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

leveling them at him and Creek. Rennata pointed to the door. ‘Outside. Now. You may wait for her there.’

Creek approached the woman, his arms tensed at his sides. ‘The grand masters will be interested to hear your treatment of Chrysabelle.’

‘Tell them what you like,’ Rennata said with a shrug. ‘I don’t report to them.’

Mal snarled at her, snapping his fangs. The beast stared out through his eyes.

She twitched, then sniffed. ‘You don’t scare me.’ With a twirl of her robes, she marched after Chrysabelle. The comars closed in on him and Creek. Another went ahead and opened the door, gesturing for them to leave.

Creek pushed past them, muttering under his breath. Mal followed behind to join him on the portico. Thankfully, it was dark out. One of the comars slammed the door behind them.

‘You have some knowledge of their rituals. What are they going to do to her?’ he asked the slayer. Every fiber of his being wanted to rush back in there and find a way to get her out.

Creek clenched his fists. ‘Some comarré rituals I know. This is one I don’t.’ He stared through the windows, but even Mal couldn’t see beyond the sheer curtains. ‘I say we go back in, bust some heads, and get her out of there.’

‘I can’t get farther than the main hall. Wards.’ A million rescue scenarios played out in Mal’s head, none of them making him feel any better, since he couldn’t act on them. He needed something else to think about. ‘We should figure out how we’re going to get back.’

Creek was about to speak when the door opened. Two comars held Chrysabelle under her arms. She was limp, almost lifeless. They dragged her through the door and dropped her at Mal’s feet.

Creek swore as the door shut.

Mal had no words for what he saw. Whining flooded his brain. Red haze clouded his vision. As red as the blood drenching her back. She moaned softly. Mal went to his knees beside her. The runes along her spine, the signum that had gotten her in to see the Aurelian, were gone.

They’d cut them out of her skin.

Doc ran because he could and because he hadn’t run, really flatout run, since the curse had taken away his true form. Now, as a leopard, he flew over the cracked sidewalks and pitted downtown streets. Those who saw him were either othernaturals who didn’t look twice or humans out to see something exciting. Tonight was their lucky night.

Block after block disappeared until he started to run out of the neighborhood most othernaturals considered safe. He neared Little Havana, the smell of vampire spice teasing his sensitive nose. He rounded the next corner to loop back around. A small group of brawling fringe cluttered the street. Weapons clanked and flashed as they fought. He ducked into an alley and climbed the fire escape like it was a metal tree. From the roof, he took another look. The fringe were getting ashed fast. Two down. Now three.

They fought one of their own. Sort of. The fringe in the fatigues was Preacher. Doc would have recognized that shaved head, cross-wearing freak of a vampire anywhere. He’d long been on a mission to ‘cleanse’ Mal, but Preacher hadn’t shown himself since their last run-in.

The fourth fringe went up in a cloud of ashes. The last one took off running. Preacher flipped a dagger into him and brought him down, adding a final pile of ashes to the asphalt.

Preacher’s fighting abilities against Mal weren’t so hot, but against fringe he did pretty well. Or had he gotten better? Was he practicing on the fringe to hone his skills to come after Mal? Why kill them off so close to his home, then?

Preacher collected his weapons, crossed himself, and took off in the opposite direction. Doc followed, keeping to the rooftops to avoid being noticed. His leopard mind loved the height almost as much as the chase.

He stayed with the ex-marine until they were deep in Little Havana. Preacher was headed home, if you could call an abandoned Catholic church any kind of home for a vampire. But Preacher wasn’t a typical vampire.

Sure enough, Preacher ducked inside the old cathedral. Doc made his way down to the street level and, staying to the shadows, followed through the same side door Preacher had used. Normal vampires couldn’t enter without searing pain, but fae and varcolai didn’t share that characteristic.

There was plenty of darkness to hide in, but he remained cautious. No matter how strange Preacher was, he was still fringe with all the inherent abilities, including night vision and excellent hearing.

Doc crawled under the pews. Dust tickled his whiskers. His lip curled. He hated being dirty. A strange cry, almost animalistic, reached his ears. He headed toward it, nudging open a door with his broad nose and peering through.

In the room beyond sat a young girl decorated with gold marks like Chrysabelle’s but without the refinement. One of Dominic’s comarré. She smiled at Preacher and he back at her. He bounced in an odd rhythmic way, until he turned and Doc realized what he was doing.

Rocking a baby.

The comarré handed him a bottle of what looked like strawberry milk. For a baby? Preacher shook a couple drops onto the inside of his elbow. Doc inhaled. Not strawberry. Blood.

A chilling thought ripped through him. If that child was Preacher’s and the comarré’s … if it was half vampire … Doc shook his head. That shouldn’t be possible, but why else would they put blood in the milk? He crept backward slowly. No wonder Preacher was killing off fringe left and right. Doc could think of about a million different people who’d like to get their hands on a vampire child. None of them good.

Chapter Forty

Mal could be thankful for two things. One was that Creek had gotten them a ride home. The plane was old but seemed serviceable, much like the man Creek had forcibly