He preferred neither direction, but there was no other way to get to Dominic at this point. He stopped to weigh the choice. Chrysabelle’s soft form collided with his.
‘Hey,’ she muttered. ‘You could give a person some warning.’ She tucked her fingers into the strap of her sword. The red phosphorescence gave her signum the glint of live flame. ‘Judging by the lack of any discernable office, I’m guessing we’re not there yet, so why did we stop?’
‘You talk a lot.’ So silence her.
‘And you don’t answer questions.’
He ground his back teeth together. ‘We have to go through the Pits to get to Dominic. Stay close, don’t talk to anyone, keep your eyes on me.’
Her mouth bunched to one side. ‘You really don’t get it, do you? I’m not helpless.’ She rolled her eyes and shook her head. ‘Can we just go?’
‘That’s what I’ve been trying to do.’
She snorted. ‘Right.’
He whirled. ‘You think I’m trying to drag this out for some reason? That I want you around any longer than necessary?’ All that blood, yours for the drinking. ‘Things have to be done a certain way here. You should understand protocol.’ He retook the route to the Pits, fists clenched. Bothersome woman.
‘Protocol and stalling are two different things, vampire.’
He said nothing, kept marching. Footsteps rushed up behind him. She snagged his arm. He yanked it away, pace unaltered. ‘Stay close, don’t talk to anyone, keep your eyes on me.’
‘I heard you the first time.’ She marched beside him, righteous anger wafting off her in hot waves. ‘I don’t know why you have to be so—’
‘Quiet.’ He put his arm out to stop her before she pushed through the doors that led into the Pits. A sudden cheer rose from behind them, and her eyebrows lifted. The place sounded packed, the crowd bloodthirsty. Chrysabelle bobbed her head, trying to see through the crack between the doors. He moved in front of her, catching her eyes. ‘How would a patron typically indicate his possession of a comarré?’
Her eyes narrowed. ‘Why?’
The back of his head throbbed. The voices laughed, taking delight in his pain. ‘Once we get inside, it needs to be very clear that you are not available.’
She crossed her arms. ‘There’s a ceremonial collar, but that’s not going to help you now.’
‘What else?’ Bite her. Drink her. Drain her.
Her mouth firmed into a hard narrow line.
‘What?’ Ramming his fist into the concrete wall would be less painful. ‘Tell me or I swear—’
‘Your hand on the back of my neck.’ She swallowed like she’d just downed a mouthful of bad eggs.
‘Your sword might get in the way of that.’
She perked up, shrugging with an all too obvious joy. ‘You asked.’
‘Stay close.’ He grabbed her forearm, feeling the business end of one hidden blade.
‘I know the drill.’
He just hoped she’d follow it. Leading with his shoulder, he pushed through the double doors and into one of the many places he’d never intended to return.
The din swelled up around them, a fog of noise that blended into a cacophonous gray cushion between him and the voices. At least that was a plus. He kept to the wall, but the stadium setup meant the view was good at any angle, despite the shoulder-to-shoulder audience. The twenty-foot-wide pit currently held a fringe vamp and a remnant. Judging from the creature’s six-clawed hands, horns and gold eyes, he was some sort of shadeux or smokesinger fae mixed with varcolai. The remnant lunged, driving the fringe back into the chains of iron and silver that ringed the arena. His cry of pain as the silver bit into his flesh barely registered above the crowd’s noise. Mal’s back burned in remembrance. Silver for vampires and varcolai, iron for fae. Both for remnants if their blood was unlucky.
‘Ow,’ Chrysabelle said softly, prying at his fingers where his hand clasped her arm.
Her whisper filled his head, blanked out the memories that had nearly caused him to forget her presence.
‘You’re hurting me.’ She stared, peering into him like he’d suddenly become transparent.
Surrounded by the dirty concrete walls and hazy air, her eyes seemed bluer than he remembered. Her face more beautiful compared to the ugliness around them. He eased his grip. ‘I didn’t mean to.’ He hadn’t meant to come to a stop either, but they had.
‘You fought here, I take it.’
‘Yes.’ What point was there in denying it? She’d heard what had been said in the club.
A fresh cheer went up from the crowd. Mal turned in time to see the remnant lift the bloody threads that had once been the fringe’s throat, then the remains went to ash, trickling from the remnant’s fingers.
The spectators turned to one another, exchanging congratulations and commiserations as bets were cashed in. A few glanced in the direction of Mal and Chrysabelle. Their eyes skimmed him to stop on her. One fringe deliberately inhaled. His eyes fluttered closed, then widened with hunger. His body tensed into a slight crouch.
Mal propelled Chrysabelle toward the door at the other end. ‘Go.’
The fringe landed in front of them. ‘Haven’t seen you around here in a long time, Malkolm.’
Mal’s hand slid beneath her hair to clasp the back of her neck, barely avoiding her sword. Heat radiated off it, prickling his skin. Her pulse jacked higher.