Chrysabelle walked through the suite with no real direction or purpose other than putting some distance between Mal and herself so she could think. Breathe. Make sense of what had just happened.
He could have bitten her. She’d almost begged him to. What was wrong with her? Did she have a death wish? It’s not like he could have stopped himself. No, not a death wish. Something darker. She wanted his mark on her. With a shudder, she slumped down onto the bench of the piano occupying the suite’s grand foyer. Her fingers trailed over the keys. The way Mal’s fingers had trailed over her.
No, not like that at all. His hands had moved with purpose and the most delicious pressure and she was falling into a hole there was no getting out of.
She rested her head on the piano’s top then her arms on the keys, the discordant sound echoing in the marble-lined room.
“I don’t recognize that tune.”
She jumped at Mal’s voice, not from surprise, but from the way it shot heat through her already sweltering body.
“That’s the second time I’ve startled you.” He dipped his head. “I apologize. I know how you dislike that.” He walked toward her.
She stood, pushing the bench back. “Amery should be here soon.”
The announcement didn’t stop him from moving in her direction. “He won’t be able to get in. I had the front desk change the key code.” His eyes went silver. “I didn’t want us to be disturbed. I know you like your privacy when it comes to matters of blood.” His gaze seemed fixed on her mouth.
Only the bench was between them now. “Yes, I do.” She retreated, hitting the keys again. The softly discordant notes mirrored her chaotic thoughts. “You’re going to kiss me now, aren’t you?”
He reached down and shoved the bench out of the way. It screeched across the floor. “Yes.”
And then she was in his arms, his body warm with the power of her blood and hard with years of muscle. His mouth descended toward hers, but their last exchange had unleashed something in her that would not be tempered. She met him halfway, taking what he offered, then coaxing him to give more.
He responded as she’d suspected he would. With enthusiasm. His arms went around her, one hand cupping her backside, lifting her and setting her down on the piano. A new dissonance erupted from the keys, but it sounded like a ballad to her ears.
He breathed with her, his body as close to mortal as it could be in those few minutes when her blood restored him. She could hear his heart thudding, feel it against her chest. Her hands found their way to his shoulders, the column of his neck, into his hair. She wanted to touch him the way her comarré life had never allowed her to touch a man.
But more than that, she wanted this. Whatever this thing was between them, she wanted to at least have a chance to figure it out. The time for denying it was over. Almost. One last trip to the Aurelian and her ties to all things comarré would be severed.
The snick of a keycard in the lock broke them apart. Mal was uncommonly flushed. Chrysabelle’s chest rose and fell with exertion and adrenaline. The tattoo of her pulse must be deafening him.
“Damn it,” Mal growled.
A knock came after the handle was tried and no entrance granted. “Hello?” Amery called out. “My key’s not working.”
She patted Mal’s chest. “It’s okay.” She extricated herself from his arms and adjusted her robe as she went to let Amery in, the smile on her face impossible to remove. “It’s not like we can’t do that again.”
“Slim Jim.” Creek waved a greeting to the man. He was in his usual spot, out on his front porch, with a hound at his feet, a cheroot in his mouth, and an assault rifle across his lap.
He slung the gun up to his shoulder as he stood. “Hullo, Thomas. Good to see ya, son. Who you brung with you?”
“This is Damian. He’s a comar, like Chrysabelle.”
Slim Jim’s eyes lit up at her name. “Yep. Know jess who you’re talking about. Pretty sparkly thing, ain’t she.” He tugged at the brim of his Gators cap. “You’re just as sparkly, son. You kin to her?”
Damian sneaked a look at Creek before answering. “In a way, I guess we are.”
“Well, then, any kin of hers is all right with me.” He chomped down on the cheroot and inhaled, making the tip glow cherry red. “Y’all need a boat, I take it?”
“Yes, sir,” Creek answered. “Headed out to do some business with the coven.”
“Shady lot, those witches. But they pay their tab with me, so what do I care?” He motioned toward the dock. “Last one on the end is fueled up and got keys in it.”
Creek peeled off a few bills. “Same as usual?”
“Yep.” Slim Jim took the money, counted it, and tucked it into the front pocket of his overalls.
Creek and Damian started for the boat, but then Creek stopped. “Any chance you have one of those nice-looking guns to rent, too? In case of gators.”
Slim Jim smiled his missing-tooth smile. “Now, son, much as I tend to look the other way about things, you know you can’t possess a gun with your record.”
At least Slim Jim hadn’t called him a convict. But then Slim Jim probably would’ve killed Creek’s father, too, if he’d shown up and seen what Creek had seen. Slim Jim believed in biblical justice, Southern style.
Creek hooked his thumb toward Damian. “No, but he can.”
Slim Jim narrowed his gaze a little and patted the Bushmaster over his shoulder. “You know how to work one of these?”
Damian inhaled and, Creek imagined, took a guess. “Just aim and squeeze the trigger, right?”
The old man smiled. “Close enough. You can borrow the rifle on me, but the box of ammo’s gonna cost you.”
Creek peeled off another bill and handed it over.
Slim Jim added it to the rest. “Be right back.”
When the door to the cabin closed, Creek turned to Damian. “You don’t have a clue what to do with that, do you?”
Damian tapped the strap of the sacre sheath running across his chest. “This is all I need.”
“That and the other blades you’ve got hidden on you, right?” Creek shook his head. “We have no idea what we’re going to find out there. The last time I came for a visit, I almost died.”
Slim Jim came back out carrying a second Bushmaster and a box of ammo. “Here you go. You boys be careful now.”
They were on the airboat and headed for Aliza’s five minutes later. Damian seemed content to watch the scenery. “You know this area well?”
“The Glades?” Creek nodded. “I’m half Seminole. Spent a lot of time out here as a kid with my grandparents. My mother lives out here with my grandmother now, my sister, too, when she’s not at college. But we grew up in Little Havana. My father moved us there.”
Damian took his eyes off the water to stare at Creek. “What record was that man referring to?”
“My criminal record.”
Damian’s mouth thinned.
“I came home one night, found my mother beaten unconscious and my father about to do worse to my sister. So I killed him.”
Damian was quiet a few more seconds. His gaze went back to the water. “Seems like the logical thing to do.”
Creek raised an eyebrow Damian didn’t see. “Jury didn’t think so.”
“Human courts rarely understand the justice required in the real world.”
The comar got more interesting by the minute. “Agreed. That mean you’re okay with whatever’s about to go down?”
“Killing the witch will save Doc’s life, correct?”
“That’s the way I see it.”
“Then yes.”
More silence passed between them until Creek decided to do some fishing. “How well do you know Chrysabelle?”
“We’re from the same house, the Primoris Domus, but what I know about her comes from her reputation, not from really knowing her personally.”
“Meaning?”
“She holds the record for highest price ever paid for blood rights. She was always held up to us as the example of a perfect comarré. Most comarré get their first signum around ten years old and complete the first set by age twelve. The second set is typically completed in the thirteenth year. No more than that are required, but there are seven sets in all. By fifteen, the year she got her patron, Chrysabelle had the first four sets completed and had started on the fifth.” He shook his head and exhaled. “You have any idea how much pain that equals?”
“I’ve got a lot of ink, I can imagine. How many sets do you have?”
“I just completed the last signum of the sixth set last year.”
“So you have more than Chrysabelle now.”
He laughed. “No, she completed the seventh set her twenty-second year. I think if there were more, she’d get them.” He shook his head. “That’s just who she is. Who she’s always been. I had a few classes with her, spoke to her a few times, but she wasn’t the social sort. Never had many friends. Of course, she had her patron at fifteen. After that, she moved out of the Primoris Domus, coming back only for classes and to recover from the signum.”
“You ever think she had no friends because no one made the effort?”
Damian nodded. “I see what you’re saying. Maybe. She was always sort of this ideal. When she ran… no one expected that. Even with what her aunt had done claiming libertas.”
“Mother.”
Damian twisted around. “What’s that?”
“Maris was her mother, not her aunt.”
His face went blank, his mouth opening slightly. “How did she find that out?”
“Maris told her as she lay dying in Chrysabelle’s arms.”
“That’s…” Damian disappeared into thought, coming back a few minutes later. “I can’t imagine finding out who your parents are.”
“Didn’t you ever think about it?”
“Sure, I guess. It’s not like we can do anything about finding out, though, so I never wasted much time on it.”
Creek dropped the subject. Damian seemed content with that as they traveled in silence the rest of the way. At last the grouping of coven houses appeared. Except there was an extra building. “That’s a new one.”
“New what?” Damian asked.
“House.” Creek pointed to the sleek steel and glass structure sitting adjacent to Aliza’s. How the hell had they put up a house that fast? It sure looked brand-new. He turned the motor off and let the boat glide forward on the remaining momentum. Any element of surprise they could gain would be a good thing. Damian seemed to get that.
“I’ll go in first,” Creek whispered. They were twenty feet from the dock now. No sign of the old witch, but her boat was parked in its usual spot beneath the house. “You stay outside, but be ready.”
Damian nodded.
Creek would have much rather had Mortalis by his side, but he got that the fae wanted to protect Chrysabelle. Couldn’t fault him for that.
An angry shriek rang out across the glades. A cormorant perched on Aliza’s dock took off. The sound was high and loud, and two seconds after it started, the windows in Aliza’s house shattered, shards falling like glitter into the water below.
Damian glanced at Creek, his eyes wide and voice low. “I didn’t know witches could do that.”
“They can’t.” Creek unholstered his crossbow. “We need a plan. Here’s what I’m thinking…”