Flesh And Blood: House of Comarre: Book Two (House of Comarre 2) Painter, Kristen (historical books to read txt) 📖

The second and most important was that Chrysabelle was still alive. Barely. But she was. Too bad.

Other than that, he wanted to destroy things until the pain he felt over what had been done to her went away. Pain he had caused.

If she hadn’t gone to the Aurelian to find a way out of his curse, she’d be fine, not bleeding out in the back of a cargo plane. All that blood …

And he’d accused her of being selfish and stubborn.

The voices, overjoyed at how close she lay to death, raged in his head until their ranting turned into a sharp, white drone. He shoved it down and did his best to ignore it.

She lay on her stomach on a makeshift bed of tarps and packing blankets. She’d not regained consciousness long enough to do more than ask for water once and mumble something he couldn’t understand when he’d lain down beside her and stroked her hair.

He was only vaguely aware that he wept. He’d been a fool not to tell her how he felt. That he cared for her. Deeply. The confession frightened him. Caring for someone made you vulnerable. Worse, it made them vulnerable, too. And tonight had proved that Chrysabelle’s vulnerability was a very difficult thing for him to endure.

She moaned and opened her mouth, but said nothing. He brushed the hair off her cheek, sticky with sweat. What they’d cut her with, he didn’t know, but the wounds Rennata – because he had no doubt she was the one who’d carved away Chrysabelle’s signum – had left seemed unchanged in the hours they’d been airborne. Not even the slightest sign of healing yet. Chrysabelle was suffering and there was nothing he could do. Nothing. Even after they got back to Paradise City, what then?

Helplessness was not a feeling he enjoyed, but it trumped knowing he was the reason her life was bleeding out of her. The pain she’d endured … he couldn’t imagine it.

He reached down and slipped his fingers through hers. ‘I’m sorry,’ he whispered. He closed his eyes and wished he could pray.

He woke when the plane’s hum deepened. How could he have slept? He lurched upright. Creek sat across from him.

‘How is she?’

Mal listened hard over the plane’s engines. ‘Her breathing is shallow, and her pulse is pretty weak. She’s not doing well.’

Creek frowned, stress lines creasing his face. ‘Good thing we’re landing soon.’

‘How soon?’

‘Half an hour. We’ll need a car.’

‘I’ll find one.’ He’d hot-wire whatever was available. ‘I don’t understand why she isn’t healing.’

‘Has to be from whatever the bastards cut her with.’ Creek stretched, rolling his head from side to side. ‘When we land, you take her home. I’m going to get my grandmother. She’s a healer.’ He shrugged. ‘Can’t hurt.’

Mal nodded, surprised to feel such gratitude toward the slayer. ‘Worth a shot.’

The landing gear dropped with a loud thunk.

Creek grunted. ‘Hold on to her. This may not be the smoothest landing.’

Mal shifted her so she lay braced between his legs, her upper body resting on his thighs, her cheek on his hip. He looped his arms under hers and held on as best he could. Creek held on to her legs. Mal tipped his head back against the metal shell of the plane, letting the vibration rattle through his brain and compete with the voices.

Blood scent pierced every part of him, needling into his senses and burying him in a rock slide of hunger. Her body suffused warmth into his skin, making it impossible to ignore. Eyes shut, eyes open, made no difference. There was no escaping the building need.

And yet, he did, forcing it aside, because a part of him had become stronger than that need. The part of him that cared for her. He would do whatever was necessary to heal her and no matter what the voices whispered, he would protect her. From himself, if necessary.

‘Here we go,’ Creek yelled.

The creak and shudder of the plane touching down felt more like it was coming apart. He held on to her as they jolted onto the tarmac. The tires squealed in protest and the smell of burning rubber permeated the air. They were home.

Night was heavy on the city, dawn hours away. He left her with Creek while he found a limo not far from where they’d landed. It reeked of Tatiana. If she’d destroyed Chrysabelle’s portal, had she meant to trap them in Corvinestri? Maybe she’d already left in pursuit of them. Either way, the vehicle was his now.

The car was unlocked, so he threw it into neutral and yanked the parking brake into place, then he jumped out and wrenched the hood up, tearing the latch off the frame. Using the metal support bar meant to hold the hood open, he touched the solenoid to the positive battery post. Sparks bit his skin, but the engine purred to life.

An hour later, he eased Chrysabelle off the long backseat, carefully putting her over his shoulder. The acrid tang of smoke saturated everything. Velimai ran out to meet him. For once, the wysper didn’t seem to care he was a vampire.

Without understanding her signs, he knew she wanted to know what had happened to Chrysabelle. He carried Chrysabelle into the house without waiting for Velimai’s approval and did his best to explain quickly. ‘She made a portal to go to the Aurelian. She was punished for bringing me and the slayer with her. The comarré disavowed her and cut away the runes that got her in to see the Aurelian.’ He stopped at the stairs. ‘This way to her room?’

Velimai nodded and went ahead, leading him.

‘Why does it smell like smoke? Did Tatiana try to burn the house down?’

Velimai shook her head, made a sign with her hand like rolling waves.

‘Tatiana burned the boat.’

Velimai nodded.

Which was how she’d closed the portal.

Velimai pushed open a set of double doors. The master suite. She continued through the sitting room, pulling back the linens on a