto his side, hugging the squirming Yahla tight. She was half woman, half bird now and pecking furiously at his face and chest. Each time she connected, she took a hunk of flesh. Shutting off the pain as best he could, Creek flipped over, landing hard on Yahla.
The move had the desired effect. She gasped, stunned. He quickly turned her in his arms so she faced Annika.
“Close your eyes,” Annika called again, her fingers hovering near her temple.
He squeezed them shut, forcing more blood into his field of vision, and waited for the struggling woman in his grasp to go to stone.
Annika swore softly and he opened his eyes. Yahla’s beak pierced his forearm. He glared at Annika, her shades firmly in place. “What the hell?”
“She won’t look at me!”
Yahla smashed her head back and broke his nose. “Let go of me,” she squawked.
With a curse, he angled his arms across her body so he could grab a handful of feathers and keep her head still; then he wrapped his legs around hers and immobilized her.
A small figure rose behind the porch’s broken railing. Mawmaw. She hugged the closest four-by-four, using it for support. “Squeeze her tighter, Tommy.”
Creek did as he grandmother asked. Yahla screeched like a banshee, almost drowning the sound of an approaching truck engine.
“Tighter,” Mawmaw said.
Creek squeezed as hard as he could. The woman in his arms gave way to a cawing, scratching flock of ravens. They burst out of his grasp and flew into formation above him like they might dive at any moment.
“Now, basilisk, now.” Mawmaw pointed at the ravens, then threw her arm over her face. “Creek, your eyes.”
He closed them again. A few seconds later, heavy objects began pelting him. Eyes still closed, he got to his feet and ran out of the shower of stone ravens. He collided with someone, knocking them down. He opened his eyes to see his grandmother’s neighbor lying on the ground. “Martin.”
The man picked his hat up and stuck it back on his head. “Thomas.” He looked past Creek. “Looks like one’s getting away.”
Creek turned to see the side yard littered with frozen birds. A solitary raven flew toward them. The whoosh of air beneath its wings beat defeat into Creek’s soul. One bird would be enough to bring Yahla back.
“Pip,” Mawmaw yelled, pointing beyond where Creek and Martin lay.
Creek followed the line of her finger. Pip stood in the back of Martin’s truck, his pink tongue lolling out of his mouth. At Mawmaw’s command, Pip jumped into the air and caught the raven, landing with a thunk and disappearing behind the truck bed walls.
On his feet and running before another command came, Creek raced to the truck. Pip yelped as Creek got there. Blood covered the dog’s nose. He grabbed the raven, which instantly turned on him, striking hard. Creek grabbed Pip’s collar with his free hand and held the dog down behind the truck bed, then lifted the bird and closed his eyes. “Annika!”
“Eyes,” she yelled back. A moment later, the raven in Creek’s hand stopped fluttering.
Yahla was dead.
The plan hadn’t worked. With a spray of sand, Heaven, in jaguar form, had turned in time to keep from tumbling through Fi’s ghost form and out of the ring. Fi couldn’t tell how long the fight had been going on; neither she nor Heaven, still in jaguar form, had landed a blow. As long as Fi stayed in ghost form, Heaven never would either. They circled each other, like they’d been doing continuously. Once in a while, when they were near the center of the ring, Heaven would make a move, but every time she leaped, she passed straight through Fi just like she had the first time. The crowd hated it, but as far as Fi was concerned, they could all get stuffed.
Finally, Fi sat down cross-legged in the sand. What was the point of pretending to fight? Heaven couldn’t touch her.
Across the arena, the jaguar snarled. Fi stuck her tongue out at the animal. “What’s the matter? Rather be shopping?”
With another, weaker snarl, the jaguar sat.
Maybe they’d call it a draw and have to decide this marriage thing another way. Fi almost laughed at how it was turning out. She’d freaked out for nothing. No one was going to get hurt or even—
An ominous clanging rang out, silencing the boos and jeers of the crowd. Both she and the jaguar looked toward the sound.
A voice boomed from the overhead speakers. “Due to the nature of the combatants, only human forms will be allowed. The first combatant to shift out of human form will be declared the loser.”
Fi stood as the jaguar across from her became Heaven once again. “What? That’s not fair.”
Heaven laughed. “What’s not fair is how short this fight is going to be.”
Fi materialized and started backing away. Every move she’d learned from Omur and Barasa tumbled through her head in a mishmash sequence that no longer made sense. Crap. Think, think. She wished Mal were here, fighting for her. With all that time he’d spent in the Pits, he’d know exactly what to do, how to find Heaven’s weaknesses and exploit them.
She tried to think like him. What would his first move be? She knew it wouldn’t be to let Heaven make the first move. Gathering her courage, Fi launched at the other woman. She knocked Heaven into the sand and began whaling on her.
Heaven dodged the first blow, but the second caught her cheek and split her lip. At the taste of blood, Heaven’s eyes went green-gold.
