“Good evening, Chrysabelle. And you’ve brought Malkolm with you.” His soft smile faltered. “You want him present?”
“No. Yes. Maybe. Is that a problem?” Making him watch would be a great punishment. Especially if she squeezed his hands until she broke every bone in them.
“It’s unorthodox to say the least, but as we are not under the strictest of circumstances, I believe an exception can be made.” He stepped to the side. “Come in. You have the gold?”
“Yes.” She fished the ring from her interior pocket as she entered, Mal following her. She dropped the circle into Atticus’s upturned palm.
“Oh,” he breathed. “There is power in this gold. Deep power.” He turned it in his fingers. “Neither black nor white, but in the wrong hands…”
“I know. It’s the ring of sorrows.”
His brows rose a little. “And you feel comfortable using this?”
“The melting will most likely destroy the power, won’t it?”
“Very possible, yes.”
She smiled weakly. “Good enough. Besides, I have no choice.”
“There’s always a choice,” Mal growled.
“The vampire is right. You do not have to do this.”
“Yes, I do. And if either of you tries to convince me otherwise, it’s not going to be fun to be around me for a long time.”
“Center yourself, comarré, or this will not go well. Your anger has no place here.” Atticus shut the door, putting them in complete darkness.
“My apologies. Could we have some lights?” She hadn’t meant to upset him. That wasn’t something you wanted to do to the man who was about to tattoo you with burning metal.
“Ah, yes, of course.” He called for the lights, then gestured for them to follow him. “Come, let us prepare.”
The room he led them into wasn’t the one they’d been in before, but she recognized it immediately. Her back twinged in pain at the metallic scents of blood and gold, the same familiar aromas that filled the signumist’s room at the Primoris Domus. This space was a perfect replica right down to the long red leather padded table and red silk–draped walls patterned with the seven sets of signum, the five female sets on the left, the five male sets on the right, the two shared sets on the head wall. A shiver of déjá vu ran through her body, and her instinct was to run, but this was not Corvinestri. She was not back at the Primoris Domus, no longer under Rennata’s thumb.
Fingers squeezed hers and she jerked, coming out of the memories. Mal dropped her hand. “Whatever you need, I’m here,” he said quietly. “Don’t be upset by anything I said.”
She nodded, not trusting her voice.
Atticus stood before his melting pot. The base glowed orange, proof that like most signumists, he kept the fire burning constantly. He held the ring over it. “You’re sure you want to use this ring?”
“Positive.”
He dropped it into the pot and began to lay out his things on a stainless-steel tray.
Mal leaned over. “Why so much red in here? Why not white like everything else?”
She ran her tongue over her teeth, not really wanting to tell him but knowing the truth was best. “It is our ritual color. And it hides the blood.”
For a moment he seemed to pale, but it was probably a trick of the dim room. She squeezed his hand as he’d just done hers, then spoke to Atticus. “You have a place I can prepare?”
“Yes, through the door behind the men’s fourth set. Everything you need is in there.”
“I’ll go change.” She turned to Mal and pointed at a tufted hassock. “Put that at the head of the long table. You can sit there while Atticus does his work. Be back in a few minutes.”
Mal nodded, looking as unsettled as she’d ever seen him. Well, he’d wanted to come. Now he was about to get what he’d asked for. Maybe he’d learn not to be so stubborn. She pushed the red silk drape aside and slid back the pocket door she found.
This room, too, was exactly what she’d expected. Even the red silk robes hanging beside the shower were the same. Atticus had to be the real deal. No one else but a true signumist would be able to replicate these things. She hoped that meant he’d be able to supply her with a gold pipette like the one she’d need to draw the portal to the Aurelian, since her mother’s had been destroyed in the boat fire.
She turned on the shower to warm the water, then hung her leather coat and slipped out of her tunic, pants, and underthings. As much as she wanted to linger in the water, she rinsed quickly, got out, and dried off.
In a carved wooden box on the dressing table, she found more of what she expected. With the supplied hairpins, she wrapped her braid around her head and secured it out of Atticus’s way. From the vial of attar of roses, she dabbed a small drop of the oil beneath her nose. It was supposed to mask the odor of blood and burned flesh, and she guessed it did for some. For her, it was just another step in the ceremony.
Lastly, she took the bundle of white feathers from the box. Comarré were taught these were feathers from an angel’s wing, but she was no longer sure what was truth and what was legend. Still, she carried out the ritual of brushing her body down with it.
Then she went to the small kneeling bench to offer up a prayer. She bent her head. Holy mother, give me peace and comfort and strength to accept these signum. And give Malkolm peace and comfort and strength, too. And the understanding that I must do this. Praying for a vampire. She was definitely not comarré material anymore. Guide Atticus’s hands. Let them see what his eyes cannot. Let me bear this pain with grace.