“That’s all you do, isn’t it? Talk?” She huffed out a breath. “Jerem, how soon can we drop Augustine off?”
“We’ll be there in a few more minutes.”
She stared out the window at the beautiful, charmed homes lining the streets and spoke softly to herself. “I should have known Mortalis would be right. He always is. He said there’d be no help here, and sure enough—”
“All right,” Augustine said. “I get it. You’re trying to spin me up, make me prove my brother was wrong. Well you know what? He wasn’t. I’m everything he said I was and more.”
She looked at him, using whatever comarré charm she could muster. If that would even work on him. “You could change that. Just help me. Do this one thing and he can’t say he knows what you’re like anymore.” She rested one hand on her belly. “Please. I don’t want my child to grow up without a father.”
“I had one. Occasionally. It’s not all it’s cracked up to be.”
Chrysabelle stared at him. “I guess that explains it.”
He stared back. “Explains what?”
Chrysabelle raised her brows. “Why you don’t know how to be a man when the situation calls for it.”
“Oh, burn,” Fi whispered.
Augustine’s scowl melted into something close to pain. He closed his eyes, tipped his head against the back of the seat, and bounced it off the headrest. “I know how to be a man. My father didn’t. But I do.”
Chrysabelle’s insides went soft with hope. “Does that mean you’re going to help me?”
“Damn it. Yes.” He kept his eyes closed. “Make sure you tell Mortalis how wrong he was.”
“I will.” She wanted to grab him and hug him. Instead she smiled calmly. “Thank you.”
He opened his eyes and slanted them at her. “Don’t thank me until it’s over.”
She nodded, but inside she was ecstatic. And nervous enough to faint. “What do we need to do? Do you have time to stop by the hotel? I need my sacres. Those are comarré swords.” Now she was just babbling. She shut her mouth.
“I know what sacres are. And yes, the hotel’s fine. We can do it there. I don’t want any of this traceable back to Livie.” He sighed like he couldn’t believe what he’d agreed to.
“I wouldn’t want that either.” She leaned forward and put her hand on Jerem’s shoulder. “To the hotel.”
He flipped on the signal to turn around. “Got it.”
Chrysabelle sat back. “How soon can we do this?”
“Best time to pull a human through to the fae plane is twilight. Things get… thinner then.” He studied her, all traces of his blithe attitude gone. The serious lines of his face spoke of pain and experiences beyond anything she could imagine. What had happened in his life? With his father? Between him and Mortalis? “I will take you to the entrance, but you’re on your own from there.”
“I’m going with her,” Fi announced.
“Suit yourself.” He cracked his head to one side. “You’ll have an hour to do what you need to do. More than that and things get sticky. Getting you out gets harder the longer you’re there. And trust me, you do not want to spend more time in the Claustrum than you have to.”
“What’s it like?” Fi asked.
He stayed quiet for a breath. “It’s where the fae keep those of our own kind too horrible to be free.” He smiled, but there was no charm in it. “It’s where we keep the things that scare us.”
Chapter Twenty-two
Son of a priest.” Mal rubbed his throbbing head, wondering how much of it was from Creek’s drugs and how much was because the sun was still an hour from setting. How many times was he going to wake up from daysleep feeling like he’d been on a bender? Enough was enough. What had the KM said? That he should thank Chrysabelle the next time he saw her.
Mal snorted. He planned on seeing her very soon, but thanking her wasn’t on his agenda. Stupid git. If she knew what was good for her, she would have told Creek to bury that bolt in his heart.
He grabbed one of the protruding metal seams on the corridor wall and hauled himself to his feet. His right thigh ached where the KM’s bolt had landed and his jeans were torn and crusted in blood. If he went out like that, he’d have every fringe in the neighborhood sniffing after him. He headed for the shower to clean up. He changed clothes when he was done, returning to his room long enough to tuck a short blade into one of his boots. The locket he’d taken off Tatiana sat on the small table by his reading chair. He didn’t need to carry that reminder. He knew whose picture it held. More bad memories. That’s all it was.
He strode down the hall toward the deck. The closer he got, the thicker the smell of blood grew. The voices went crazy as he stopped and splayed his hand on the door. Hot as blazes. Damnation, the smell of blood was strong. More than strong, it was making clear thought impossible. He had to have blood. No. He shook his head. Blood blood blood. He had no intention of drinking whatever was out there waiting for him, no matter how hard the voices pushed. Thanks to Tatiana, he was wise to Chrysabelle’s ways. Who else would send him tainted blood? What else but the knowledge that he was incapacitated would embolden her to visit him? Kill her drain her.
Tonight he would be done with her once and for all, and then he’d take Dominic’s plane and head to Corvinestri for retribution. Everything that had been taken from him would be restored. And if Tatiana broke her word, he’d kill her too.