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Synopsis
The fantastic final novel of the House of Comarré series, full of lust, betrayal, and intrigue. In the final showdown between the forces of dark and light, Mal and Chrysabelle face not only Tatiana, but the ancient evil that now controls her: the Castus Sanguis. Chrysabelle gathers her friends and family around her, forming a plan to bring an end to the chaos surrounding them. But the Castus is the most powerful being they've ever come up against. Defeating such evil will require a great sacrifice from someone on the side of light. One of them will change sides. One of them will die. No one will survive unscathed. Can Chrysabelle save those she cares about or will that love get her killed? What price is she willing to pay to draw last blood?
Release date: July 30, 2013
Publisher: Orbit
Print pages: 455
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Last Blood
Kristen Painter
Paradise City, New Florida 2067
Twenty-four hours. That’s how long it had taken Chrysabelle to get herself together after finding out that the raptor fae had devoured Mal’s love for her, leaving him cold and uncaring, only to then discover she was also pregnant with Mal’s child. Twenty-four hours as a sobbing wreck curled in her bed. Then she’d run out of tears and passed another twenty-four hours there, staring blindly at the ceiling, thinking about nothing and everything, rationalizing her choices, and trying to make sense of her future. On the third day, she’d gotten out of bed with the resolute knowledge that whatever she had to do to protect that future wasn’t going to get done in bed.
If there was anything she’d learned from her mother, it was that strong women pushed forward, no matter what the circumstances, and strong women protected their children. Even at the cost of their own lives.
Being able to protect herself and her child meant being ready for anything, and that meant training. Lots of it.
Beating the daylights out of an opponent had always given Chrysabelle a sense of peace. Even now, when the opponent was her brother, it still worked. The focus of landing each hit and avoiding his incoming blows almost made her forget about the life-changing secret growing in her belly.
Almost.
It was still better than moping in bed, staring into space and trying to figure out how to make sense of a life without Mal when the child she carried was a constant reminder of everything she’d lost.
She ducked too late to avoid Damian’s bokken. The wooden practice sword caught the side of her headgear, spun her off balance, and knocked her to her hands and knees.
“Hey.” He straightened, bokken falling to his side. “Pay attention, will you? The last thing I want to do is concuss the sister I just found.” Under his own headgear, he smiled as he offered his hand. “More accurately, who just found me.”
She took the help and he pulled her to her feet. “Thanks.”
“You want to stop? You seem a little distracted.” Concern sparked in his blue eyes. “I realize we’re just getting to know each other, but I am your brother. If there’s anything you want to talk about…”
“Thank you.” His offer meant a lot, but this wasn’t something she was ready to share. “I’m fine.” Other than the gaping hole in her heart. She lifted her bokken. “Let’s keep going. I like having a partner again.” And she liked maintaining her edge.
He tipped his head to one side. “You’re sure? We’ve sparred more in the last day than I used to in a week at the Domus.”
She allowed a tiny bit of what she was feeling into her face. “I need this.” Because stopping meant dealing with her reality.
“Cool with me.” He went back to first stance.
“Cool? I think a little Fi rubbed off on you.” She matched him, shifting most of her weight onto her back foot and bending her knees slightly. She pointed the tip of her bokken at his eyes and forced herself to concentrate on the present.
“There are worse people to hang out with.” He nodded at her and took the same stance.
What did he mean by that? Mal? Before she could unravel that thread any further, knocking interrupted them. They both turned toward the door.
“Speak of the devil.” Damian came out of fighting stance. “Not that you’re the devil, Fi.” He laughed. “Nice to see you.”
Fi smiled and gave a little finger wave. “You too, Damian. You seem like you’re settling in okay.”
“You too from what I hear.” He planted the tip of his sword against the gym mats and pulled off his face mask, tucking it beneath his arm. “I guess you’re here to see Chrys?”
Fi’s brows rose a tiny bit, maybe at his shortening of Chrysabelle’s name. She nodded. “Yep. You cool if she and I chat for a bit?”
Chrysabelle glanced at Damian. He took her bokken. “Sure. It’s almost lunch anyway. I’m going to get a shower, and then I’ll come back over and eat.” He winked at Fi. “If you two aren’t still having your super-secret girl talk.”
“Guys never change no matter how old they get.” Fi rolled her eyes. “I’m sure we’ll be done by then.”
Damian nodded, but the humor faded from his face and he glanced at Chrysabelle. “It’s okay if I come back for lunch, isn’t it?”
She tugged off her headgear. “Of course it’s okay. You know half of all of this is yours. House included. You don’t have to ask for permission to come over here and you certainly don’t have to stay in the guesthouse.” Again, she wondered if his reluctance had something to do with Mal. Or her relationship with Mal. Not that there was any current relationship to speak of.
“I know, but I’m comfortable there. And I feel a little responsible for Amylia.”
“She the comarré you brought back from Čachtice?” Fi asked.
“Yes,” Chrysabelle answered, but she kept her eyes on Damian. “And you shouldn’t feel responsible. I would have brought her back anyway.”
He shrugged, walked to the weapons rack, and notched the first bokken into place. “Then you’re a better person than I am.” He dropped the second one into its slot, hung up his face mask, then headed for the door. “I would have left her. After Saraphina… you just never know. See you at lunch.”
“Okay.” She watched her brother leave, sighing with frustration.
Fi spoke after the door closed behind him. “Things not going as planned?”
“Does anything?” Chrysabelle prayed Fi didn’t see that as an opening to ask about Mal. She pushed some stray hair behind one ear and quickly moved on. “How are you? How’s Doc? I’m sorry I missed the wedding.”
Fi shrugged. “So did everyone else. It was just me, Doc, his council members as witnesses, and Isaiah, Doc’s—I mean, our butler, who happens to be a minister of the Church of Bast, so he married us. Really, we just wanted to make it official and get on with our life.”
“I understand that. And I have to say, marriage suits you. You look… different. But in a good way.” Fi’s formerly long wavy hair was pin-straight and cut in a precise chin-length bob, her makeup impeccable, her clothes—which had always been good—seemed even better. “How’s Doc doing with his new position as pride leader?”
“He’s good. Busy. Running a pride is a twenty-four-seven job.” Fi looked down at her sleek little navy dress. “As for the rest of me, being the pride leader’s wife comes with access to all the best stuff, including a personal beauty team.” She laughed nervously. “Who knew?” Her smile washed out. “There’s so much stuff to go to. Meetings. Appearances. Dinners. It’s a lot of work.”
Which would explain the dark smudges under her eyes. Chrysabelle tipped her head to one side. “Sounds like it. Is there anything I can do to help?”
“Actually, yes.” Fi took a deep breath. “I want to learn to fight. More than that. I want to learn to win a fight.”
A slight alarm sounded in Chrysabelle’s head. “Why? Who’s threatening you?”
“No one. Yet. But that’s the point.” She hugged her arms around her body. “Barasa—he’s one of Doc’s council members and the pride’s main physician—he says a pride leader’s wife needs to know how to fight. And that opposition ‘rears its head’ at least once a year. More when the wife is new.”
“But I thought the only challenge that counts is one issued by the pride leader or his wife, right?”
“Yes, but…” Fi stared at the ceiling. “I’m not known for my even temper.” She shook her head and twisted the toe of one coral stiletto into the gym mat. “And it’s occurred to me that I might be a target. Doc isn’t always with me. I have a bodyguard almost all the time now when I go out.”
Chrysabelle looked over Fi’s shoulder. “Where is he now?”
“I made him stay with the car. I know how Velimai feels about strangers in her house. Sorry, your house. Yours and Damian’s. Whoever it belongs to now. You know what I mean.”
Chrysabelle rested her hand on top of Fi’s arm, hoping to ease some of her anxiety. “I’d be happy to help you.”
“You will? Awesome! Doc’s had his council members trying to teach me, but they’re varcolai. I don’t have that same strength or speed. Plus they’re guys. Who knows better how to fight like a girl than another girl?” Fi grinned. “I’ve seen you fight. You go hardcore. I wanna do that too.”
Dropping her hand, Chrysabelle laughed. “Hardcore it is then.” She raised her brows. “There’s a catch.”
“Does this have to do with—”
Before Fi could say “Mal” Chrysabelle spoke. “Remember how you offered to help me with changing my look? I’m ready.”
Fi’s eyes widened. “You are? Sweet! This is going to be so much fun.” She reached into the expensive-looking handbag hanging off her shoulder and pulled out a small bejeweled rectangle. She tapped the face, causing it to light up, then tapped another button and held it up to her mouth. “Pull samples for Chrysabelle.” Then she dropped the device back into her purse. “I love that phone. So much better than the comcell I used to have. I’ll be over in the morning and we’ll get started.”
“I’m looking forward to it. Bring a change of clothes and we can have your first lesson afterward.”
“I will.” Fi started toward the door, then stopped and twisted back. “It’s probably none of my business, but have you talked to Mal? I’ve been by the freighter but either he hasn’t been home or he’s avoiding me. I know things went south for you guys. I’m sorry about that. I really am.”
South? If hell was in that direction, then yes, things had gone south. Chrysabelle took a deep breath, willing it to calm her. “Thank you. No, I haven’t talked to him.” She turned a little, hiding her face. “He doesn’t love me anymore, Fi. I don’t have the slightest idea what to do about that. He was pretty adamant when he left here that I stay out of his life.”
Fi walked back. “I know Mal and if he loved you once, he’ll love you again. You still love him, right?”
There was no holding back the hitch in her breath that time. A shuddered exhale and when she found her voice, it wavered with the emotions she was trying to put behind her. “Of course, I love him. That’s why this hurts so much.” She closed her eyes, partially to hold back tears and partially to shut out the pain, but the ever-present ache she’d felt since losing Mal only blossomed in the dark.
“Then we’ll find a way to remind him of that.”
Opening her eyes, Chrysabelle shook her head. “I don’t think—”
“He feels things more deeply than you can imagine. Trust me. I used to live in that tortured head of his, remember? His curse would have never worked if he’d been completely without remorse. Somewhere deep inside, his love for you still exists just like yours does. Love doesn’t just go away.”
She stared at Fi. “Yes, it does. That’s exactly what happened.”
The ghost girl shook her head. “I don’t believe that.”
“Fi, you didn’t see the way he looked at me.” She swallowed, the memories she’d been working so hard to shut out now engulfing her. “He called me… food.”
With a soft whimper, Fi put her arms around Chrysabelle and hugged her. “That’s awful. Awful. But it sounds like the voices talking, not Mal. Don’t write him off completely, okay?”
Chrysabelle nodded, but it wasn’t a promise of anything. If Mal had truly reverted to the monster he’d once been, then he really was lost to her. There was no way she was letting that version of him near her. Or their child.
She’d kill him first.
Corvinestri, Romania
Tatiana clutched the pillows to her face. Octavian’s side of the bed still held his dark, sweet scent. An exhausted sob shuddered through her as she inhaled what was left of him, punishing herself for falling in love with yet another man who’d betrayed her.
“My lady?”
Tatiana ignored Kosmina and stayed face down in the pillows, grief pressing her into the bed, betrayal raking down her spine.
“My lady, Daciana is outside with Jonah.”
The mention of Daci’s young, willing comar led to thoughts of Tatiana’s own missing comar. Another male added to the list of her betrayers. An angry growl built in her throat. Somehow, he’d escaped her again. If she ever captured him, she would kill him the instant she could. She forced the growl down to speak, her words muffled by the bedding. “Leave me.”
“It’s been three days, my lady.” And over the course of those three days, Kosmina’s voice had gone from soothing to frustrated. “You must feed.”
“I will feed when I’m ready. Leave. Me.” Another word and she’d snap. Already she teetered on the knife edge of insanity. Blood would spill if she was pushed further.
“Yes, my lady.” Kosmina’s pulse faded as she walked away. The doors to Tatiana’s quarters opened softly, then began to swing shut. A second later they burst open and a new presence flew through them.
“Tati, please get up.” Daciana. The only companion Tatiana had left. The only one she could still trust. “I know you’re grieving, and my heart aches for you, but you can’t give up. There has to be something we can do to get Lilith back.” She sat on the side of the bed and took Tatiana’s hand. “And you need to feed. You’re as cold as marble. You’re only weakening yourself further.”
Tatiana pulled her hand away. “He betrayed me.”
“Octavian loved you.” Daciana sighed. “Whatever he did, I can’t help but believe he was forced to do it.”
Tatiana swallowed the anguish creeping up her throat. “No one forced him to kill himself.” The bitterness of those words almost undid her. “I made him my consort, Daci. I would have married him.” She twisted herself upright, pulling her knees to her chest and leaning back against the padded leather headboard. She rocked back, her eyes filling with cold tears. “I’m such a fool. I believed every word he fed me. And the whole time, he was just stringing me along, using me for Hades knows what.”
Daciana’s shoulders slumped. “Tati, you don’t know—”
She stopped rocking. “Like hell I don’t. Why do you think he killed himself? Because he knew I’d do it for him when I found out what a traitor he was.” She tore the bed linens off and jumped out of bed. “He cost me my daughter.” She was shaking now, her body trembling with grief that had no outlet.
Silver glinted in Daciana’s eyes, turning her soft expression hard. “Then consider his suicide a gift.”
The words bit into Tatiana’s soul, freshening her pain. “How can you say—”
“Enough.” Daciana stood and planted her hands on her hips. “This isn’t the Tatiana I know. The strong, determined woman who fought her way to the top. You’re the Dominus of the House of Tepes.”
“I know who I am.”
Daciana narrowed her gaze. “Then act like it.”
Tatiana froze in shock. Few spoke to her that way, but Daciana wasn’t just anyone. She was the only family Tatiana had left.
“You know I’m right,” Daciana said. “You need to do something, not lie around in bed moping.”
Tatiana wrapped her arms around her body. Daciana spoke the truth, but Tatiana wasn’t ready to put the pain behind her. It had bitten too deep. Taken too much.
Daciana’s harsh expression softened. “I know you’re hurting, but you’re not alone in this. Whatever you want to do to get her back, I’m with you.”
Tatiana swallowed, letting Daci’s offer wash through her. She nodded and the darkness shrouding her soul lifted enough to let the light of possibility shine through. “I know what needs to be done, but getting there, finding a way out of this…” The image of Lilith in Samael’s arms, followed by Octavian’s ashes strewn across the floor, flashed in her head. She turned away. “You don’t understand.”
“I do understand.” Daciana strode forward and grasped Tatiana’s shoulders, forcing her to meet Daciana’s gaze. “What has happened to you is more horrible than words can describe, but you’re a fighter. You’ve always been a fighter.”
“And I will be again.” Tatiana shook her head. “Just not now. I need more time.”
Daciana’s lip curled. She drew back and slapped Tatiana across the face. “You’ve had enough time. The nobility is beginning to talk.”
Stunned from Daciana’s attack, Tatiana reeled back, the first frissons of anger breaking through the pain. “Why did you—”
Daciana followed and struck her again.
Before Tatiana could react, Daciana lifted her hand a third time. Rage moved Tatiana forward. She grabbed Daciana’s arm, bent it behind her, and took her to the ground. She crouched overtop Daciana, fangs bared. “Hit me again and I’ll—”
“Finally.” Daciana smiled up at her. “There’s the Tatiana I know. Channel that anger. Let it motivate you.” She lifted her free hand and flattened it over Tatiana’s heart. “Who caused you all this pain?”
“Malkolm,” Tatiana hissed. “And his comarré whore.”
“Yes.” Daciana nodded.
Tatiana freed Daciana and sat back. “I have let this grief make me soft. No more.”
“That’s it,” Daciana encouraged.
Tatiana stood and lifted her head. “I am so sick of them interfering with my life. My plans.” She growled softly, weaving her grief into a suit of armor to protect her for the fight to come. Because fight she would. “If it means sacrificing everything I have left, I’ll get Lilith back and put an end to Malkolm and Chrysabelle once and for all.”
Daciana grabbed Tatiana’s hand and squeezed. “That’s the Tatiana I know and love. Come, feed from Jonah and renew your strength. Then, together, we will find a way to make all of this happen.” Her eyes went bright with promise. “I will never leave your side. You have my word.”
The pledge broke the last of Tatiana’s doubts, opening the way for her anger to take full rein. “If only everyone in my life were as faithful as you.” The wicked smile bent her mouth. “We have work to do.”
Mal followed the human woman, keeping enough distance so she couldn’t see him, but close enough that the dying roses scent of her blood still teased his senses. Human blood. It had been too long. Too long, the voices agreed.
Catch her. Drain her. He didn’t need the urging. The fae who’d taken his love for Chrysabelle had done him a favor, leaving a hole inside him that the beast had slipped into as easily as a knife through flesh. The voices no longer mocked him as they had in the past, perhaps content that he was theirs to control once again.
Ahead of him, the human continued without a clue that she was about to become his dinner. Mesh shopping bags swung from her hands. Food that would never be eaten. Milk that would spoil.
The remaining shreds of control on his humanity had disappeared with the day’s setting sun and the increase in his hunger. He was lost to the bloodlust, severed from the threads of mortality that Chrysabelle had begun to weave into something whole again.
Whore. Mal didn’t argue. She was a comarré and comarrés gave their blood to anyone with enough funds. That left him out. Anger gnawed at his bones. She’d never been anything but an anchor tethering him to his humanity, keeping him from fulfilling his immortal destiny. He was a vampire, not a pet to be chained and fed when she deemed it so.
The beast hovered just below the surface of his black-inked skin, crouched and ready. Feral need flexed his muscles and he inhaled again, the perfume of his quarry stirring the chaotic pleasure in his head to new heights. He anticipated the succulent pressure of the human’s flesh beneath his fangs. The way she’d struggle and mewl, her feeble attempts to escape only fueling his predatory intentions.
The joy of the impending kill ran hot and electric down his spine, winding him like a spring.
She entered her apartment building without a glance back. Stupid humans. So unsuspecting. Then another dark figure followed after her. This one smart enough to look around before going in.
Fringe vampire. Mal snorted. No fringe was going to thieve his kill. He shot forward and latched onto the fringe faster than the lesser vampire could react. He snapped the fringe’s neck, then vanished into an alley as the ash settled to the sidewalk. He waited a few beats, but the act hadn’t caused the slightest ripple in the evening.
Satisfied he remained undetected, he went to smoke, slipped under the closed door, and hugged the ceiling. He found his target as she made her way up four flights of stairs. Garbage littered the landings and graffiti covered the dirty walls. Greasy food smells wafted from other apartments along with shouted arguments and blasting holovisions.
She should be happy he was about to take her away from all this.
One after the other, she pressed her thumb into the locks buttoning up her apartment, then opened the door. He stayed in the hall to give her a few minutes to relock her door and settle in. Experience had taught him a mark who felt safe was an easy mark to take. His smoke form blended with the lingering remnants of someone’s burned dinner and her junkie neighbor’s hash addiction. How perfect. In a building like this, in a neighborhood like this, it might take a week before anyone discovered her body.
He was smarter now than all those years before when he’d killed without thought. Now he knew how to leave no trace. To make it look like a suicide. He’d give them no reason to wonder about the locked door or the lack of forced entry.
The voices clawed at him, eager for their take. He filtered through the gap under the door but kept his smoke form once he got in, unsure of where she might be. The cacophony of heartbeats in the building made it impossible to pick out her pulse.
The kitchen was lit only by the dim bulb burning over the range. Her shopping bags sat on the counter. He returned to his physical body and went to find her. It was a small apartment; she couldn’t be too far away. The kick of the hunt shot through him like the spike of good whiskey.
He was moments from devouring her, moments from tasting the hot spill of blood he craved like nothing else. Yes yes yes…
A smiled creased his mouth and he was unable to stop it. Too long, he’d been shackled by the curse. By the comarré. Yes, she’d kept him from this as well. But those cares were gone. Nothing mattered but the blood and the righteous satisfaction of a kill.
Somewhere in the depths of his mind, the word ghost surfaced. He shrugged it off and pushed forward. Soft singing met his ears. He went after the sound, using it like a beacon to locate her.
A door at the end of a narrow hall stood ajar. He walked toward it, pushed it open silently, and stopped cold.
No. Take her. Now. Anger reverberated through the voices, but his feet were planted.
She sat on the edge of a twin bed, singing quietly and petting the hair of a sleeping child. A boy. No more than four or five.
Mal backed up a step.
Kill her. Drain her. Drink!
He stared at the two of them while the voices spun into a frenzy. So innocent and unaware. Images flitted through his brain. An angelic face surrounded by brunette curls. Big brown eyes that stared up at him like he ruled the world. Pale skin torn and bloodied. Her body lifeless as a rag doll.
He went to smoke and left.
Creek paced expectantly. Every night since he’d told Annika about the mayor making him Paradise City’s enemy number one, the two of them had gone on patrol and made sure that the city’s othernatural residents remained as law-abiding and behaved as possible.
Tonight, she was late.
He pulled out his phone and checked it for the second time, but there was still no message from her. She was a basilisk and could definitely take care of herself, but that didn’t stop him from being concerned about his sector chief.
Not that he’d ever worried about Argent, except what the old dragon shifter might have thought about a few of Creek’s screwups.
Annika was different. He stopped pacing to sit on the steps that led down from his sleeping loft. Thanks to his grandmother, he and Annika had developed a much better relationship than he’d ever had with Argent.
He laughed softly. If Mawmaw had her way, she’d probably get them married off. Not that he felt like that about Annika. He preferred his women… human. Or comarré, but that door wasn’t just closed; it was nailed shut. And he knew Mawmaw well enough to know that inviting them both over for dinner wasn’t just her friendly way of saying thank you for saving her from Yahla, the soulless woman. He shook his head. Oh no. She made plans, that one. Plans she liked to see realized.
He’d pulled out his phone again and started a text to Annika when three short knocks sounded on the door of the repurposed machine shop he called home. He jumped up and went to slide the door back.
Annika stood on the other side, draped in shadows. She nodded and her ever-present black shades reflected the two solar lamps lighting his home. “Creek.”
Relief erased the tension in his shoulders. “I was starting to think something had happened.”
“No, I…” She looked down the street. “I just had some things to take care of.” Then she checked the other side. “I’m not alone.”
His brow furrowed. “Who’s with you?”
“Another operative. Everything clear?”
“Yes.” Another operative? Was he being moved? Given help? He pushed the door open a little wider. “Come in.” And explain.
She looked to her side again and motioned to someone, then stepped through the door. “This is the highest level of security, you understand?”
“Absolutely.” What wasn’t with the KM?
A shadow filled the doorway behind her. Taller, darker, and reeking of the dirty, spicy scent only one creature carried.
“Vampire,” he muttered.
She nodded and turned toward her guest. “It’s clear.”
The operative stepped into the light and Creek’s gut twisted hard. He swore softly under his breath. “Octavian.”
Doc signed the last of the papers in front of him and set them aside. “All right. Bring him in.”
Barasa nodded and opened the office door.
A few moments later, Remo Silva strolled in.
With the same apprehension he’d feel toward any newcomer to his pride, Doc eyed the man entering his office. Even Omur and Barasa, Doc’s existing council members, seemed on edge. Despite being the son of the leader of São Paulo’s largest pride, Remo would still have to prove himself as a member of this one. His guaranteed position on Doc’s council didn’t come with built-in trust.
But Doc had agreed to Remo joining his pride and he would not go back on his word. He stayed seated, the proper position for any pride leader, and extended his hand. “Maddoc Mays. Good to meet you, Remo. Your father spoke highly of you.”
Remo shook Doc’s hand with unnecessary vigor. “I doubt that.” He laughed and a shiver of unease rippled down Doc’s back. “The old man was just happy to pawn me off.” He shook Barasa’s and Omur’s hands as well, then turned back to Doc. “Good to be here, though. I like new places. New people. New experiences.”
“Please, sit.” A flash of yellow flickered through Remo’s eyes so quickly Doc was barely sure he’d seen it. “Just so long as those new experiences don’t include sleeping your way through the female membership of this pride.”
Remo took the chair on the end, beside Omur, who looked like he’d rather not be so close to the Brazilian varcolai. “I see my father has shared more than he should have.”
“It’s his job to inform me about the newest member of my pride.”
“It’s also his job to protect his son. To make it possible for me to have a fresh start. So much for that.” Remo sat back, threw his ankle over his knee, and peered at Doc in a way that sent red flags up. “So…” He drew the word out. “Where is this wife of yours? The one who murdered my sister?”
Doc clenched his teeth to keep from snarling. Heat snapped along his veins, a reminder of the witch fire that still lingered in his system, although he’d been learning to control it with help from Barasa. With a deep breath, he leaned back and answered. “Is that the São Paolo pride’s official stance? Because if your father has changed his mind—”
“No.” The smugness on Remo’s face was gone, momentarily replaced by panic. A second later, he flipped his hand through the air like he was flicking a bug away and smiled. “I am just playing with you.”
Doc didn’t return Remo’s good humor. “I don’t play. Ever.” He stood, pulling up to his full height before coming around to lean on the other side of the desk. Crossing his arms, he stared down at Remo with as much intensity as he could without causing fire to leap off his skin. “You’ve been here three minutes. So far you’ve called me a liar and my wife a murderer.” He let his eyes go gold with anger. “Have you ever played baseball, Remo?”
The man looked genuinely confused. “Yes.”
“Good.” Doc smiled. “Then you understand the three-strike rule.” Remo shifted in his seat. “You have one left. Do you get where I’m coming from?”
Remo nodded. “Y-yes.” His voice cracked. He cleared his throat. “I understand. I am just tired from my trip.”
Doc got up and went back behind his desk. “Barasa and Omur will give you a tour of the building and show you
Twenty-four hours. That’s how long it had taken Chrysabelle to get herself together after finding out that the raptor fae had devoured Mal’s love for her, leaving him cold and uncaring, only to then discover she was also pregnant with Mal’s child. Twenty-four hours as a sobbing wreck curled in her bed. Then she’d run out of tears and passed another twenty-four hours there, staring blindly at the ceiling, thinking about nothing and everything, rationalizing her choices, and trying to make sense of her future. On the third day, she’d gotten out of bed with the resolute knowledge that whatever she had to do to protect that future wasn’t going to get done in bed.
If there was anything she’d learned from her mother, it was that strong women pushed forward, no matter what the circumstances, and strong women protected their children. Even at the cost of their own lives.
Being able to protect herself and her child meant being ready for anything, and that meant training. Lots of it.
Beating the daylights out of an opponent had always given Chrysabelle a sense of peace. Even now, when the opponent was her brother, it still worked. The focus of landing each hit and avoiding his incoming blows almost made her forget about the life-changing secret growing in her belly.
Almost.
It was still better than moping in bed, staring into space and trying to figure out how to make sense of a life without Mal when the child she carried was a constant reminder of everything she’d lost.
She ducked too late to avoid Damian’s bokken. The wooden practice sword caught the side of her headgear, spun her off balance, and knocked her to her hands and knees.
“Hey.” He straightened, bokken falling to his side. “Pay attention, will you? The last thing I want to do is concuss the sister I just found.” Under his own headgear, he smiled as he offered his hand. “More accurately, who just found me.”
She took the help and he pulled her to her feet. “Thanks.”
“You want to stop? You seem a little distracted.” Concern sparked in his blue eyes. “I realize we’re just getting to know each other, but I am your brother. If there’s anything you want to talk about…”
“Thank you.” His offer meant a lot, but this wasn’t something she was ready to share. “I’m fine.” Other than the gaping hole in her heart. She lifted her bokken. “Let’s keep going. I like having a partner again.” And she liked maintaining her edge.
He tipped his head to one side. “You’re sure? We’ve sparred more in the last day than I used to in a week at the Domus.”
She allowed a tiny bit of what she was feeling into her face. “I need this.” Because stopping meant dealing with her reality.
“Cool with me.” He went back to first stance.
“Cool? I think a little Fi rubbed off on you.” She matched him, shifting most of her weight onto her back foot and bending her knees slightly. She pointed the tip of her bokken at his eyes and forced herself to concentrate on the present.
“There are worse people to hang out with.” He nodded at her and took the same stance.
What did he mean by that? Mal? Before she could unravel that thread any further, knocking interrupted them. They both turned toward the door.
“Speak of the devil.” Damian came out of fighting stance. “Not that you’re the devil, Fi.” He laughed. “Nice to see you.”
Fi smiled and gave a little finger wave. “You too, Damian. You seem like you’re settling in okay.”
“You too from what I hear.” He planted the tip of his sword against the gym mats and pulled off his face mask, tucking it beneath his arm. “I guess you’re here to see Chrys?”
Fi’s brows rose a tiny bit, maybe at his shortening of Chrysabelle’s name. She nodded. “Yep. You cool if she and I chat for a bit?”
Chrysabelle glanced at Damian. He took her bokken. “Sure. It’s almost lunch anyway. I’m going to get a shower, and then I’ll come back over and eat.” He winked at Fi. “If you two aren’t still having your super-secret girl talk.”
“Guys never change no matter how old they get.” Fi rolled her eyes. “I’m sure we’ll be done by then.”
Damian nodded, but the humor faded from his face and he glanced at Chrysabelle. “It’s okay if I come back for lunch, isn’t it?”
She tugged off her headgear. “Of course it’s okay. You know half of all of this is yours. House included. You don’t have to ask for permission to come over here and you certainly don’t have to stay in the guesthouse.” Again, she wondered if his reluctance had something to do with Mal. Or her relationship with Mal. Not that there was any current relationship to speak of.
“I know, but I’m comfortable there. And I feel a little responsible for Amylia.”
“She the comarré you brought back from Čachtice?” Fi asked.
“Yes,” Chrysabelle answered, but she kept her eyes on Damian. “And you shouldn’t feel responsible. I would have brought her back anyway.”
He shrugged, walked to the weapons rack, and notched the first bokken into place. “Then you’re a better person than I am.” He dropped the second one into its slot, hung up his face mask, then headed for the door. “I would have left her. After Saraphina… you just never know. See you at lunch.”
“Okay.” She watched her brother leave, sighing with frustration.
Fi spoke after the door closed behind him. “Things not going as planned?”
“Does anything?” Chrysabelle prayed Fi didn’t see that as an opening to ask about Mal. She pushed some stray hair behind one ear and quickly moved on. “How are you? How’s Doc? I’m sorry I missed the wedding.”
Fi shrugged. “So did everyone else. It was just me, Doc, his council members as witnesses, and Isaiah, Doc’s—I mean, our butler, who happens to be a minister of the Church of Bast, so he married us. Really, we just wanted to make it official and get on with our life.”
“I understand that. And I have to say, marriage suits you. You look… different. But in a good way.” Fi’s formerly long wavy hair was pin-straight and cut in a precise chin-length bob, her makeup impeccable, her clothes—which had always been good—seemed even better. “How’s Doc doing with his new position as pride leader?”
“He’s good. Busy. Running a pride is a twenty-four-seven job.” Fi looked down at her sleek little navy dress. “As for the rest of me, being the pride leader’s wife comes with access to all the best stuff, including a personal beauty team.” She laughed nervously. “Who knew?” Her smile washed out. “There’s so much stuff to go to. Meetings. Appearances. Dinners. It’s a lot of work.”
Which would explain the dark smudges under her eyes. Chrysabelle tipped her head to one side. “Sounds like it. Is there anything I can do to help?”
“Actually, yes.” Fi took a deep breath. “I want to learn to fight. More than that. I want to learn to win a fight.”
A slight alarm sounded in Chrysabelle’s head. “Why? Who’s threatening you?”
“No one. Yet. But that’s the point.” She hugged her arms around her body. “Barasa—he’s one of Doc’s council members and the pride’s main physician—he says a pride leader’s wife needs to know how to fight. And that opposition ‘rears its head’ at least once a year. More when the wife is new.”
“But I thought the only challenge that counts is one issued by the pride leader or his wife, right?”
“Yes, but…” Fi stared at the ceiling. “I’m not known for my even temper.” She shook her head and twisted the toe of one coral stiletto into the gym mat. “And it’s occurred to me that I might be a target. Doc isn’t always with me. I have a bodyguard almost all the time now when I go out.”
Chrysabelle looked over Fi’s shoulder. “Where is he now?”
“I made him stay with the car. I know how Velimai feels about strangers in her house. Sorry, your house. Yours and Damian’s. Whoever it belongs to now. You know what I mean.”
Chrysabelle rested her hand on top of Fi’s arm, hoping to ease some of her anxiety. “I’d be happy to help you.”
“You will? Awesome! Doc’s had his council members trying to teach me, but they’re varcolai. I don’t have that same strength or speed. Plus they’re guys. Who knows better how to fight like a girl than another girl?” Fi grinned. “I’ve seen you fight. You go hardcore. I wanna do that too.”
Dropping her hand, Chrysabelle laughed. “Hardcore it is then.” She raised her brows. “There’s a catch.”
“Does this have to do with—”
Before Fi could say “Mal” Chrysabelle spoke. “Remember how you offered to help me with changing my look? I’m ready.”
Fi’s eyes widened. “You are? Sweet! This is going to be so much fun.” She reached into the expensive-looking handbag hanging off her shoulder and pulled out a small bejeweled rectangle. She tapped the face, causing it to light up, then tapped another button and held it up to her mouth. “Pull samples for Chrysabelle.” Then she dropped the device back into her purse. “I love that phone. So much better than the comcell I used to have. I’ll be over in the morning and we’ll get started.”
“I’m looking forward to it. Bring a change of clothes and we can have your first lesson afterward.”
“I will.” Fi started toward the door, then stopped and twisted back. “It’s probably none of my business, but have you talked to Mal? I’ve been by the freighter but either he hasn’t been home or he’s avoiding me. I know things went south for you guys. I’m sorry about that. I really am.”
South? If hell was in that direction, then yes, things had gone south. Chrysabelle took a deep breath, willing it to calm her. “Thank you. No, I haven’t talked to him.” She turned a little, hiding her face. “He doesn’t love me anymore, Fi. I don’t have the slightest idea what to do about that. He was pretty adamant when he left here that I stay out of his life.”
Fi walked back. “I know Mal and if he loved you once, he’ll love you again. You still love him, right?”
There was no holding back the hitch in her breath that time. A shuddered exhale and when she found her voice, it wavered with the emotions she was trying to put behind her. “Of course, I love him. That’s why this hurts so much.” She closed her eyes, partially to hold back tears and partially to shut out the pain, but the ever-present ache she’d felt since losing Mal only blossomed in the dark.
“Then we’ll find a way to remind him of that.”
Opening her eyes, Chrysabelle shook her head. “I don’t think—”
“He feels things more deeply than you can imagine. Trust me. I used to live in that tortured head of his, remember? His curse would have never worked if he’d been completely without remorse. Somewhere deep inside, his love for you still exists just like yours does. Love doesn’t just go away.”
She stared at Fi. “Yes, it does. That’s exactly what happened.”
The ghost girl shook her head. “I don’t believe that.”
“Fi, you didn’t see the way he looked at me.” She swallowed, the memories she’d been working so hard to shut out now engulfing her. “He called me… food.”
With a soft whimper, Fi put her arms around Chrysabelle and hugged her. “That’s awful. Awful. But it sounds like the voices talking, not Mal. Don’t write him off completely, okay?”
Chrysabelle nodded, but it wasn’t a promise of anything. If Mal had truly reverted to the monster he’d once been, then he really was lost to her. There was no way she was letting that version of him near her. Or their child.
She’d kill him first.
Corvinestri, Romania
Tatiana clutched the pillows to her face. Octavian’s side of the bed still held his dark, sweet scent. An exhausted sob shuddered through her as she inhaled what was left of him, punishing herself for falling in love with yet another man who’d betrayed her.
“My lady?”
Tatiana ignored Kosmina and stayed face down in the pillows, grief pressing her into the bed, betrayal raking down her spine.
“My lady, Daciana is outside with Jonah.”
The mention of Daci’s young, willing comar led to thoughts of Tatiana’s own missing comar. Another male added to the list of her betrayers. An angry growl built in her throat. Somehow, he’d escaped her again. If she ever captured him, she would kill him the instant she could. She forced the growl down to speak, her words muffled by the bedding. “Leave me.”
“It’s been three days, my lady.” And over the course of those three days, Kosmina’s voice had gone from soothing to frustrated. “You must feed.”
“I will feed when I’m ready. Leave. Me.” Another word and she’d snap. Already she teetered on the knife edge of insanity. Blood would spill if she was pushed further.
“Yes, my lady.” Kosmina’s pulse faded as she walked away. The doors to Tatiana’s quarters opened softly, then began to swing shut. A second later they burst open and a new presence flew through them.
“Tati, please get up.” Daciana. The only companion Tatiana had left. The only one she could still trust. “I know you’re grieving, and my heart aches for you, but you can’t give up. There has to be something we can do to get Lilith back.” She sat on the side of the bed and took Tatiana’s hand. “And you need to feed. You’re as cold as marble. You’re only weakening yourself further.”
Tatiana pulled her hand away. “He betrayed me.”
“Octavian loved you.” Daciana sighed. “Whatever he did, I can’t help but believe he was forced to do it.”
Tatiana swallowed the anguish creeping up her throat. “No one forced him to kill himself.” The bitterness of those words almost undid her. “I made him my consort, Daci. I would have married him.” She twisted herself upright, pulling her knees to her chest and leaning back against the padded leather headboard. She rocked back, her eyes filling with cold tears. “I’m such a fool. I believed every word he fed me. And the whole time, he was just stringing me along, using me for Hades knows what.”
Daciana’s shoulders slumped. “Tati, you don’t know—”
She stopped rocking. “Like hell I don’t. Why do you think he killed himself? Because he knew I’d do it for him when I found out what a traitor he was.” She tore the bed linens off and jumped out of bed. “He cost me my daughter.” She was shaking now, her body trembling with grief that had no outlet.
Silver glinted in Daciana’s eyes, turning her soft expression hard. “Then consider his suicide a gift.”
The words bit into Tatiana’s soul, freshening her pain. “How can you say—”
“Enough.” Daciana stood and planted her hands on her hips. “This isn’t the Tatiana I know. The strong, determined woman who fought her way to the top. You’re the Dominus of the House of Tepes.”
“I know who I am.”
Daciana narrowed her gaze. “Then act like it.”
Tatiana froze in shock. Few spoke to her that way, but Daciana wasn’t just anyone. She was the only family Tatiana had left.
“You know I’m right,” Daciana said. “You need to do something, not lie around in bed moping.”
Tatiana wrapped her arms around her body. Daciana spoke the truth, but Tatiana wasn’t ready to put the pain behind her. It had bitten too deep. Taken too much.
Daciana’s harsh expression softened. “I know you’re hurting, but you’re not alone in this. Whatever you want to do to get her back, I’m with you.”
Tatiana swallowed, letting Daci’s offer wash through her. She nodded and the darkness shrouding her soul lifted enough to let the light of possibility shine through. “I know what needs to be done, but getting there, finding a way out of this…” The image of Lilith in Samael’s arms, followed by Octavian’s ashes strewn across the floor, flashed in her head. She turned away. “You don’t understand.”
“I do understand.” Daciana strode forward and grasped Tatiana’s shoulders, forcing her to meet Daciana’s gaze. “What has happened to you is more horrible than words can describe, but you’re a fighter. You’ve always been a fighter.”
“And I will be again.” Tatiana shook her head. “Just not now. I need more time.”
Daciana’s lip curled. She drew back and slapped Tatiana across the face. “You’ve had enough time. The nobility is beginning to talk.”
Stunned from Daciana’s attack, Tatiana reeled back, the first frissons of anger breaking through the pain. “Why did you—”
Daciana followed and struck her again.
Before Tatiana could react, Daciana lifted her hand a third time. Rage moved Tatiana forward. She grabbed Daciana’s arm, bent it behind her, and took her to the ground. She crouched overtop Daciana, fangs bared. “Hit me again and I’ll—”
“Finally.” Daciana smiled up at her. “There’s the Tatiana I know. Channel that anger. Let it motivate you.” She lifted her free hand and flattened it over Tatiana’s heart. “Who caused you all this pain?”
“Malkolm,” Tatiana hissed. “And his comarré whore.”
“Yes.” Daciana nodded.
Tatiana freed Daciana and sat back. “I have let this grief make me soft. No more.”
“That’s it,” Daciana encouraged.
Tatiana stood and lifted her head. “I am so sick of them interfering with my life. My plans.” She growled softly, weaving her grief into a suit of armor to protect her for the fight to come. Because fight she would. “If it means sacrificing everything I have left, I’ll get Lilith back and put an end to Malkolm and Chrysabelle once and for all.”
Daciana grabbed Tatiana’s hand and squeezed. “That’s the Tatiana I know and love. Come, feed from Jonah and renew your strength. Then, together, we will find a way to make all of this happen.” Her eyes went bright with promise. “I will never leave your side. You have my word.”
The pledge broke the last of Tatiana’s doubts, opening the way for her anger to take full rein. “If only everyone in my life were as faithful as you.” The wicked smile bent her mouth. “We have work to do.”
Mal followed the human woman, keeping enough distance so she couldn’t see him, but close enough that the dying roses scent of her blood still teased his senses. Human blood. It had been too long. Too long, the voices agreed.
Catch her. Drain her. He didn’t need the urging. The fae who’d taken his love for Chrysabelle had done him a favor, leaving a hole inside him that the beast had slipped into as easily as a knife through flesh. The voices no longer mocked him as they had in the past, perhaps content that he was theirs to control once again.
Ahead of him, the human continued without a clue that she was about to become his dinner. Mesh shopping bags swung from her hands. Food that would never be eaten. Milk that would spoil.
The remaining shreds of control on his humanity had disappeared with the day’s setting sun and the increase in his hunger. He was lost to the bloodlust, severed from the threads of mortality that Chrysabelle had begun to weave into something whole again.
Whore. Mal didn’t argue. She was a comarré and comarrés gave their blood to anyone with enough funds. That left him out. Anger gnawed at his bones. She’d never been anything but an anchor tethering him to his humanity, keeping him from fulfilling his immortal destiny. He was a vampire, not a pet to be chained and fed when she deemed it so.
The beast hovered just below the surface of his black-inked skin, crouched and ready. Feral need flexed his muscles and he inhaled again, the perfume of his quarry stirring the chaotic pleasure in his head to new heights. He anticipated the succulent pressure of the human’s flesh beneath his fangs. The way she’d struggle and mewl, her feeble attempts to escape only fueling his predatory intentions.
The joy of the impending kill ran hot and electric down his spine, winding him like a spring.
She entered her apartment building without a glance back. Stupid humans. So unsuspecting. Then another dark figure followed after her. This one smart enough to look around before going in.
Fringe vampire. Mal snorted. No fringe was going to thieve his kill. He shot forward and latched onto the fringe faster than the lesser vampire could react. He snapped the fringe’s neck, then vanished into an alley as the ash settled to the sidewalk. He waited a few beats, but the act hadn’t caused the slightest ripple in the evening.
Satisfied he remained undetected, he went to smoke, slipped under the closed door, and hugged the ceiling. He found his target as she made her way up four flights of stairs. Garbage littered the landings and graffiti covered the dirty walls. Greasy food smells wafted from other apartments along with shouted arguments and blasting holovisions.
She should be happy he was about to take her away from all this.
One after the other, she pressed her thumb into the locks buttoning up her apartment, then opened the door. He stayed in the hall to give her a few minutes to relock her door and settle in. Experience had taught him a mark who felt safe was an easy mark to take. His smoke form blended with the lingering remnants of someone’s burned dinner and her junkie neighbor’s hash addiction. How perfect. In a building like this, in a neighborhood like this, it might take a week before anyone discovered her body.
He was smarter now than all those years before when he’d killed without thought. Now he knew how to leave no trace. To make it look like a suicide. He’d give them no reason to wonder about the locked door or the lack of forced entry.
The voices clawed at him, eager for their take. He filtered through the gap under the door but kept his smoke form once he got in, unsure of where she might be. The cacophony of heartbeats in the building made it impossible to pick out her pulse.
The kitchen was lit only by the dim bulb burning over the range. Her shopping bags sat on the counter. He returned to his physical body and went to find her. It was a small apartment; she couldn’t be too far away. The kick of the hunt shot through him like the spike of good whiskey.
He was moments from devouring her, moments from tasting the hot spill of blood he craved like nothing else. Yes yes yes…
A smiled creased his mouth and he was unable to stop it. Too long, he’d been shackled by the curse. By the comarré. Yes, she’d kept him from this as well. But those cares were gone. Nothing mattered but the blood and the righteous satisfaction of a kill.
Somewhere in the depths of his mind, the word ghost surfaced. He shrugged it off and pushed forward. Soft singing met his ears. He went after the sound, using it like a beacon to locate her.
A door at the end of a narrow hall stood ajar. He walked toward it, pushed it open silently, and stopped cold.
No. Take her. Now. Anger reverberated through the voices, but his feet were planted.
She sat on the edge of a twin bed, singing quietly and petting the hair of a sleeping child. A boy. No more than four or five.
Mal backed up a step.
Kill her. Drain her. Drink!
He stared at the two of them while the voices spun into a frenzy. So innocent and unaware. Images flitted through his brain. An angelic face surrounded by brunette curls. Big brown eyes that stared up at him like he ruled the world. Pale skin torn and bloodied. Her body lifeless as a rag doll.
He went to smoke and left.
Creek paced expectantly. Every night since he’d told Annika about the mayor making him Paradise City’s enemy number one, the two of them had gone on patrol and made sure that the city’s othernatural residents remained as law-abiding and behaved as possible.
Tonight, she was late.
He pulled out his phone and checked it for the second time, but there was still no message from her. She was a basilisk and could definitely take care of herself, but that didn’t stop him from being concerned about his sector chief.
Not that he’d ever worried about Argent, except what the old dragon shifter might have thought about a few of Creek’s screwups.
Annika was different. He stopped pacing to sit on the steps that led down from his sleeping loft. Thanks to his grandmother, he and Annika had developed a much better relationship than he’d ever had with Argent.
He laughed softly. If Mawmaw had her way, she’d probably get them married off. Not that he felt like that about Annika. He preferred his women… human. Or comarré, but that door wasn’t just closed; it was nailed shut. And he knew Mawmaw well enough to know that inviting them both over for dinner wasn’t just her friendly way of saying thank you for saving her from Yahla, the soulless woman. He shook his head. Oh no. She made plans, that one. Plans she liked to see realized.
He’d pulled out his phone again and started a text to Annika when three short knocks sounded on the door of the repurposed machine shop he called home. He jumped up and went to slide the door back.
Annika stood on the other side, draped in shadows. She nodded and her ever-present black shades reflected the two solar lamps lighting his home. “Creek.”
Relief erased the tension in his shoulders. “I was starting to think something had happened.”
“No, I…” She looked down the street. “I just had some things to take care of.” Then she checked the other side. “I’m not alone.”
His brow furrowed. “Who’s with you?”
“Another operative. Everything clear?”
“Yes.” Another operative? Was he being moved? Given help? He pushed the door open a little wider. “Come in.” And explain.
She looked to her side again and motioned to someone, then stepped through the door. “This is the highest level of security, you understand?”
“Absolutely.” What wasn’t with the KM?
A shadow filled the doorway behind her. Taller, darker, and reeking of the dirty, spicy scent only one creature carried.
“Vampire,” he muttered.
She nodded and turned toward her guest. “It’s clear.”
The operative stepped into the light and Creek’s gut twisted hard. He swore softly under his breath. “Octavian.”
Doc signed the last of the papers in front of him and set them aside. “All right. Bring him in.”
Barasa nodded and opened the office door.
A few moments later, Remo Silva strolled in.
With the same apprehension he’d feel toward any newcomer to his pride, Doc eyed the man entering his office. Even Omur and Barasa, Doc’s existing council members, seemed on edge. Despite being the son of the leader of São Paulo’s largest pride, Remo would still have to prove himself as a member of this one. His guaranteed position on Doc’s council didn’t come with built-in trust.
But Doc had agreed to Remo joining his pride and he would not go back on his word. He stayed seated, the proper position for any pride leader, and extended his hand. “Maddoc Mays. Good to meet you, Remo. Your father spoke highly of you.”
Remo shook Doc’s hand with unnecessary vigor. “I doubt that.” He laughed and a shiver of unease rippled down Doc’s back. “The old man was just happy to pawn me off.” He shook Barasa’s and Omur’s hands as well, then turned back to Doc. “Good to be here, though. I like new places. New people. New experiences.”
“Please, sit.” A flash of yellow flickered through Remo’s eyes so quickly Doc was barely sure he’d seen it. “Just so long as those new experiences don’t include sleeping your way through the female membership of this pride.”
Remo took the chair on the end, beside Omur, who looked like he’d rather not be so close to the Brazilian varcolai. “I see my father has shared more than he should have.”
“It’s his job to inform me about the newest member of my pride.”
“It’s also his job to protect his son. To make it possible for me to have a fresh start. So much for that.” Remo sat back, threw his ankle over his knee, and peered at Doc in a way that sent red flags up. “So…” He drew the word out. “Where is this wife of yours? The one who murdered my sister?”
Doc clenched his teeth to keep from snarling. Heat snapped along his veins, a reminder of the witch fire that still lingered in his system, although he’d been learning to control it with help from Barasa. With a deep breath, he leaned back and answered. “Is that the São Paolo pride’s official stance? Because if your father has changed his mind—”
“No.” The smugness on Remo’s face was gone, momentarily replaced by panic. A second later, he flipped his hand through the air like he was flicking a bug away and smiled. “I am just playing with you.”
Doc didn’t return Remo’s good humor. “I don’t play. Ever.” He stood, pulling up to his full height before coming around to lean on the other side of the desk. Crossing his arms, he stared down at Remo with as much intensity as he could without causing fire to leap off his skin. “You’ve been here three minutes. So far you’ve called me a liar and my wife a murderer.” He let his eyes go gold with anger. “Have you ever played baseball, Remo?”
The man looked genuinely confused. “Yes.”
“Good.” Doc smiled. “Then you understand the three-strike rule.” Remo shifted in his seat. “You have one left. Do you get where I’m coming from?”
Remo nodded. “Y-yes.” His voice cracked. He cleared his throat. “I understand. I am just tired from my trip.”
Doc got up and went back behind his desk. “Barasa and Omur will give you a tour of the building and show you
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