Last Blood

human, but weren’t. Shouts, cries, calls for help, growls, and groans, weeping, clicking, snapping, and a low, ever-present hum. Just like the smell, there was no shutting the noise out.

Chrysabelle forced herself to focus on the reason she was here. That’s what Jerem said had worked for him. Suddenly, the passageway turned and sloped down as it curved out and around. Time to descend. “Help me count, Fi. This is one.”

The ghost nodded, but stayed quiet. From the look on Fi’s face, she was struggling to keep it together.

“It’s okay to be scared,” Chrysabelle said. “I am.”

“I hate the dark.” Fi’s voice wavered like a shifting wind. “Hate it.”

“The dark’s not so bad. Lots of good things happen in the dark.”

“Like what?”

Two. “Haven’t you and Doc ever done anything fun in the dark?”

Fi laughed. “I never expected that to come out of you. Thanks.” She sniffed once. “That was the second floor.”

“Great. Keep counting, okay?”

Except for Fi announcing the floors, they walked in silence the rest of the way. Maybe that was better, because if they could hear the occupants of the Claustrum, the occupants must be able to hear them, too. Not a pleasant thought.

And the farther down they went, the thicker and hotter the air became, until it clung to Chrysabelle’s skin like wet wool. Breathing took thought and made her lungs work. She worried for the child she carried, praying this trip would have no lasting consequences.

“We’re here. This is twelve,” Fi said. Just as it had at every floor, the glowing path forked off through the floor’s entrance before continuing down the curving ramp toward the lower floors.

Chrysabelle checked the slip of paper again and nodded. The symbol above the entrance matched the one Mortalis had written. She held it up for Fi to see. “Here’s the cell number.”

“I hope it’s not too far in.”

“Remember, stay on the path.”

“Right behind you.”

Chrysabelle entered. Cells ran along either side of the path. In most, the shadows were too deep to see the occupants, but in some, the prisoners stood at the bars.

“That’s a little girl,” Fi whispered.

Chrysabelle stopped. “Where?”

Fi pointed to one of the cells. A child no more than five or six stood at the bars, weeping softly. “That can’t be right, can it? A child?”

The little girl wiped her nose, tipped her head at Fi, then opened her mouth so wide half of her head disappeared behind teeth like ivory pins.

“Yikes.” Fi jumped back, sliding through Chrysabelle’s shoulder.

Holy mother. “Let’s just keep our eyes on the numbers.”

“Good idea.”

But saying that and doing it were two different things. One cell held an abnormally tall, slender gray man built like a cypher fae but with a large head and eyes the size of billiard balls. One held a creature that had no discernible head at all but at least eight clawed limbs. Over and over it rammed into the bars, scuttling back like a spider to do it again. In another cell, some sort of fae sat on the floor draped in what looked like poorly sewn together human skins.

Occasionally, a small stream of liquid crossed the phosphorescent path and a new smell joined the existing ones. Blood. Waste. Other bodily fluids.

Chrysabelle shuddered just as Fi pointed again. “There. Look.”

Quiet weeping reached her ears. “No more little girls.”

“No.” Fi shook her head. “It’s the raptor’s cell.”

Chapter Twenty-four

Dominic stood alone in the middle of his office, but for all his awareness of the space he could have been anywhere. He shuffled blindly through the room with no real direction.

Katsumi was gone.

The loss tightened his throat and shoved knives into his chest, but not in the way that Marissa’s death had. When Marissa died, so had his will to go on, at least for a few days. Now, he just felt… numb.

Hurt and numb. And if he really gave into what he felt, anger rose up in him like bile.

How dare someone come into his club and do such a thing? He was Dominic Scarnato. A man to be feared. A vampire to be reckoned with.

Something creaked. He looked down to find his hands squeezing the handles of the French doors that led out to the balcony overlooking the Pits. He nodded. A fight seemed like just the thing.

He opened the doors and walked out onto the balcony, stopping at the edge to rest his hands on the glass railing. The Pits were in full swing, as they almost always were. Katsumi had loved them. She’d had a small team of fighters that she’d sponsored, taking great pride in their wins and the money they made her.

Shouts rose up from the crowd as they noticed him. The fighters battling seemed to suddenly fight a little harder. He backed away from the railing, in no mood to be the gracious host.

He would have to tell her fighters that their benefactor had been taken from them. Maybe he would give them each a small sum as a condolence. The thought almost made him smile. Katsumi would think him soft for doing such a thing. Not that she’d ever say such a thing to his face.

A fresh wave of grief swelled. She’d come so far since he’d given her the navitas she’d so desperately wanted. It was as if becoming noble had changed more than just her status. Her ambition hadn’t faltered, but it had shifted, become less about her and more about… them.

And if he was truthful with himself, he had begun to love her. Not the kind of love he’d felt for Marissa. He’d never feel that way about anyone ever again. He’d never let himself. He couldn’t. Her passing had destroyed the ability to give himself to another so completely. But life with Katsumi had become comfortable. Pleasant. Almost… effortless.

Companionship for his kind was never easy. Most nobles were too ambitious and too paranoid to ever allow another that close to them. But in the small world of Paradise City, without the influences of the nobility’s politics, he and Katsumi could have lived many years with each other for company.

And now, some faccia di stronzo had taken that away from both of them.

He spun and pushed through the doors back into his office. Watching others fight was not enough. He needed to find whoever had killed Katsumi and put an end to him.

Only then might he find some solace.

Mal settled atop the security wall and inhaled. Comarre blood perfumed the air so heavily it almost intoxicated him. Drink drink drink. He would. Soon. He inserted the iron-mesh earplugs Tatiana had given him. Now the wysper could scream her head off and it wouldn’t stop him from draining every last drop of blood out of Chrysabelle.

He walked the wall, looking for the best view into the house, but all the curtains had been drawn. Plenty of lights were on, though, and he could sense a number of heartbeats. She had company. He smiled. He’d feed well tonight. Good. This meal had to last him until he reached Corvinestri and was finally able to buy a comarre of his own. An obedient one, who did as she was told and nothing more. No meddling, no arguing, nothing but a warm vein when the need arose.

The guesthouse was dark. He followed the wall in that direction, jumping over the property’s metal entrance gate to the adjoining wall and continuing until he could leap from the wall to the guesthouse roof. He landed with a thud and immediately flattened himself against the tiles. A few seconds later, the security lights clicked on and the front door opened.