Blood Awakens

by Jessaca Willis

  With no powers to call upon, they’d torn through the handful of them like they were nothing more than paper.

  The first battle was almost unfair.

  “I can’t believe that worked,” Carson said with prideful disbelief.

  As Sean scoped out the rest of the area, he took note of the two paths that led straight to this location. He couldn’t help but notice people calling each other to arms. Their handiwork had been swift and deadly, but it had not gone undetected.

  Heads began to bob into view, and once again, Sean felt the electricity in the air as each of the furious Sanguinatores attempted to subdue Sean’s team, all of them failing. What had begun as five Sanguinatores quickly quadrupled. But amid the sea of bloodthirsty, confused, enraged thugs, the two most important faces were missing. Sean searched for the intricate tattoo work atop Zane’s head and for Graciela’s thick, dark trail of hair, but found neither.

  Wishful thinking led him to believe that maybe they’d beaten them back to the camp. Or maybe they just hadn’t created enough of a scene yet.

  “It’s not over yet,” he said to the group, before rushing down the path, machete readied at his side. “Let’s end this.”

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  Graciela

  As her body buckled to the floor, each muscle constricted, Graciela heard the distant roar of Zane’s mockery. The pain though, wasn’t worse than her last blood guide spell. In fact, it wasn’t even as bad. And she realized then, that if Zane was laughing, someone else was likely controlling her blood.

  She followed the tune to Bram and flushed at the weakness in her voice when she cried, “Please, don’t do this.”

  His hold tightened, constricted until even blinking became arduous.

  “Who knew you had it in you, Bram?” Zane beamed, taking Graciela by the armpit. “Don’t think this nullifies your punishment.”

  “Wouldn’t dream of it.”

  Inside, her organs were at war. Zane threw her into the device and fastened a leather strap around each of her wrists. Graciela wanted to run for the door, but no matter how hard she thought it, her legs wouldn’t budge. Zane wedged the rest of her arms into sharp, rusted metal clasps that hooked below her armpits and elbows and fastened them tight. The same treatment was given to her legs, each secured in place and belted down.

  Only then did Bram stop his song. Head slack, Graciela didn’t dare look up, too drained and too ashamed. She hung limp, contemplating everything that had led her to this point and everything she would miss out on. She could’ve been a doctor, could’ve grown old in Guatemala. But Santiago would’ve died. He would’ve been alone and on the road, never pushing himself to find a sanctuary to call home. Alone. Her baby brother would’ve died alone.

  Slowly, Graciela began to lift her head. She regretted nothing. Each decision she made that led her here, she’d make again in a second. Anything to save Santiago, to give him the chance at a life he deserved.

  When she finally rose, she was smiling, and the tears in her eyes were ones of joy, not fear.

  Zane plunged a needle into the crevice of her left elbow, shattering the moment completely. Graciela shrieked. Needles had never bothered her, but this one did, for what it represented. Another went into her right arm and she cried again. There was no concern for the fragility of her veins, but a demand for what they contained. Blood seeped into the clear tubes, and Graciela watched with wide eyes as her life began to flood away.

  “Zane!” A lumberjack of a man startled them all as he came stumbling into the tent, a bead of sweating on his brow. At the sight of Graciela, entrapped in the stocks, he shifted, adjusting to a less urgent air of supremacy. “They’re here, sir.”

  Her eyes widened, and this time, not from pain. He said they. She didn’t want to get her hopes up, and she felt guilty for hoping they’d come to rescue her at their own risk, but she couldn’t help but hope he was talking about Sean and the others.

  Zane clucked. “Fintan, my boy. How many times do I have to tell you not to disrupt me during my rituals, hmm?”

  Graciela deflated. It couldn’t be them, not with Zane so disinterested. Besides, that was for the best. No one needed to die for her.

  The man gave a diligent nod, eyes narrowing, and took a step farther into the tent. “Then trust this is an urgent matter. They followed us here, sir. The ones from her town.” Fintan’s hands remained clasped behind him, but his eyes did the pointing, and they darted at Graciela. There was an accusatory tone to his words.

  Gratitude flooded her. Then triumph. Her friends had come for her. Maybe today wouldn’t be the day she’d die after all. But then she remembered the whole reason she had gone there, to spare them the fate of a death by a Sanguinatore. And here they were, charging headfirst to their doom. Suddenly, she couldn’t breathe.

  A low growl unfurled itself from Zane’s throat. “You’re sure?”

  The messenger nodded eagerly.

  As fast as Zane closed his eyes, they were open again and focused on Graciela. “As much as I’d hate to miss this, dolly, it would appear Seany-boy did not learn the valuable lessons I left him with and is in need of a re-teaching.”

  A pang of shame overcame her. All of this was her fault. If only she had done more to make them see that she didn’t need them to come after her. It had been her choice to die—for them. But here they were, ready to storm the castle and rescue the helpless damsel.

  Maybe she wasn’t entirely helpless, though. After all, they couldn’t rescue a dead body. Perhaps she could make sure there would still be an alive one waiting for them. With Zane’s back to her as he conferred with Fintan over the details, Graciela twisted her arms in the restraints. She wanted to lunge for the Sanguinatore, to put an end to him and his plans. Desperately, she wanted to save the very people who were so bent on rescuing her. But couldn’t. Instead she found herself trapped to a post with nowhere to go.

  A pinching pain signaled her success, and Graciela glanced down to find the askew needle in her left arm, shaken into discomfort by her own doing. Fortunately, the blood was flowing slower from there. Maybe it would afford her precious time.

  Before she could tweak the other one, Zane marched to her side with cemented eye contact. “Don’t worry. We won’t be postponing the process.” Briefly, he broke away from her gaze to examine her needles, flicking the tubing connected to her left arm. “You’ll be in good hands. Fintan here is going to make sure you pass into the After without a fuss.

  “Guess I should be on my way. Got a war to win.” Turning on a heel, he signaled to Bram. “You’re to stay here with Fintan and see this thing through. Don’t make the same mistake as Sean. Make sure you learn your lesson this time.”

  Bram didn’t dare return the mournful gaze Graciela directed at him. Instead, he made way for the tent door, shoulders rounded forward and fists at his side.

  “But, sir,” the words were a stutter, a moderate surprise coming from someone as formal and official as Fintan. “Forgive me for saying it but, Morden drain the fool who would think to leave Bram here for this. He already proved he can’t be responsible for this woman—”

  “He’s not responsible. You are.” Zane’s eyes were sharp as he swallowed the space between him and Fintan, his intolerance for mistakes palpable. “I expect you’ll have things under control here.”

  Fintan lowered his head. “Of course.”

  “Good to hear,” Zane said with an ear-splitting grin and walked casually back to the door. He paused at the doorway, calling over his shoulder, “And, Fintan, be a good boy and fix that needle in her left arm. Must’ve gotten overzealous with it and shoved it in too far. It’s not draining like the other.”

  In silent condemnation, Graciela turned her head away so he wouldn’t see her disappointment.

  Fintan, a man of muscle plastered on bone, eyed her as Zane left. Like a wolf, he approached. If Graciela thought her odds against Zane were nonexistent, with Fintan they would be infinitesimal. Veins protruded
down his forearms like worms, hiding behind a thick wristband of ink. Though Zane was dense like a tree, where he lacked definition, Fintan more than made up for it. Each bulge of muscle seemed to have been sculpted from steel and placed directly on him. He would be formidable against any opponent, let alone petrified and bound Graciela.

  Then it was just the three of them.

  Bram, a man intent on surviving, regardless of what it might cost others.

  Fintan, a man with an order to kill.

  And her. Just plain Graciela. A woman with nothing more than hope that everyone, including herself, would make it out of this alive.

  She drew on the army of Hope at her back for strength.

  “S’a shame he’s bottling you up,” said Fintan, his wiry beard taut with every movement of his jaw. “Would’ve liked to have a taste of your sweet blood.”

  Graciela gulped, a glue-like coat of saliva the only thing left to swallow.

  Bram, unreadable as ever, sighed. “C’mon, Fintan. Hurry it up.”

  Graciela felt herself crack, and she wasn’t sure why. Mexico had been a fluke, or at least just a one-time thing. Bram was a Sanguinatore, and his treasonous acts of kindness had obviously worn out. It wasn’t fair of her to expect him to be her champion. He was an enemy.

  The misplaced grin Fintan showcased broadened. “What’s a matter? Don’t want to see her squirm?” In two great strides, he was on top of her, a single, rough finger twisting down her neck. “Looks like he bagged us a shy one. Could be fun.”

  If the physical contact disturbed Bram as much as it disturbed Graciela, he didn’t show it. Arms hanging loosely at his sides, he was a statue of stone. Cold and unperturbed. The only hint Bram gave to signal his discomfort was continued protest. “We’re needed out there, backing the others.”

  “Buh!” Fintan grumbled in contempt, and though he appeared to disagree, it was a sufficient distraction because he resumed attending to the cockeyed needle in Graciela’s arm.

  Dread sunk to the pit of her stomach. In the distance, Graciela could hear the distinct sounds of war cries and weapons colliding, sounds that confirmed her friends were doing everything they could to save her. But they sounded so far away. She was beginning to doubt if they’d make it to her in time. Or if they’d even survive the night themselves.

  When Fintan plucked the needle out, a light sensation overcame her. A singular stream flowed from the crook in Graciela’s elbow, one not unnoticed by Fintan—or Bram. Both of their eyes widened like that of a pack of wolves. The only thing overpowering her wooziness was the fear that they’d both devour her.

  The oaf before her followed her gaze with a new gleeful purpose to the fresh red streak dribbling down her arm. Excitement showing through the bulge in his pants, but it wasn’t sex he yearned for. A quenchless hunger lingered in his pupils, his lips moist from overstimulated salivation.

  He looked as if he could eat her up with his eyes alone.

  Fintan bent down and took her arm into his. Already Graciela couldn’t move, but somehow within his grip she felt even more the prisoner.

  As a low rumble stirred from Fintan’s throat, every ounce of her burned. Instead of the needle plunging back into her veins, it was his song draining the life from her. Her blood ignited.

  Everything burned white hot. “Please,” Graciela sputtered.

  Madness gleamed through his eyes. “Oh please, Fintan, don’t kill me,” he mocked. “Bah-ha! How many times do you think that’s really worked?”

  She blinked in horror at him, and Fintan resumed humming, her pain resuming with it.

  Graciela flung her head back and screamed through gritted teeth. Her temperature rose, and the blood rushed to her arm. Not again, she thought. The memory of Bram and Mexico crashed down around her. The pain, the blood, she couldn’t distinguish one memory from the other. Everything in her was rigid, her muscles, her breathing, even her blood felt sharp as it flowed through her with a new purpose. As the pain continued to grow and take over her every being, she quivered. It was exactly as it had felt like when she was in Mexico, when Bram had loosed the blood within her.

  From her toes to her thighs, up through her stomach and to the base of her neck, each muscle in her body convulsed with agony.

  “Fintan?” Bram’s voice was strained, unsure.

  Through tears Graciela could see him shifting his weight, but with Fintan’s back to him, he couldn’t see the transformation happening, couldn’t see the malicious look in his eyes.

  Panic transformed into full-blown terror. Graciela felt it lumping at the base of her throat. Uttering a barely audible “no,” she thrust herself against her manacles. Underneath, her legs wobbled and shook with the primal necessity to protect herself. Her arms, too, seemed to be invigorated with a magnitude of strength she’d never experienced before.

  Unfortunately, it was all useless. The straps didn’t budge, and she was still trapped to the machine with a needle in one arm and the other draining directly into Fintan’s salivating mouth.

  “Fintan!” This time it came as more of a warning, though Bram still remained at the back of the tent.

  There was no authority about him, but Fintan stopped humming in response. Graciela’s blood would be hers for a moment longer.

  When Fintan rose, Graciela’s breath caught. In his eyes of seafoam, she could see the bloodlust bubbling within him. Even just that small amount seemed to invigorate his skin, to give him a reenergized sense of power and purpose. An unnatural glow.

  Nothing was left in him except animalistic hunger.

  “What are you doing?” She thought she heard Bram sneer. Through a haze, she also thought she saw him walking, hurriedly, to Fintan’s backside.

  With one swift sweep, Fintan heaved his shoulder and sent Bram skittering across the room, all while keeping his spiteful gaze on Graciela.

  Inside, Graciela’s body was at war. Each blood vessel had become a microscopic firework, and they all seemed to be blowing up simultaneously.

  The staggering agony of being in the clutches of this Sanguinatore was tenfold the amount of pain that Bram had inflicted that day. Somehow, he had managed to dull it, taking what he needed, but not causing her to suffer as much as she might’ve otherwise.

  Fintan, however, reveled in watching her as she felt like her insides were boiling.

  A low, steady hum breathed through his lips, a slight whistling noise accompanying it, almost mimicking the sound of the desert wind surrounding them. The constriction of her organs tightened, and she flung her body against the post, wishing she were in the fetal position. Nothing eased the overwhelming heat that incinerated her though. All she could do was grit her teeth and hope it would stop. To her surprise, relief, and dread, no blood seeped through her skin, unlike when she had been under Bram’s power.

  Instead, the thick substance rushed through her throat, gagging her on the taste of her own metallic lifeline. She didn’t know what was worse, choking or feeling as if a thousand, microscopic knives were stabbing every inch of her body.

  The ruby red liquid gelled between her gum line and cheeks before seeping from her mouth into a stream before her. It grew and expanded, never seeming to end. From her experience working at the hospital, she had a rough understanding of how much blood a person could lose before becoming unconscious or perishing.

  The puddle before her writhing body coalesced into a thin brook, waves of mahogany tumbling over one another and twisting into a perfect red river. Flowing strongly and with precision, the stream coursed to the large man, finding the veins at the crook of his elbows and plunging in like two invisible needles.

  Graciela couldn’t believe what she was seeing. The shock of it reignited her adrenaline, despite the determined hold the man still had on her. He leaned backward in some satanic fit of ecstasy. Her blurred gaze focused on him in that moment. They were junkies, she realized, but what pleasure or benefit could they possibly obtain from stealing people’s blood?

  Meanwhile
, the lump that she assumed was Bram, hadn’t moved, either because he was unable or because he knew better to intervene.

  Suddenly, Graciela felt relief. The pain had diminished, all that remained were the raw achings of fresh, emotional wounds. She sighed and threw her head back, gasping for air and spewing the remainder of blood lodged along her gum line.

  More maniacal than ever, Fintan loosed a low growl of a laugh. “I really have never met anyone of your kind before, and believe me, I’ve had many. I’ve tasted all the different temperals, snacked on beasties and primals, even had valkyrie once, although a bit gamey for my taste. Had both merman and mermaid, tried scorpion, and a few porcupines. I’ve even had my own kind before. But never have I tasted the likes of you.”

  All Graciela could do was blink away the tears. With her vision cleared, she was able to see Bram stirring on his side. He, too, appeared a little daze.

  “You should think of this as an honorable death. You’re dying for my scientific experiment, so that I can taste all the Awakened of this world.”

  Awakened.

  The word echoed into the chasm of her ears. Fintan believed she was Awakened, just as Sean did. Blood guides—Sanguinatores—had a certain sense about those things.

  In that moment, Graciela decided. She’d have to believe there was truth to it, even if she herself hadn’t experience it yet.

  “I promise not to let your powers go to waste.”

  Only precious seconds remained. She’d have to act fast. Hurriedly she ran through the list of powers and skills in her head. People with the ability to manipulate fire, though she herself felt no heat aside from that generated by the call of the Sanguinatore. Those able to feel the emotions of others, though she figured she had Fintan pegged, Bram remained an enigma. Others with the power to hear, to feel, but all of her senses felt the same.