Doc was at her side now. She pressed against him and reached for the switchblade he kept hooked on his belt. She tapped his back three times. He nodded slightly as she took the blade, then moved away.
She flicked it open and streaked the edge across her palm. Pain and a line of red welled up. Mal’s black gaze narrowed on the new blood.
Memories painted a haze around Fi’s vision. Memories of when Mal had attacked her. The way his fangs had torn through her skin. She swallowed and, for a moment, thought she saw a flicker of silver in those eyes. ‘C’mon, Mal. You know you want it. You can smell it, can’t you? Pure mortal blood, untainted by all that gold. You know what it tastes like, don’t you? This blood saved your life one time before. It can do it again.’
Fear rounded Doc’s eyes, probably because he knew as well as she did that if Mal reached her in his current state, he’d tear her arm from her body to get what he wanted. Or worse. If everything went according to the quickly sketched plan in her head, that wouldn’t happen. Probably.
Her heart thudded hard in her chest. The room seemed darker. More like the ruins.
Mal swallowed and flicked his tongue over his lips. With a shuddering breath, Fi squeezed her hand into a fist and let the blood drip onto the mats. The shroud of names on his skin began to waver and separate. Doc slowly shifted around behind Mal, hefting the crossbow into position. ‘That’s it,’ she cajoled, sending the next signal. ‘The two of us can do this together.’
Mal inched forward and Fi yelled, ‘Three!’
Chrysabelle bucked Mal into the air. Doc squeezed the trigger. The bolt caught Mal in the shoulder and thrust him away. A multitude of voices cried out in rage as he fell to the ground at Fi’s feet. She got out of the way as Chrysabelle flipped to a crouched position, her chest heaving, sword in hand and pointed at Mal. Frozen with tenuous relief, the three stared at him, waiting to see what would happen next.
Thankfully, the blackness bled away into the familiar pattern of names. Mal lay prone for a moment, then reached back and yanked out the bolt with a grunt. He tossed it without lifting his face off the mat. Blood oozed from the wound. ‘Leave me. Now.’
Doc looked at Fi, then Mal. He shifted to his other foot. ‘Sorry, bro, I didn’t know what else—’
‘Get out.’ Shame made Mal’s words quiet and still. Fi understood, and new emotion filled her. Elation that she’d survived. Sorrow that she hadn’t been as successful the first time. But not the hatred that usually welled up. Pity had taken its place. Pity that Mal would never want to know about. The curse was a mammoth burden to bear. She knew what a horror show went on in that head of his. A lesser creature would have killed himself long before now. Not just thought about it or tried it but done it.
Doc thrust his lower jaw forward. ‘You would have torn Fi’s arm off.’
‘Get. Out.’
‘Doc … ’ Fi tried to catch Doc’s eyes but he was intently staring daggers at Mal’s prostrate form. Doc might be cursed too, but his was nothing like Mal’s. Chrysabelle quietly set the sword down and pushed to her feet.
‘Not you, comarré.’ Mal eased to his knees. The oozing blood turned into a thin trickle as he stood. His fists clenched tight to his sides. The voices must be tearing his head to pieces. Chrysabelle glanced at Fi.
Fi shuddered, then caught Doc’s gaze. His pupils were down to slits. He’d been ready to attack on her behalf. ‘C’mon, let’s get out of here.’ If Mal wanted to talk to Chrysabelle, Fi wasn’t about to stand in his way. Whatever he needed to discuss with the comarré, he was in decent shape to do it now. And hopefully, a more sane frame of mind. Fi knew that her survival depended on his. No matter how much strange blood ran through her system, how long could she last without Mal?
Doc walked out with her, his hand comfortably on the small of her back. Ever since she’d gotten fully corporeal, the varcolai’s attitude toward her had changed a little. He’d gotten sweeter, more demonstrative, and not just when they were alone either. She tucked his switchblade back into his belt and, giving his side a little pinch, whispered, ‘Thanks.’
They went single file up the narrow stairs to the next deck, coming side by side again when the passage widened. Doc’s hand returned to rest on the waistband of her jeans. ‘We need to bandage that hand of yours, but leaving them alone is a bad idea.’
‘They’ll be fine. My hand too.’ She was sure about her hand, not so much about Mal and Chrysabelle, but this was Mal’s problem and he had to deal with it or it was likely to happen again. Her uninjured hand slid up Doc’s back to rest at the nape of his neck, about as far as she could reach without going onto her toes. The man was sleek, hard muscle from stem to stern. Too bad about his curse. Just once she’d like to see him in his true form. She’d love to snuggle up next to a big black leopard. Not that she’d ever admit that to him while his curse prevented it. Curse or not, she was never leaving him.
Doc opened his mouth, most likely to talk her into going back to check on them, but her fingers drifted over his back, her nails scratching lazily at his skin. His lids drooped, drugged by her caresses. ‘That’s cheating,’ he mumbled.
Sometimes a girl had to do what a girl had to do. Especially when the joy in her life centered on the subject at hand. How lucky was she that Mal had decided she needed a cat? How lucky was Doc that Mal had decided to save him from those mangy street mutts? Everything happened for a reason, even if those reasons didn’t always make sense at the time. ‘I just thought my kitty cat needed a little reward for his help.’