‘N-nothing,’ Doc answered, clearing his throat. His black-as-midnight skin wore the sweaty sheen of a creature struggling against his true nature. And losing. ‘Not a drop. The butcher on Hibiscus won’t sell to me anymore. Says there’s too many freaks running around and he doesn’t want to get a rep.’
‘Bloody hell.’ Mal’s body clenched with hunger. The voices amped up their whining. Feed, kill, drink. He glanced at the leopard shifter. Full moons were difficult on the cursed varcolai. Doc shouldn’t have gone for blood, but he’d wanted to run the streets, see if a good sweat could help him shake the powerful urges pulling at his body tonight. By the looks of him, the run had done him as little good as Mal had said it would.
‘Been two weeks,’ Doc said. He shifted restlessly, his hands trembling like a man fighting withdrawal.
‘Seems longer.’ Much longer, Mal thought, since he’d had human blood. Comarré blood. Should’ve drunk her dry when you had the chance. And now even pig’s blood was getting scarce.
‘You could drink what’s in the fridge.’
‘No.’ He couldn’t bring himself to drink the blood Chrysabelle had sent, but he couldn’t bring himself to dump it either.
‘Maybe time to see Dominic. Get some blood from his fake comarré. It’s gonna be spendy, but … ’ Doc shrugged, his eyes brassy green-gold, pupils wide open even in the bright moonlight.
‘Not yet.’ Mal was used to going without. Weakling. Dominic was a last resort. Very last. Too many strings. Too much money. Right now, Mal just needed to get Doc through the next few nights. Not being able to shift into his true form made Doc’s life hard, except on full-moon nights. Then it was hell.
Mal knew all about that. Hell was his permanent address. Especially since Chrysabelle had failed to fulfill her part of their deal. Lying, cheating blood whore. He ground his back teeth together, wishing he could crush the voices as easily.
He’d promised to help her rescue her kidnapped aunt, and she’d promised to get him to the comarré historian to find out how to remove his curse. Maybe in Chrysabelle’s mind, a dead aunt negated the deal. He couldn’t blame her for being upset, especially since Maris had revealed she was actually Chrysabelle’s mother, but Maris’s death wasn’t his fault. It wasn’t enough reason for Chrysabelle to shut him out.
Part of him wished he’d never tasted Chrysabelle’s blood. His fangs punched through his gums. A very small part. He nodded at Doc. ‘You going to be okay?’
Doc shivered despite the near eighty-degree temp. ‘Yeah, bro, I’m tight. I just wish—’ A tremor rocked his body.
‘I know.’
Doc raised a brow. ‘You miss her?’
‘Yes.’ Mal shifted his gaze back to the ocean. Heat lightning shattered the horizon’s edges. Doc’s mention of Fiona didn’t surprise him. The pair were nuts for each other, despite her being a ghost. She was the last human Mal had killed and, of all the voices in his head, the only one to manifest as a ghost. After the many years she’d been stuck to him, Mal had come to tolerate Fi. More than that really. He’d come to appreciate her company. She alone could temper the beast that rose within him and rein in the voices when they took control.
Unfortunately, she’d been another casualty of their trip to rescue Maris, and Doc had taken her death extremely hard. He still believed she would return, but the space on Mal’s left arm where her name had once been written remained bare.
‘You should go see her,’ Doc said. ‘Work things out. You might as well drink the blood she sent. You need it—’
Mal’s head whipped back around. ‘I meant Fi.’
Doc snorted, scrubbing at his goatee. ‘Sure you did.’ A halo of sweat crowned his shaved head, and his canines jutted past his lip like two toothy daggers.
‘You look like hell.’
‘I feel like hell.’ Doc closed his eyes, visibly steeling himself. The fangs disappeared and the claws retracted, only to reappear a few seconds later. His half-form wasn’t going to cut it tonight. The need to change was too strong due to the full moon’s power.
‘Stop fighting it. Get below and shift. I’ll make sure you don’t run.’
Doc’s curse meant the only full form he could shift into was a common house cat, and in that state he was highly susceptible to larger predators. Like dogs. And Mal didn’t want to nurse him through another incident like the last one.
Doc nodded and headed for the hatch.
Mal turned back to the railing and wiped a hand over his face. The sharp angles and hard contours of his true image only served as a reminder of the monster that lived inside him. The monster that needed to be fed. Soon. Kill, drink, eat, blood.
The scent of jasmine and spice rose up behind him. He spun around. ‘What are you doing here?’
Katsumi bowed slightly from the hips, palms together before her. ‘Lovely to see you, too, Malkolm.’
‘If you’re here, you want something. What is it?’ He was too hungry to deal with anyone, especially this fringe. The former wife of a Yakuza crime boss, Katsumi had the missing pinkie and full-body tattoos to prove it. She’d been turned in the 1980s, and her cutthroat style had earned her a serious reputation. If Katsumi had been nobility, she could have given Tatiana some healthy competition for vilest vampiress of the century. Now she worked at Dominic’s nightclub, Seven. In what capacity, Mal had yet to fully determine.
Katsumi gave a little half smile. ‘So cranky when you’re underfed. Which seems to be all the time. Right to it, then. I’ve come to offer you blood.’
His muscles tightened painfully and the beast inside tugged at the bonds keeping it prisoner. Take, drink, kill. ‘Go on.’
Her almond eyes twinkled with devious intent. ‘I’ll provide you
