Out for Blood (28 page)

She looked at what she was wearing. It bore the marks of their embrace, remnants of soot and his time in the sewer. “Well, if they noticed, they didn’t say anything. I’ll change while you’re showering.”

He glanced toward the bathroom. He knew that room well. Last time he’d been in there, she’d opened a portal to the Aurelian and he’d gone through it to save her, only to bring back her dead body. It would be good to replace that memory with something else. “Turn the water on for me?”

She gave him an odd look. “Just because I said I love you doesn’t mean I’m going to wait on you hand and foot, you know.”

He shook his head. “I’d never assume that. I’d rather the mirrors steam up before I go in there.”
Coward.

“Oh.” She grimaced apologetically. “You don’t want to see your true self.”

“After the day I’ve just had? No.” Seeing his inner monster seemed like overkill after the mayor had just attempted to put him to death for
being
a monster. That was enough of a reminder.
No, it isn’t.

“I understand.” She went in and cranked the water on, the shushing sound allowing them to stop whispering.

He plucked at his T-shirt when she came back out. “I can’t put this stuff back on. There should be a change of clothes in the hurricane shelter.” Unless she’d thrown out his stuff after she’d told him to get out. How far they’d come.
Too bad.

She nodded and the glimmer in her eyes said she was thinking of that moment, too. “I can get down there and back without being seen. Not that any of them would question me wanting something of yours right now.” She turned to go, but he grabbed her hand.

“I’m really sorry you had to go through that. If I had known, I would have—”

“Come out during the day?” She smiled. “It’s okay. Now that you’re back, none of that matters.” Her face suddenly went solemn. “Just… don’t do that to me again, okay?”

“I won’t. I promise.” He leaned in and kissed her.

Halfway through it, she started to laugh. “Sorry, but you still smell.” She bit her lip to keep from laughing again. “I’ll kiss you more when you get out of the shower.”

“I’m going to hold you to that.” And hold her against him. The voices could get bent.

She grinned as she slipped out the door. He inhaled, needing to replace the redolence of sewer with her honeyed perfume. Amazing that she was his willingly. Tugging his shirt off, he headed for the bathroom, where clouds of steam already wafted out the door. More steam had fogged the mirrors until all he could see of himself was a rough, dark shape. He dropped his ruined shirt to the floor and shut the door, leaving it unlocked in case his sweet, angelic comarré had other plans.

Chrysabelle had laid out a towel for him, so he shucked the remainder of his disgusting clothes and climbed into her cavernous marble and glass shower.

Hot water sluiced over him, tightening his muscles with an almost painful pleasure. Hot showers were plentiful on the freighter, but something about showering in a space the size of an old-fashioned phone booth sucked the pleasure out of it. Living on her property meant he’d probably get to use this shower whenever he wanted. Preferably with her in it. He leaned into the spray, letting the water beat against his skin and the thrum of it fill his head. The noise almost drowned out the voices.

Almost.

He grabbed the shower gel. The label said
Lapointe Cosmetics.
Thoughts of Maris and all she’d endured for Chrysabelle humbled him. He had no doubts her mother would not approve of their relationship. Mentally, he promised Maris he’d let no harm come to Chrysabelle. Then he squeezed out a palm full of the gel and went to work ridding the sewer’s stench from his body.

He emerged from the shower feeling better than he had in centuries. The last time he’d been this happy, freshly bathed, and full of blood from the vein had been… never. He snagged the fluffy white towel from the counter and dried off. How many times had this towel dried Chrysabelle? Leaving his hair damp, he wrapped the towel around his waist and walked into the bedroom.

Chrysabelle was curled in a chair near the French doors, reading through what looked like one of her mother’s journals. The stereo played softly, probably her attempt to block further conversation from the hypersensitive ears downstairs. Jeans and a black T-shirt waited on the bed for him.

“Checking to see what your mother would think about us?”
She’d hate you. We do.

She jumped, her head coming up with a snap. “You startled me. No, I was…” She frowned, peering at him oddly. “Did the burns leave scars on you?”

“No, why?”

She set the journal down and came to him. “You have some weird spots on you.”

“Spots?” He bowed forward, trying to see himself without losing his towel.

“Like this.” She touched a place on his forearm above his wrist where there was the smallest area of unmarked skin.

“That’s where Fi’s name used to be. Remember? It disappeared after Mikkel killed her and never came back even after she got out of that nightmare loop.”

Her fingers eased to a stop over his right pec. “What about this one?”

He worked his jaw to one side, processing how good her touch felt. Keeping hold of his control while she was this close and he was this undressed wasn’t easy. He bent his head until he could manage a little better; otherwise the blazing shine of his eyes would give him away. If his body didn’t do that for him in the next couple of seconds. “I don’t know. That’s strange.”

“And this one?” Her fingers coasted toward his abs, stopping to the left of his navel.

He staggered back slightly and swallowed. Drinking from the vein after so long had made everything more powerful—his abilities, his senses, and his reactions. Her fingertips burned into his flesh, spilling sparks of pleasure across his nerve endings and muting the voices. Forcing himself to relax, he splayed his hand against his body, stretched the skin for a better look, then shook his head. “I have no idea. Haven’t seen my skin without the names since I escaped the ruins.”

She rubbed her finger across one of the blank spaces, leaving a trail of heat that burned down to his toes. “You’re missing three, but we can explain one. Do you know whose names they were?”

That single question quelled the desire threatening his reserve. Instead of answering immediately, he studied the blank spaces, buying time. He knew. He’d had years to do nothing but stare and remember. Talking about them to the woman he loved was completely different. He touched the spot on his stomach. “Margaret.”
The teacher from Berlin.
Then the spot on his chest. “Helen.”
The flower girl in Gloucester.
Not memories he was proud of. Not now. Not with her.

She peered at him, curiosity brightening her eyes. “How—”

“Don’t.” He gripped her hand, holding her fingers so the contact between them was broken. “Please.” He loosened his grip. “That’s not a conversation I want to have with you.”

“Okay,” she said softly. “I understand.” She rubbed her thumb across his hand before sliding her fingers from his grasp.

She seemed saddened by his refusal, so he quickly changed the subject. “Didn’t the Aurelian say the way to undo my curse was to help someone for every name I bear?”

Chrysabelle nodded. “She did. But who have you helped?”

They looked at each other, each seeing sudden understanding reflected back at them.

“You,” Mal said, the thoughts in his head so wild they were almost impossible to believe. “Both times you died.”

The Seminole Nation bumper sticker on the truck parked outside of Creek’s place meant it belonged to a tribe member. Which tribe member, he wasn’t sure, and what they were doing here was another question. A chill shook him. Unless something had happened to his mother or grandmother.

He pulled his motorcycle to a stop beside the passenger door and checked inside. Martin Hoops, one of Mawmaw’s neighbors, slouched in the driver’s seat, hat tipped down over his eyes. He looked up at the sound of Creek’s V-Rod, leaned over, and rolled the window down. He nodded. “Thomas.”

“Martin. What are you doing here? Everything all right?”

Martin pushed his hat back. “Everything’s fine. Your grandmother just wanted to see you. Made you a pineapple upside-down cake. Asked me to bring her over.”

Mawmaw didn’t drive. Never had, but that hadn’t kept her from getting where she needed to go. Tribe members had a way of doing whatever their healer needed. “Good to hear. Was worried something might have happened.”

“Naw, old girl’s fit as a fiddle. Just likes to see you now and then.” Martin leaned back, his not-so-subtle hint about Creek’s need to visit more as plain as day.

“I was just out there.”

Martin shrugged, closed his eyes, and tugged his hat back down.

Creek got off his bike and walked it to the door. Which wasn’t locked. How had Mawmaw opened it? She had her ways, but picking locks wasn’t something he’d ever seen her do.

He pushed the big metal door back and got his answer.

Annika, shades firmly in place, sat on the stairs up to the sleeping loft while Mawmaw sat nearby on an empty wooden cable spool. They had obviously been engaged in conversation. On his worktable rested a foil-wrapped plate. The foil was pulled back and the cake beneath it had been cut into. Hell. How long had Mawmaw and Annika been talking? This was not good.

Annika got up to meet him. “Your grandmother makes the best pineapple upside-down cake I’ve ever had.” Behind her, Mawmaw smiled. This was worse than not good.

“She’s won a few contests with it.” He glanced at his grandmother. “Do you want me to tell Martin you’re ready to go?” Please.

She frowned. “That’s Mr. Hoops to you, and no. When I’m ready to go, I’ll tell him myself. You just go about your work. I’ll wait.”

Double hell. He raised a brow at Annika. Argent would have freaked over this. Speaking of which… “Any news on Argent yet?”

Annika shook her head. “No. He’s been declared MIA.”

“Sorry to hear that.” Actually, he couldn’t care less as long as they didn’t figure out what had really happened. He glanced toward the loft. No sign of Yahla. One more thing for him to worry about. If she showed up now… No, she wouldn’t do that, would she? At least Mawmaw was wearing her feather charm.

“Did you deliver the invitation?”

His attention returned to Annika. “I did.”

“How did she take it? Is she preparing to leave?”

“I don’t think so. She’s in mourning over the vampire.” Hard to believe Mal was dead. He’d never been the enemy the KM made him out to be. At least now the Kubai Mata couldn’t use him as a threat against Chrysabelle anymore.

Annika’s face lost all traces of pleasantness. “We need her to leave for
achtice in three days or the window of opportunity will close. She must be at that Dominus ball. It’s the best chance to recover the child.”

“I can’t force her to do something she doesn’t want to. She knows her brother will be there. If that’s not enough, nothing will be.”

Annika pulled her phone from her inside jacket pocket and pressed her finger onto the ID scanner. It came to life, and she swiped through a few things, finally pulling up an image. “Show her this.” She turned the phone so Creek could see it.

The picture was of Damian. One eye was swollen shut and purple with bruises that matched those on his cheek and jaw. Blood trickled from the side of his mouth. Creek cleared his throat. “Is that real?”

“Of course it’s real. You think Tatiana’s throwing a parade in his honor?”

Whoever the KM had planted inside Tatiana’s, they were in deep if they were able to get shots like that.

Annika turned the phone around and tapped the screen a few more times. A couple seconds later, his phone vibrated. “There, it’s sent to you now. Go back and show her that picture. Make her understand the urgency. If you don’t get her to recover that child”—she glanced at his grandmother and lowered her voice—“your job, and all the benefits that come with it, will be gone. Understand?”

He nodded. That’s always how it was. The threats to pull the support of his family were nothing new. “Yeah, I understand.” For the sake of his grandmother, he said nothing else.

For a brief moment, Annika’s face was a stony mask. Then her expression softened. “I don’t make these directives, Creek. They come from higher up. You must know that.” She turned and bowed her head slightly at Mawmaw. “Pleasure to meet you, Mrs. Jumper.”

Mawmaw nodded back. “And you, Annika. Thank you for your gift.”

Creek wasn’t sure he wanted to know what that meant. He watched Annika leave, then went behind her and locked the door. That hadn’t gone as bad as he’d suspected.

His grandmother stood, brushed a few cake crumbs off her lap, and walked toward him. “That’s a rare one there.”

“Annika?”

She nodded. “Not often you meet a basilisk.”

“You know what she is?”

She laughed softly. “Child, I know more than you think I do.”

That much he did know. “What did you mean thanking her for a gift?”

Mawmaw patted the pocket of her patchwork vest. “She gave me a few scales. You can make some powerful charms with those.” She raised her brows above the heavy rims of her glasses. “Well, the woman ate some of my cake. Fair is fair.”