“First one finished.” Atticus spoke in such a small voice that Mal wondered if he was even meant to hear it.
The new signum sparked to life as if lit from within, then the glow faded, melting away into the subtle light that always surrounded her. “Is that normal?” Mal asked. He kept his voice low, too.
“What?” Atticus asked, his head coming up.
“The glow.”
“Yes.” With a look that cut off any more talking, Atticus bent his head and went back to work.
A sharp sizzle and a trailing column of vapor rose off his needle. Mal’s jaw ached from clenching it. “How can she stand this? No human should be able to. It’s not possible.”
“I should not have allowed this. You’re breaking my concentration.” With a sharp exhale, Atticus lifted the needle and leaned back. “You assume the comarré is human.”
“I know she is. I’ve met her mother.”
Atticus’s eyebrows lifted, but he didn’t ask for more details. “Yes, well, you haven’t met her father. You won’t either. I can’t imagine you’d last long in his presence.”
Mal squinted. “Who is her father?”
“Not who. What.”
“You’re going to drop that bomb and then walk away from it?” Chrysabelle would want to know this when she came out of whatever pain-numbing trance she was in.
Atticus shrugged. “I only know rumors. Guesses. Nothing concrete.” He bent like he was going back to work.
“What do you know?” Mal’s temper shaded the edges of his vision red. The beast rumbled louder.
“All I will say is”—he paused as if searching for the words—“gold is not the only reason her blood tastes so divine.” With that, he shut Mal out, bending over Chrysabelle and applying the needle with greater concentration.
Mal thought on the signumist’s words, but shearing part of his attention away from Chrysabelle made little sense. There would be time for thinking later. Maybe she’d know what Atticus had meant.
The signumist continued down the length of her spine and back up the other side, implanting the signum and announcing each one as it was finished. Blood rose from the welted skin and trailed down her sides like ribbons. How she stood it, Mal had no idea. Halfway through the first side, he’d begun to shake with emotions he couldn’t name. He wanted to take her place. To hurt Rennata for making Chrysabelle go through this again. To kill. To shove Atticus away from her. To maim. To rage against the injustice of life. To cradle her in his arms and make the pain go away.
If Chrysabelle sensed any of it, she made no indication, but watching her go through this was more intense than he’d imagined. His hands had long since gone numb. Even the voices in his head had quieted. At least it went quickly.
Finally, Atticus lifted his needle. “Finished.”
The last signum lit up as the others had. This time the glow spread, brighter and stronger than before. The other new signum began to glow as well. Then the existing signum came to life. She moaned softly.
“Are you sure she’s supposed to glow like that?”
Atticus stood, flexing his hands. “You’re a vampire. All comarré glow to you.”
“Not that brightly. Each one of her signum look like the sun is shining through it.”
Atticus stopped moving his tray out of the way. “That can’t be.”
“It is. I’m watching it happen right now.”
Chrysabelle moaned again, louder this time.
“Something’s wrong.” Atticus frowned.
Mal jumped up. “What do you mean something’s wrong? Fix it. Now.”
“I can’t. What’s done is done.”
“Not good enough.” If not for Chrysabelle’s hands gripping his, he would have leaped across the table and clamped them around the signumist’s neck. “What’s happening to her?”
Atticus shook his head, his eyes darting from side to side as if seeking answers. “The power in the ring could have survived the melting, or…”
“Or what?”
“Her blood could somehow be tainted.”
A sharp chill dug into Mal’s gut. “Tainted how?” But he already knew the answer.
“When her original signum were stripped, was she hospitalized? An infusion of normal human blood could cause problems.”
“No. No human blood.” Just vampire. Once again, he was the reason she suffered. Of course.
“Maybe it’s the power in the ring, then.”
Chrysabelle’s hands spread wide, releasing Mal’s. She lifted her head and opened her mouth like she was struggling to breathe, but her eyes stayed closed. “So… hot…”
“Hold her down,” Atticus said. “She shouldn’t move so soon after having this done. The flesh needs to seal. I have to clean her off at least.” He hurried to the side counter.
Hands aching, Mal latched on to her upper arms and kneeled down so he could talk softly to her. “Hang on, Chrysabelle. It’s going to be okay. I know it hurts. Breathe.” You can kill me later, he wanted to say. She probably will. He bent farther so his head touched hers. “I’m right here. I’m not going to leave you.” But she’d leave him. Just as soon as she realized what he’d done. She should.
Atticus came back with a bowl of steaming water scented with some kind of herb and a cloth. He began to mop the blood from her. She moaned and lifted her head again. Her eyes fluttered open. The summer blue of her irises was shot through with flecks of gold, making her eyes glow almost as much as her body. “Am I dying?”