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‘None who have already gained their autonomy would offer, and I am unable to feed on those that belong to another blood-family, without their master’s permission. Hence the blood-tithe I requested.’
‘But there’s plenty of free-range junkies wandering around in Sucker Town—I mean, it’s not like they all belong to someone, is it?’
‘My lineage is that of revenant, Genevieve; you know this. I feed only on other vampires. If I feed directly from humans it could endanger too many lives, either through my own needs, or if I were to inadvertently pass my version of the Gift on to them. That is the curse that Elizabetta hoped to awaken.’
Revenants are consumed only by their need for blood; their lust is never fully sated.Malik’s past words came back to me, then I recalled what he’d said to Elizabetta when she was goading him to bite me. If I have truly embraced my curse, you would have me start a bloodbath.
‘You mean you never bite a human?’ I said, stu
‘Very rarely, and never when I am as depleted as this.’
‘So the only way you can feed is if they give you permission? ’
His eyes darkened. ‘It is the only way. Anything else is not honourable.’
The various ramifications of that barrelled into me like a stampeding hoard of goblins. Was that why he’d only ever sunk fangs into my hand, or my lip, and never my throat? Was that why he hadn’t fed from me? What happened if they let him starve? Would he turn back into some sort of bloodthirsty monster and go on a killing spree? Never mind he was dependant on those he knew would kill him if they could? Other questions crowded in but I couldn’t even begin to untangle them. Instead something else Elizabetta said raised a tentative thought in my mind.
‘She’s right about my blood; the magic in it does give a power boost.’
He spread his hands wide. ‘It appears so. Without the donation you gave Joseph this morning, I would not have recovered as quickly as I have.’
‘But you’re still hungry,’ I persisted, ‘and still weak.’
‘Once I have fed again, my strength will return.’
I debated offering my wrist, even half-lifted my arm, but he held up his hand.
‘I do not ask for your blood, Genevieve,’ he said, softly. ‘Elizabetta may have refused me the blood-tithe, but the Golden Blade is only one of the four blood-families. All I require here is your assistance as Rosa, as we agreed before.’
Relieved that he’d refused my half-hearted offer, I said, ‘Okay, but I’m changing here and now, while no one else can interrupt.’
I waited for him to argue, but instead speculation flickered across his face. ‘What about this spell you wear?’
‘You need to snap the hair off about halfway down to break the Glamour, then I can use the other spell to change.’ I turned so I faced away from him. My blonde reflection was nearly as pale as his.
‘Hair is not an easy thing to snap.’ He smoothed his hand over my ponytail. The spell leapt to his touch and heat pooled inside me. I frowned, unsure if it was his mesma, or the magic itself.
‘Well, unless you’ve got a pair of scissors—’
‘I have this.’ He held up a thin, sharp-edged knife; the handle was intricately carved from black onyx, the silver blade etched with an overlapping sickle design that shimmered as if drawn in blood. ‘Will this do?’ His question was low against my ear.
‘Yes ...’ My own voice came out scratchy. My mouth was dry, the air around us heavy and tense. Damn, what the hell was the matter with me? I licked my lips and swallowed, then tried again. ‘Yes.’ The word was firmer this time.
He smiled, and something predatory flickered in his eyes and my stomach dropped into freefall. Then he grasped the length of hair and slowly drew the knife across it. He held his hand out to the side and let the pale strands fall; they drifted like thistledown, slowly dissipating back into the ether before they reached the floor. My image in the silver wall shifted and warped, ballooning out, then shimmering back to tall and stick-thin, as if I stood before a fairground mirror. I gasped as the rest of the magic peeled itself away in one long, relieved sigh, like I’d removed too-tight clothes and only now realised how uncomfortable they’d been. I inhaled, my lungs filling with Malik’s dark-spice scent, stretching my spine like a cat as my reflection finally settled back to the true me—or at least the Frankenstein’s daughter me, with my short-cropped hair and multi-hued patchwork of healing skin.
‘Genevieve.’ Warmth slipped over my skin like the last breath of summer. His eyes flared, incandescent with—not anger nor rage, but something else: a slow burn of sorrow. His hands on my shoulders turned me towards him and he traced a cool finger along my jaw.
‘Why have you not healed?’ he asked with a frown, and pushed aside the collar of my blouse, touching the bruises that marked my chest. ‘I gave you my blood, and you have your own magic.’
‘I’ll heal soon enough.’ I shifted away, trying to ignore the tingling from his touch, ‘Once everything else is out the way.’
The glow in his eyes snuffed out. ‘Yes, you are correct. I will let you continue.’ He stepped back and the lift suddenly seemed to have way more space. His lips twitched, almost as if he’d read my mind, and I wondered briefly if he still could, then shrugged the thought away.
I toed off my trainers, unzipped my jeans and started to push them down over my hips, then hesitated; the spell-tattoo was back on my left hip, but the white bikini had disappeared along with the blonde ponytail. Damn, should’ve asked Tavish for real underwear and not settled for the magical stuff.
‘If you are concerned for your modesty,’ Malik’s voice was amused, ‘I can always turn my back.’
‘Like that’s going to make a difference with all these mirrors, ’ I huffed. ‘Anyway, that’s not it. My underwear is gone and the jeans are too small to put back on once I’ve changed, so I’m not going to be wearing much. I know this is a vamp club, but wandering round in just a short blouse is going to be noticeable for all the wrong reasons!’
‘You will have other clothes soon,’ he said. ‘It will not matter.’
‘Not to you, maybe, but it does to me.’
He smiled. ‘Then you shall have my jacket, of course.’
I gave it the once-over. It would probably be more of a mini-dress than anything, but it would do. I removed the jeans, lifted the edge of my shirt and ran my fingers over the hard circular ridge of the spell-tattoo, then over the Celtic design knotted at its centre. Its power shuddered through me as if it had been waiting, crouched and ready to pounce like a starving beast.
‘This magic—’
Malik’s quiet voice startled me, and I jerked my hand from the tattoo.
‘What will it do?’ he asked
Surprise made me blink. ‘It will change me to look like Rosa. You know that.’
‘The magic you employed at the bakery knocked you unconscious before its adverse effects caused the explosion.’ He gave me an enquiring look. ‘Will this affect you in the same way?’
‘No nothing like that,’ I muttered, restlessness itching down my spine as the tattoo pulsed like a second heart, growling like a ravenous spirit for my attention. It needed blood. ‘I need your knife.’ I looked up, expectant.
‘For what end?’
I shot my left hand out to him. ‘Cut it, straight across the lifeline. Make it deep.’
He stared at my hand as if it might bite him.
‘Just do it,’ I ordered, impatience scraping along my nerves. ‘Now!’
He frowned. Around us his myriad mirror images frowned with him, their eyes dark and shadowed, my own images all hard angles and demand, my eyes glowing fever-bright gold, pupils narrowed to vertical slits as the magic gripped me. For a second I saw a third face in amongst all those that stared back at us; Cosette’s face—filled with a strange eagerness; then Malik’s hand darted out, almost quicker than I could see, and slashed a deep wound across my palm. Nothing—then pain, brief and brilliant, forced a cry from my mouth as my blood welled, copper-bright and willing, the honeyed-metallic scent alluring. A shudder vibrated through Malik and his hands clenched into tight fists at his sides, but my mind had no time to care about him. The tattoo screamed out to me, desperate, hungry, and I covered it with my hand, smearing the viscous blood into the spell. My heart slowed until it was beating sluggishly, shallowly. My lungs were burning for lack of air ... ... uneasiness slid into me, something wasn’t right; the spell usually worked quicker than this. Desperately I clenched my fist, squeezing more blood from the wound, shoving it into the spell-tattoo. This time the blood ran slick and wet into the twisted design, flooding over its edges and misting red over my body. My skin tightened as if I’d walked into a frigid winter’s night.