Last Blood

much was because the sun was still an hour from setting. How many times was he going to wake up from daysleep feeling like he’d been on a bender? Enough was enough. What had the KM said? That he should thank Chrysabelle the next time he saw her.

Mal snorted. He planned on seeing her very soon, but thanking her wasn’t on his agenda. Stupid git. If she knew what was good for her, she would have told Creek to bury that bolt in his heart.

He grabbed one of the protruding metal seams on the corridor wall and hauled himself to his feet. His right thigh ached where the KM’s bolt had landed and his jeans were torn and crusted in blood. If he went out like that, he’d have every fringe in the neighborhood sniffing after him. He headed for the shower to clean up. He changed clothes when he was done, returning to his room long enough to tuck a short blade into one of his boots. The locket he’d taken off Tatiana sat on the small table by his reading chair. He didn’t need to carry that reminder. He knew whose picture it held. More bad memories. That’s all it was.

He strode down the hall toward the deck. The closer he got, the thicker the smell of blood grew. The voices went crazy as he stopped and splayed his hand on the door. Hot as blazes. Damnation, the smell of blood was strong. More than strong, it was making clear thought impossible. He had to have blood. No. He shook his head. Blood blood blood. He had no intention of drinking whatever was out there waiting for him, no matter how hard the voices pushed. Thanks to Tatiana, he was wise to Chrysabelle’s ways. Who else would send him tainted blood? What else but the knowledge that he was incapacitated would embolden her to visit him? Kill her drain her.

Tonight he would be done with her once and for all, and then he’d take Dominic’s plane and head to Corvinestri for retribution. Everything that had been taken from him would be restored. And if Tatiana broke her word, he’d kill her too.

The tingle of anticipation that signaled the sun had set washed over him. He pulled the door open. A container sat there, waiting. Fresh blood scent rolled over him, stirring the voices into a pitched frenzy. Maybe just a little sip…

No. With great effort to ignore the desire to feed, he hoisted the whole lot over the side of the freighter and was rewarded with a very satisfying splash. Nothing would keep him from his mission tonight.

Halfway down the gangplank he started to run. He was hungry and there was only one kind of blood that would quench his thirst.

Comarre.

“What do you mean she’s not here?” Doc stood at Chrysabelle’s front door. “I sent Fi here to keep her safe.”

Damian nodded. “She’s safe, I promise. She’s with Chrysabelle in New Orleans. Come in if you want.”

Doc walked in and looked at Mortalis, who sat on the sofa playing cards with Velimai and a comarre he didn’t recognize. “You know about this?”

“A little. Fi will be all right, I’m sure. What Chrysabelle went there to do… she won’t let Fi get hurt.”

Doc rubbed a hand over his shaved scalp. “That doesn’t make me feel any better. What did she go there to do?”

Mortalis set his cards down and took a breath. “She went to find someone to give her access to the fae that stole Mal’s emotion.”

Doc sat in the chair closest to Mortalis. “And do what? Reason with it?”

The shadeux shook his head. “Kill it.”

Warmth built along Doc’s bones. He dropped his head and pressed his forehead into his palm. He counted backward, one of the methods Barasa had taught him to help keep the fire at bay. “That sounds safe.” After a deep breath, he looked at Mortalis again. “I’m not leaving this house until Fi gets back. And if anything happens to her, I’m holding you personally responsible. Why didn’t you go with Chrysabelle? This doesn’t sound like something she should do alone.”

“I couldn’t go. What she asked of me… I couldn’t do.”

“For real? Why?”

“Because if I took her where she needs to go and it came to light that I was involved, the elektos would sentence me to death.” He glared back. “I have Nyssa to think of, you know.”

“A death sentence? And Fi’s with her.” Doc’s jaw went slack and the warmth returned as building heat. “Where the hell did she need to go?”

“The Claustrum.”

Nothing Mortalis was saying was making Doc feel any better. “Which is?”

Velimai signed something.

Doc nodded at her. “What did she say?”

Mortalis lifted one shoulder. “She said it’s not a great place.”

Sparks snapped across Doc’s fingers. “What. Did. She. Say.”

Lifting his chin, Mortalis answered, “She said it’s hell. On a bad day.”

Only Fi and Jerem had eaten dinner. Chrysabelle’s appetite was nonexistent, so she’d sat in the suite’s living room, polishing her sacres and praying. She glanced outside. The sun would set in less than ten minutes. The time for prayer was over. Setting her swords aside, she walked onto the balcony where Augustine was.

He leaned against the railing, staring into the city. His lanky musculature reminded her so much of Mortalis. Pale red smoke trailed off a crude black cigarette tucked between his fingers, scenting the air with the aroma of burned fruit.

“Ready?” she asked.

He took a puff of the cigarette, then blew out the smoke before turning to face her. “Let’s light this candle.” He motioned in front of him. “Stand here.”

She moved into place. He crouched down and sucked on the cigarette again, this time blowing the smoke at her feet.

“What are you doing?”

He finished his exhale. “Covering your scent. The last thing you want to do is walk into the Claustrum stinking like a human. I’ll need to do Fi, too. I know she’s going in ghost form, but I don’t want to take a chance.”

“Humans stink?”

Smiling, he shook his head. “No. In fact, I happen to love the way humans smell. The women anyway.” He closed his eyes. “All earthy softness and flowers and sex.” Looking a little lost in some old memory, he opened his eyes. “But you walking into a place that’s never known the slightest hint of human would be like dropping a spot of ink onto a white sheet. You won’t go unnoticed. I’m trying to give you a little advantage.”

“Thank you.” She stood while he bathed her in smoke, the burned fruit smell getting stronger. “What is that? Not tobacco, obviously.”

Before he could answer, Fi walked onto the balcony. “What’s going on out here?”

Chrysabelle turned her head. “He’s covering my human scent. You’re next.”

Fi settled into one of the deck chairs and stuck her feet up on the railing. “Mortalis was smoking that stuff. What’s it called? Nekram?”

“Nequam,” he said between breaths. “Mention my brother one more time and I’ll find a reason not to do this.” Chrysabelle stared down at him. Through his shaggy hair, the stubs of his horns darkened. “Turn,” he said to Chrysabelle.

Fi grimaced. “Sorry.” She watched him for a moment. “Are your horns changing color? Hard to tell with them all short like that. Why do they do that?”

The red smoke curled around the front of Chrysabelle as he worked behind her.

Augustine’s tone was cool and clipped. “I’m part smokesinger fae.”

“Never heard of that kind,” Fi said. “What else can smokesingers do?”

“Done,” he said to Chrysabelle. She turned as he pointed to Fi. “You’re up.”

Fi took Chrysabelle’s place. “You didn’t answer my question.”

“Fi,” Chrysabelle admonished. “Augustine’s a little busy.” And clearly didn’t want to answer anyway.

She sighed. “Aren’t you at least a little bit curious? I’ve never met a smokesinger before. Especially not one