Chrysabelle opened her eyes and blinked, already wincing in anticipation of the pain in her back. But it was oddly absent. Maybe because she was so still. She lifted her head slowly, waiting with every inch for the sharp sear that would cause her to cry out or fold back against the bed.
It never came. Not even when she grabbed the side of the mattress and pulled herself to the edge of the bed. Her back was achy and tight and just this side of hot, but somehow not awash in the pain she’d experienced after every visit to the signumist.
She lay flat again and reached behind her to feel what she could of her back. The skin was very warm and almost hard. That was nothing unusual. The signum took days to soften beneath the skin. But what was strange was the lack of scabbing. The raised welts caused by the signum weren’t there. Her skin was as flat and smooth as though nothing had been done.
A panicked shock ran through her. The trip to the signumist hadn’t been a dream, had it? Turning her face to the other side, she glimpsed the small red pouch on her nightstand. No, not a dream. That had to have come from Atticus.
Dawn’s pale light glowed beneath the edges of the drapes, giving her enough light to realize that she was alone. Mal must have succumbed to daysleep by now, which was good. He needed it. Maybe Velimai was sleeping, too. Knowing the wysper, she was probably making coffee or polishing Chrysabelle’s sacres. Either way, there might not be a better opportunity to do what she had to.
Chrysabelle eased from beneath the covers, giving her head time to adjust to being upright again. Even as she straightened carefully, she felt no pain. There should be. The lack of it caused a prickly feeling in the back of her brain, but she ignored it. She had work ahead of her. Hard work.
Nude except for a pair of white boy shorts, she slipped into the satin robe laid out for her on a nearby chair, tucked the red pouch into the pocket, then quietly locked the door. She could not be disturbed.
Once inside the bathroom, she locked that door, too, then cranked on the shower and let it run. Neither Mal nor Velimai would believe she was taking a shower this early in her recovery, but it would buy her a little time, and a little time was all she needed.
The robe wasn’t the proper ceremonial dress, but that didn’t matter. This would be her last trip to the Aurelian. Her final act as a comarré.
She twisted her hair up with a pair of gold and diamond sticks that had been Maris’s, then kneeled on the white marble floor. The robe spilled over her knees, the fabric not nearly as fine as the gown she should be wearing. She pushed the satin off her shoulders to bare her new signum.
She took the red leather pouch from her pocket and opened it, peering inside. She smiled. Atticus had been as thoughtful as she’d suspected he would be. She withdrew the scrap of paper that held the portal signum. He’d known she’d need them for what she was about to do. Resting the pouch across her lap, she closed her eyes, bowed her head, and chanted softly the calming mantra known to all comarré. There wasn’t enough time to prepare the way she would have liked, but it would be enough. She hoped.
At last she raised her chin and opened her eyes. From the pouch, she removed the gold pipette, its small end tapered to a needle-thin point.
With a deep breath and a final thought to the holy mother, she lifted the pipette, the pointed end facing her. She inhaled, already dreading this new pain. It would all be over soon. Everything she had endured would finally be worthwhile. She wrapped her left hand over her right and plunged the pipette into her chest.
Hot, stabbing pain sucked the air from her lungs, but she held still, allowing only the slightest tremor to shake her. Index finger over the pipette’s open end, she slid it from her chest. Blood trickled from the wound and trailed over the curve of her breast.
She picked up the chanting again, using its persuasive rhythm to stay focused on the task and not the pain. Lux sancta matris intus me fulget. Lux sancta matris intus me fulget… Using the pipette like a fountain pen and her blood for ink, she traced a perfect circle on the marble. At the top of the circle, she drew the phoebus, the sun symbol that was every comarré’s first signum. It made her smile to think that the brother she would soon find also had that mark.
Circle completed, she leaned forward and continued with the pipette, this time copying the signum from the paper into the circle’s interior. She whispered the name of each one as she finished.
With the last one done, she set the pipette aside and stood, pulling her robe back over her body. She lifted her arms, holding her palms up over the circle. Within it, the signum she’d traced began to expand. Atticus’s signum were working. Blood filled in the blank spaces within the circle, expanding until a solid pool of red shimmered before her.
The blood rippled like water and a flash of golden light gleamed across the surface. The gateway to the Aurelian was open. There was no turning back now. Not that she wanted to.
With a final calming breath, Chrysabelle stepped into the portal.
Blood, the voices whispered. It took Mal a second to realize that the scent of blood wasn’t in his dream. It was real. And strong enough to wake him from daysleep. The next second, his mind went to Chrysabelle. Something was wrong. She hadn’t been bleeding at all by the time he’d gotten her into bed, a task Velimai couldn’t do because her sandpaper-like skin would have only injured Chrysabelle further.
He leaped off the fold-out couch in the small interior room that otherwise served as a hurricane shelter, blinking as he stumbled into the hall and a bright shaft of sun. Before his skin could crisp, he hugged the wall, staying in the shadows until he made it upstairs. After he’d gotten her into the house, he’d closed all the curtains on this floor so that nothing would disturb her ability to rest and recover. It was also the reason he’d yet to explain his suspicions about what had happened at the signumist’s. There’d be plenty of time for that when she was healed.
He went to open her door quietly, but the knob wouldn’t turn. He had no idea what went into recovering from such a procedure. Maybe Velimai was in there, washing Chrysabelle’s back. That might explain the smell of fresh blood. Or if Velimai had accidently touched her. He tipped his head toward the door and listened. Running water. Maybe that was exactly what was—
Velimai appeared at the end of the hall. She held her hands up as if asking what was wrong.
Hell. “A lot if you’re not in there. Door’s locked.”
Her eyes widened and she sped to where he was. She made shoving motions with her hands like she wanted to push the door in.
“Knock it down? Don’t you have a key?”
Yes and no, she signed. She thrust her hands at the door a second time as if telling him to hurry.
He didn’t need to be told twice. He grabbed the door handle again and wrenched it, tearing the metal free from the wood. Velimai pushed past him. Her elbow brushed the top of his hand, leaving a line of raw skin behind. Ignoring the already closing wound, he followed.
The room was empty, the bed disheveled. Blood scent hung humid in the air. The door to the bathroom—the location of the running water—was shut. “If she’s taking a shower—”
With the coldest expression, Velimai held up a hand, shook her head, and pointed back to the bed.
Night something, Velimai signed.
“Night? Night what?” His gaze caught on the nightstand. Nothing out of place, nothing missing. He went deadly still. Nothing missing but the red leather pouch Atticus had given her. He’d seen that pouch before. He knew what it contained. “Son of a priest,” he whispered. “She’s trying to open the portal.”
He flashed past Velimai. Chrysabelle was way too weak to attempt something like this now. Stubborn, stubborn woman. His fist hit the door. “Chrysabelle, I know you’re in there and I know what you’re doing. Let me in or I swear to hades, I will knock this door down.”
No answer, just the shush of the water.
Velimai motioned for him to break in. He heaved his shoulder into the door, cracking the door frame and flinging it wide.
Nothing in the bathroom, except for the gold pipette and circle of blood on the floor. Blood blood blood… Chrysabelle was already gone. Mal slumped to his knees beside the puddle. The beast within him strained its bonds at so much blood, but the weight of helplessness pressed Mal into a dark place where ignoring the voices became a very easy thing. He slammed his fist onto the marble tile, leaving a small crack. The rage building in him tested his power of control. It was the kind of rage that fed the beast. “We’re too late.”
Velimai pointed at the circle, then at Mal, then back at the circle.
“No. I’m not going after her. Creek and I did that last time and almost got her killed. The Aurelian is not a patient woman. She’ll punish Chrysabelle if that happens again, and I won’t be the reason for that.” A shimmer of gold rippled over the blood. The portal was definitely open. “We’ll just have to wait for her to return.”
If she returns.
He closed his eyes. She would. She had to. Because if she didn’t, he would let the beast free. There was no reason not to if she was gone.