Abrutal jab of intrusion sucked the breath out of Doc. How the hell? Both witches were dead.
“You okay?” Fi scooted closer to him on the couch.
“No.” Someone was in his head again. Someone powerful. They weren’t making any demands yet, but they were there, filling his mind with their presence. Evie was dead, so it wasn’t her. That must mean Preacher hadn’t really killed Aliza, dammit. He closed his eyes to keep her from seeing more than she already had.
“What’s up?” Creek asked. He clicked off the news they’d been watching.
Doc shook his head, unwilling to say anything to tip Aliza off that he knew.
“Something’s wrong. Is the fever back?” Fi grabbed his arm. “Do you have a headache?”
“You could say that.” He put a finger to his lips, then used that finger to very slowly spell out the word witch in the air. Finished, he pointed to his head. He made scribbling motions, indicating he wanted a pen.
“What’s going on?” Damian asked.
“I’ll explain in a minute,” Fi answered him. She tugged on Doc’s arm. “Let’s get you to the couch.”
He nodded and let her lead him. Footsteps came and went around him, and a moment later, an e-tablet and a stylus were shoved into his hands. Eyes still closed, he jotted a quick note and hoped it was legible. Aliza’s not dead. Using the spell to control me again. Can’t talk. Don’t say anything you don’t want her to know.
“Sounds good,” Fi said.
Doc held out the e-tablet and made a wiping motion. Fi’s hands brushed his and the e-tablet moved under the pressure of her erasing the screen. He placed it on his knees and wrote some more. Put me in a room away from you. Lock me in. See if you can find a way to break this spell. Maybe the KM knows. Or Vel.
Fi’s hand cupped his cheek. “Okay,” she whispered.
He knew she wouldn’t be happy leaving him, but what else could they do?
Her arm wound around his waist. “Let’s go.” Eyes still closed, he tried to follow the path they took, using his memory of the house’s layout, but he wasn’t that familiar with Chrysabelle’s place. They went down some stairs. He hadn’t realized she had a lower level. Basements were impossible in this part of New Florida without some kind of magic because of the water table. Her mother had been Dominic’s lover. Maybe he’d installed the lower level for her? Seven went deeper into the earth than should have been possible, too.
Fi brought him to a stop. “Here.” Her hands found his face again, this time pulling him down and planting a soft kiss on his mouth. “We’re going to work.”
He nodded. Her hands fell away and her footsteps faded. A door shut and a key was turned. He opened his eyes. Perfect. A wine cellar. Besides the racks of old bottles, the room held a small pub table and two tall chairs. He climbed into one, prepared to wait it out.
He didn’t have to wait long. The compulsion to leave grew, the urging in his head like someone poking at him. “No can do, Aliza.”
A dull roar, a very unhappy sound, echoed in his brain.
He smiled, his suspicions confirmed that it was the old witch. His head might hurt, but winding her up was at least entertaining. He pushed the other chair out and kicked his feet up. “I’m not going anywhere, so you might as well get out of my head.”
Get up.
“No.” Was this what it was like for Mal with all those voices screaming in his brain? Man, sucked to be him.
Now. Get up and leave the house.
“Locked in, you dumb biddy.”
More howling. His feet jerked off the chair and hit the floor. His body followed, yanking him upright. He took a few unwilling steps forward, lurching like the monster in the old Frankenstein movies.
He struggled against the urge to head for the door, forcibly sitting back down. Again, she yanked him up, this time getting him halfway across the room before he grabbed hold of a wine rack and looped his arm through one of the brackets. “You just don’t get it, Aliza. Your daughter tried this and look how she ended up. You really want me at your house? What’s the matter—death wishes run in the family?”
That earned him a hard, angry pain in his head. It dropped him to his knees, his bones jarring on the inlaid stone floor. He went to all fours, splaying his fingers on the cool stone. He had to find a way to… What had he just been thinking? Get out. Go to Aliza’s. No, something about finding a way to numb something. Urges. Yeah, that was it. A way to numb the urges taking over his brain.
He lifted his head. The door. Go to the door. Staring, unfocused, he fought to regain his own thoughts. He could see only part of the door through the wine racks.
Wine.
Break the door down. Get free. Now.
Wine. He got one hand around the neck of the closest bottle and tugged it free. A red. Probably a really pricey one that he wouldn’t even appreciate. The glass was as cool as the stone floor. He concentrated on the way it felt, how smooth the glass was, the weight of the bottle, the script on the label, anything and everything to fill his head with thoughts that belonged to him.
Bottle in hand, he grabbed hold of the wine rack and pulled himself to his feet. The door. He stumbled, half dragging himself back to the table, where a small wooden box sat in the center. He hoped what he thought was in there actually was.
He plunked the bottle down and flipped the box open. Success. A corkscrew.
Aliza yowled, realizing what he planned to do. Drop it. His hand opened. The bottle fell, splattering red wine and glass fragments in a jagged circle. His head turned toward the door, thoughts of the bottle disappearing.
Then his gaze latched on to another bottle. A big one. A magnum of champagne. He could work with that if he went fast. With Aliza moving his feet toward the door, he snagged the bottle as he slogged past, popping out a claw to rip through the wire cage securing the cork. Stop. Door. His fingers slipped off the bottle’s neck, almost dropping it. This needed to go faster. And there was only one way he knew how to do that. It wasn’t going to help the mess in his head either.
With a deep breath, he half shifted to bring his leopard teeth out.
Immediately, Aliza’s compulsion spell doubled in strength. He stared at the wire basket in his hand. What had he been doing? Think. Think.
Going to the door, breaking it down, and getting to Aliza’s as fast as you can.
He set the bottle down on the table but kept his hand on it. That didn’t seem like what he really wanted to do. Yes, it is. No, it wasn’t.
The bottle. That was it. While the thought was stuck in his brain, he clamped his teeth down on the cork, then twisted and pulled the bottle away at the same time. It uncorked with enough power to knock out the two teeth he’d dug into the cork. He ignored the pain as blood and champagne filled his mouth. He spit the teeth and blood out, then tipped the bottle back and chugged it.
Near the end of the bottle, the bubbles began muting the yowling enough for him to drain the bottle and grab two more. He had enough control to pop the next cork the old-fashioned way. His jaw throbbed where he’d lost the teeth, but the pain was good. It and the alcohol were helping him maintain his own head. He found a spot on the floor where he could put his back to the wall but still see the door. Shifting fully human, he sat and lifted the bottle to his mouth.
By the time he was halfway through bottle number three, Aliza’s spell was a distant ringing in his ears. He leaned onto the floor, bent his arm beneath his head for a pillow, and closed his eyes to wait out whatever fix Fi could come up with.
Door, Aliza whispered.
Doc just laughed, the sound like tiny bubbles bouncing off the walls.
Chrysabelle handed the bellman a tip as he left. The hotel room hadn’t just been for Mal and a place to ditch the fae. She was desperate for a few moments alone to center herself against the throbbing in her back. Time in the car hadn’t helped, but the stunt she’d pulled at Loudreux’s had really caused the ache to flare up.
“Nice.” Amery ogled the living room of the penthouse suite Chrysabelle had just booked them into at the Westin Hotel at the edge of the French Quarter.
“It should be for what it’s costing her,” Mal answered the fae.
“It’s all right,” Chrysabelle said. Mal was so defensive about her money. Maybe it bothered him that he didn’t have any to spend himself. He’d tried to return the bribe money she’d given him. She’d refused, telling him to hang on to it in case another situation arose. “The security of the top floor is worth the price.”
Mortalis went to the bank of windows, checking them for what she wasn’t sure.
“Crazy, though,” Amery continued. “That a four-thousand-square-foot hotel room has only one bedroom.”
Chrysabelle glanced at Mal, gave him a subtle roll of her eyes, then turned to the fae. “Amery, could you go out and get me something to eat? New Orleans is famous for its food, right?”
His eyes lit up. “Oh yeah, the food here is awesome. Jambalaya, crawfish étouffée, gumbo, grillades and grits, po’boys—”
“Whoa.” She held her hands up. “Whatever you think. It all sounds fine.” She reached into her inside pocket and fished out a few large bills. “Here. Get a lot of food. Comarré have large appetites.”
He took the money. “Do you want—”
“Yes. I want everything.” She smiled to soften her sharp tone, made worse by her back. “I’m not picky as long as it’s good, so don’t skimp.”
“Yes, ma’am.” He started toward the door, then paused, looking back at Mortalis. “Sir?”
“Do as she asked,” Mortalis answered without turning away from the window. His gaze seemed to be focused on something far below.
“Okay.” Amery nodded and left.
With another quick glance at Mal, Chrysabelle went to stand beside Mortalis. Not close enough to be within his personal space—that wasn’t something she was willing to challenge, considering his mood—but close enough to be noticed. “Something down there I should know about?”
He pulled his gaze up to stare out over the river. “No.”
She studied him for a moment. “You want to talk about it?”
“No.”
Pretty much what she’d figured. “Can you use your mirror to return to Paradise City and let the others know we won’t make it back by tonight? I would appreciate it. I’m sure they’re wondering.”
He planted his arm against the glass, flattening the barbs against his skin, still not looking at her. “They’ll be fine. They know how to handle themselves.”
Her try at being gentle was over. Pain had sapped her patience. She let some of her frustration edge her voice. “How can they? They don’t know what’s coming any more than we do. But, hey, if you’re satisfied that they’re going to be all right, then what do I need to worry for?”
“I don’t have a mirror with me.”
Mal settled onto one of the sofas. His brows lifted as if to say what now?
She stepped into Mortalis’s space then, trying to jar him just enough so that he’d take her seriously. “I find it hard to believe you didn’t leave yourself a quick out.”
Finally, he turned. His eyes held a distant thunder that caused the scars on her back to itch. Angry didn’t begin to describe whatever was going on with him. “I’m responsible for you while you’re here. I don’t need more blood on my hands.”
She wanted to ask what blood was already there and where it had come from, but refrained. At the moment, she wasn’t sure she cared. “I won’t move until you get back.”
“I won’t let her,” Mal added.
Mortalis peered at both of them as if calculating the risk. “I don’t believe either of you.”
Chrysabelle held up her wrist, turning it so he could see the veins, fat and ready to be drained. “Mal needs to feed. I need to drain. We’re not going anywhere.” She dropped her hand and walked to the bar. “You can believe what you want, but that’s the truth.” She took down a large goblet from the bar and set it on the coffee table in front of Mal. “I’ll fill that after I take a shower.” She gave Mortalis one quick look. “Do what you want.”
Not a word was spoken as she left. Inside the massive marble bathroom, she shut the door and eased her side against it to listen. The suite was well soundproofed. Only the low rumble of male voices came through, nothing intelligible.
With a sigh, she cranked on the shower’s hot water, stripped out of her clothes, and then bent, wrapping her hair in a towel to keep it dry. She stepped under the pulsating stream, letting it beat against her scars. The heat helped the pain. Reaching back, she turned the temperature up a little more, then braced herself against the marble.
Steam coated the glass door and wall. She shut her eyes and tried to empty her head of the chaos to find a quiet, pain-free place. The deep, concentrated breathing taught to all comarré helped some, but didn’t remove the pain altogether. She tried not to think about what that meant for getting the new signum inlaid.
“Chrysabelle?”
She jolted upright, the movement sending a fresh burst of pain zipping along her spine. “Mal?” She rubbed a little spot in the steamed-up glass. The door was open a crack but he was still on the other side of it.
“Didn’t mean to scare you.”
“You didn’t.”
“Your heartbeat says otherwise.”
She frowned. Lying to a vampire who could hear your pulse was like trying to beat a lie detector. “Just startled me is all.”
The door opened a little farther. “I wanted to let you know Mortalis will be back in an hour.”
So he had gone to deliver her message after all. Good. “Thanks. I’ll be right out.” Or Mal could get in. She had no doubts his big hands on her back could work miracles. Maybe she could blindfold him. Or just grow up and let him see her naked.
“Take your time.” The door shut, leaving her more alone than she’d wanted to be when they’d first gotten here.
Water beaded off the peephole she’d made, trickling down the glass and leaving lines behind. Why had he said take your time? Did he know she was in pain? Maybe she should just tell him. But then she ran the risk of him handling her like glass, something she despised. She turned the water off, got out, and slipped into one of the lush robes the hotel provided, then shook her hair free.
Water ran down the small of her back, the subtle sensation like fingers trailing over her skin. She stared at the door he’d just been on the other side of. His blood ran in her veins. For that reason alone, she should want nothing to do with him. Instead, being near him made her body ache and her heart beat faster, just like the scars marking her skin. Pain and pleasure. Two sides, one coin.
She reached for the doorknob, knowing that she balanced on the thin edge of recklessness. Knowing that Mal was everything necessary to push her over that edge. Not caring that this wasn’t the time or the place.
Holy mother. What was she about to do? She glanced at herself in the mirror, but the steam-covered glass reflected a hazy image.
“Not the time or place,” she whispered. That wasn’t too much to remember, was it? She hoped not, especially when it came time for him to kiss her after he fed. His mouth on hers. A shiver ran through her, a remnant of the memory of the last kiss they’d shared.
Remembering that wasn’t going to help at all.