Pain to fight pain. If he’d still been human, he would have gone insane long ago.
Maybe he already had.
He closed his eyes for a moment against the gnawing inside his head. The beast was awake. Hungry. It bore up through his gums, made his teeth ache to bite, made his throat tighten at the remembrance of blood. This whole house stank of it. And death. He opened his eyes, newly bitter. For a house this large to carry such a smell meant its mistress was careless with her kills, greedy with her feeding. And yet he was the one considered anathema.
Invisible jaws chewed at his joints. Feed, kill, drink, blood, blood, blood. What he wouldn’t give to be free of th— a scream rang out through the estate. Human. Familiar.
Doc’s hand closed over the blade sheathed at his belt. ‘That was Fi,’ he ground out. ‘They hurt her, I’m gonna rip them apart.’ He stretched his jaw, showing off teeth that made Mal’s fangs seem like a starter set. ‘And I’m going to enjoy it.’ His pupils were razor-thin slits, his body spring-loaded. Whatever got in Doc’s way was going to end up dead.
And Mal would be happy to help. He gripped the handle of his long sword. He’d not hefted the blade in anything but practice for too long.
Chrysabelle motioned them forward as she broke into a jog toward the direction of the scream. Mal and Doc went after her, with Dominic bringing up the rear. Silently, they covered two halls and a set of stairs, stopping before a pair of double doors.
Nodding at Mal, Chrysabelle tapped the side of her nose, then pointed toward the doors.
Mal inhaled. No, no, no, no … The scents of vampires, comarré blood, and Fi mingled in his nostrils. A piercing whine filled his head, lighting his nerve endings with fresh fire. He nodded and reached for his long sword, holding up his other hand and counting down with his fingers.
On one, they burst through the doors, then through a second set and into the room beyond. The last pair of doors slammed shut behind them. Chaos erupted. Chrysabelle whipped out her sacre but stayed at his side. Doc charged the male vampire standing over Fi, who sprawled unconscious on the carpet, a bruise purpling her cheek, her arm jutting out at an unnatural angle.
‘Maris.’ Dominic rushed to the center of the room where Chrysabelle’s aunt was bound to a chair, also unconscious and badly beaten.
Behind Maris, a female vampire had her back to them. She was spreading things out over a table, but at the noise, she spun and flipped a slim dagger into Dominic’s belly. With a groan, he crumpled at Maris’s feet, muttering, ‘Laudanum.’ No other nonmagical drug slowed a vampire so much as the ancient tincture of opium. Mal had found that out the hard way more than once during his life.
The female’s eyes locked onto Mal’s a second later.
Her jaw dropped.
As did his. ‘Son of a priest.’
The wailing in his head blocked out all other sounds. The beast within flexed its muscles. His vision darkened around the edges, narrowing to focus on her and her alone. Disbelief closed his throat. All this time, he’d mourned her. Endured the guilt of her death like the weight of a thousand worlds. The beast roared to be let out. Not yet. But soon. The beast’s anger spilled over, giving Mal a voice again.
‘How in hell’s name are you still alive?’
Tatiana stared back, eyes reflecting the anger he was feeling. ‘I could ask you the same thing, husband.’
Chapter Thirty-three
Chrysabelle almost dropped her sacre. With some effort, she formed her confusion into words. ‘What did she just call you?’ ‘Husband,’ Mal whispered, his gaze pinned to the vampiress now brandishing a sword in their direction. To one side, Doc snarled, claws deep into Mikkel’s chest, a healthy gash opened across one cheek.
Chrysabelle stared at the woman Mal had once called wife and saw her with new perspective. This dark, exotic beauty had once been Malkolm’s wife. Chrysabelle hated everything that meant. ‘You said your wife was dead.’ Severing a vampire’s neck was about as final as you could get.
‘She is. Was. Is.’ He shook his head, never taking his eyes off Tatiana. ‘They beheaded you. I heard the sword. I smelled the blood, felt the heat of it—’
‘Guards!’ Tatiana yelled as she stepped over Dominic’s drugged body and, sword firmly aimed at Mal’s chest, walked toward them. ‘Mikkel cast a mimicry spell on a fringe to look like me, then he beheaded her. I’d already fed her enough of my blood to mingle our scents. Genius, really.’
‘Mikkel?’ Mal glanced at the vampire struggling against Doc, then back at Tatiana. ‘He was the one with you that night. He and Lord Ivan.’
She scoffed, shaking her head. ‘You were easy to fool. So lost in your madness, you didn’t know the difference.’
The sword point pricked his jacket. ‘But then you never were one to see things clearly, were you? You probably thought I loved you too.’
‘Shaya—’
‘Don’t call me that.’ She jabbed the sword through the leather. ‘My name is Tatiana.’
‘I made you what you are.’
Bitterness sparked in her eyes, her mouth twisting. ‘You brought me into this life, but that past has been erased. The taint of your blood has been wiped away. I have been given navitas. I’ve been resired by another.’ She leaned in. ‘I have been reborn.’
So it was true. Tatiana had actually survived navitas. Chrysabelle had never known a vampire who’d undergone the ritual. Nobles who wanted to change houses could theoretically do so if they found an older vampire from that house willing to sire them. It was supposedly a very painful process, and considered an affront to the original sire. It was also rarely done because it often left the resired vampire insane. As evidenced in Tatiana.