Tatiana stared at the crescent moon marking the woman’s pale flesh. Her gaze slowly lifted back to the woman’s face, her mind warping with the reality of who stood before her.

Daci’s hand went to her mouth.

“Bloody hell,” Tatiana whispered. “You are Lilith.”

“Yes, and I’ll be back to see you very soon, Mother.” With a cackling laugh that cracked the marble hearth, Lilith spread her arms and disappeared in a burst of shadow and smoke, taking the Castus with her.

Daci turned to Tatiana, eyes round. “They’re afraid of her, aren’t they?”

Tatiana nodded slowly. “I think so.”

“What does that mean for us?”

Tatiana shook her head, every plan she’d orchestrated these last few centuries unraveling before her like tumbling balls of yarn. “Nothing good.”

Chapter Twelve

Mal woke up feeling like he’d slept under the freighter, not in it, and the fog thickening his skull showed no signs of dissipating. He blinked into the blackness, his sight adjusting instantly to the spare glow of the solars. They were almost completely tapped, but their weak light was more than enough for his eyes. In his bones, he could sense that beyond the painted and boarded-up porthole in his room, the sun still owned the sky for another hour. He shouldn’t really be awake yet, but his need for daysleep had decreased since he’d been cursed and lessened even more once he’d started drinking comarré blood.

The voices snarled weakly at the white-and-gold image floating through his memories, too sated to make much of a fuss. He didn’t remember a kill last night, but he wasn’t hungry either. Maybe he’d mistakenly picked a human with alcohol or drugs in their system. That would explain why he felt slightly hungover. With a snort, he pushed up onto his elbows. The movement did nothing to dislodge the fog, but it did cause a familiar, honeyed perfume to waft up around him.

Chrysabelle.

He scrubbed a hand over his face. Her sweet scent intensified. He swung his legs over the side of the bed and grabbed a handful of the covers, lifting them to his nose. Her scent wasn’t just on him; it was on his bed linens, too. Had she been his kill? He scanned the room, but there was no body. Closing his eyes, he tried to remember what had happened last night. Had he gone back to her estate? Tracked her somewhere? Nothing came to him. Except that Chrysabelle couldn’t have been his dinner if he was feeling hungover. Comarré never touched alcohol, so drugs weren’t even a remote possibility. He must have bagged a street person or a club-goer.

Which left only one explanation for why her smell was so present. She’d been here. On the freighter. In his space. Anger burrowed through his veins. What did she think, that she was going to make him fall in love with her again? That moment of weakness was not going to be repeated. He’d rather it disappear from his brain the same way his love for her had. What had he been thinking? What vampire fell in love with their meal? It disgusted him that he’d stooped so low. Made his gut ache with unpleasant feelings.

He stared down at the sheets crumpled in his fist. If she would just stay away from him, maybe he could forgive her for interfering in his life. Weakling. But no, visiting him was too much. Too bold for someone who was nothing more than a food source to him now. A small pain jolted through his chest. He rubbed at it, chalking it up to indigestion from last night’s poor choice of blood supply.

Dropping the sheets, he got to his feet and smiled. Tonight would be different. Tonight he was going to dine on the finest blood he’d ever had and solve his biggest problem at the same time. The solar flickered and went dark. Twilight. Freedom.

He changed his clothes, then loped toward the exit, already anticipating the night that lay ahead of him. Throwing open the door, he stepped out onto the deck and stopped as the intoxicating aroma of human blood met him.

A shiny rectangular container sat a few feet beyond the door. The scent was so strong around the black box, it almost glowed red. He inhaled, scanning the area, but couldn’t pick up anything that indicated another presence nearby.

Cautiously, he crouched and put his hands on the container. Warm. Almost hot. How long had it sat out here in the sun? There was no lock, so he flipped the latch and opened it.

The voices went crazy. Bags of blood filled it to the top. He grabbed one. It was warm enough to be body temperature. His fangs shot down and he grinned. This was just what he needed. Now he could feed before he went after Chrysabelle, which meant her blood wouldn’t sway him and he’d be able to take his time with her.

He squeezed one of the bags to tighten it, then sank his fangs in. Definitely human. Not the best blood he’d ever had, but it was still rich and thick and perfectly heated. He drank deeply, emptying the first bag quickly. He tossed it and grabbed another. Near the end of that one, the ship seemed to lurch, throwing him off balance. He caught himself as he rocked to the side. What little light was left of dusk faded fast. So fast his eyes couldn’t keep up. Unable to hold the bag to his mouth any longer, his arm went limp and the bag fell to the deck.

His eyes closed and a second later, he dropped to the deck beside it.

Fi pushed a piece of bacon around on her plate with her fork. She hadn’t slept well since the incident with Remo, but she hadn’t mentioned it to Doc either. She knew he wouldn’t be happy that she’d spent time with Remo. Or would he? It was an effort on her part to get to know Remo better. She sighed and made a mound of her scrambled eggs.

Doc looked up from reading the morning news on his tablet. “You all right?” His gaze went to her plate. “Don’t like Isaiah’s cooking?”