Flesh And Blood: House of Comarre: Book Two (House of Comarre 2) by Painter, Kristen (best love story novels in english .txt) 📗

She motioned for Octavian to follow. Together they boarded the craft, weapons drawn. Octavian held the short blade that had once been Nasir’s. She fashioned her hand into a smaller version of the headsman’s sword she’d come to favor. She opened the first door she came to and slipped in.

In the center of the empty salon, a perfect circle of blood shimmered with an unnatural gleam. The blood scent rushed her, almost knocking her back. Behind her, Octavian growled low. She glanced at him. His fangs were out, his nostrils flared, and his face a warrior’s mask of hard angles and sharp bone. For a vampling like him, this much blood scent would be overwhelming. ‘Focus. You’ll feed soon.’

He nodded, sniffing hard. His eyes rolled back into his head slightly.

She punched his shoulder. ‘Control it.’

‘I’m trying,’ he grated, shaking himself.

‘Try harder.’ She slunk toward the blood, weapon ready even though they were alone. Some kind of ritual had been performed here. Near the circle lay a sharpened gold straw. The pointed end leaked blood. At the top of the circle was the sun sign she’d come to recognize as the mark of the comarré. That symbol had first led her to the old comarré, and now it would lead Tatiana to the young one and more importantly, the ring.

She leaned in and held her natural hand over the circle, lowering it closer and closer until the buzz of power bit into her skin. She stood and nodded. ‘A portal. See that symbol? It can only mean the comarré’s run home.’ Tatiana laughed sharply. ‘If she thinks the Primoris Domus can protect her, she’s wrong.’

Morphing the gleaming sword at her side back into a hand, she turned to Octavian. ‘Time to return to Corvinestri and end this game.’

‘But how do you know she won’t just slip back through the portal?’

‘Because she can’t come through a portal that isn’t here.’ She glanced around the vessel. ‘Set the boat on fire.’

Chapter Thirty-eight

Chrysabelle fell to her knees in front of Mal, arms outstretched. ‘No, please, I beg you, my lady. Spare their lives. They came only to protect me. I’m sure of it.’

The Aurelian raised her brows. ‘You think a vampire wishes to protect you? Are you ill, child?’

‘He’s saved my life more than once. He isn’t like the rest of his kind, I assure you.’ Although he and Creek were surely the biggest meddling idiots she’d ever known. How dare they violate her trust and follow her here? Hadn’t she specifically told them not to touch her or interrupt her during the ritual? She’d never wish them death, but they’d earned some kind of punishment.

‘Hmph.’ The Aurelian pointed her blade at Creek. ‘And this one?’

‘He’s Kubai Mata.’

The Aurelian took a harder look at him. ‘Is he?’

‘Yes, I swear it.’ Chrysabelle prayed for mercy, despite what the two fools behind her had done. ‘Please. They don’t deserve death.’

‘Neither do they deserve leniency.’ The Aurelian rested the flat of her blade on her shoulder. ‘But for your sake, I will allow them to live. They will not, however, be a party to our discussion.’ She strode back to her table, laid her weapon down, and took up an ornate octagonal box. She removed the lid and the perfume of myrrh spilled into the room. ‘Until I release them, they will be bound in complete silence, unable to hear or see us.’

‘As you wish.’ Thank you, holy mother, for sparing them.

The Aurelian stood before Creek. ‘Rise.’ He did as if lifted by an invisible force. Still, he said nothing. She tossed a handful of the powdered substance toward him. It dropped in a perfect circle around his feet. A column of weak light, like sunlight filled with dust motes, rose from the circle until it touched the ceiling.

Creek put his hands up and looked around. He opened his mouth and shouted. Not a sound escaped his conjured prison. He cocked his fist back, muscles bunching in his shoulder, and punched the column to no effect. The rise and fall of his chest increased. He crouched down, splayed his fingertips on the ground, and closed his eyes.

The Aurelian moved to Mal. ‘Get up, vampire.’

He got to his feet, but unlike Creek, his posture stayed defensive. He glared at the Aurelian like he was trying to warn her. Like he was trying to protect Chrysabelle.

The woman snorted softly and looked at Chrysabelle. ‘This one truly believes he is your protector, doesn’t he?’

Chrysabelle wanted to say I told you so but stuck with, ‘Yes.’

The Aurelian tossed the myrrh at his feet and the process repeated itself, enclosing him in the strange magic. Mal scowled and crossed his arms, looking around and up before settling into the odd perfect stillness only a vampire could achieve. He looked like a statue. A beautiful, dangerous, boneheaded statue.

The Aurelian went back to her table, replaced the lid, and set the box aside. ‘Now, comarré, we begin. You may call me Nadira.’ She took her seat, propped her elbows on the table, and laced her fingers beneath her chin. ‘You are Chrysabelle. House of Primoris Domus. You’ve found a way to access me that few comarré have, although all who accept my signum bear it. Someone guided you. Another comarré. One you are very close to. You also hold a piece of powerful magic. One the nobles would very much like to have. Is that why you’ve come? To find out the real power of the thing you’ve hidden away?’

‘No.’ Nadira’s information didn’t surprise Chrysabelle. It was the woman’s job to know the unknown.

‘What, then?’

Chrysabelle hesitated. The Aurelian hadn’t yet limited her questions as she’d done to Maris. Perhaps she would allow more than one. ‘I’ve come because I wish to help the vampire.’ She tipped her hand toward Mal. ‘To find a way to remove the curse he lives under.’

Nadira laughed. ‘Oh,