UNMAKE (Spellhounds Book 2)

by Lauren Harris

  I felt slightly vindicated, and scattered a few more treats into the kennels. “And the lights? What did they say about that?”

  “They claimed an attempt to save the victim by encouraging the sanguimancers to run.”

  “Bullshit.”

  “It probably is bullshit. I expect it was in an attempt to make you and Eric look incompetent.”

  I frowned. “Who’s going to believe those clowns over Eric?”

  A chilly laugh came across the phone, and I paused, dusting crumbs off on my jeans.

  “Helena. You really have very little experience in the Guild. Eric may rank highly in the Midwestern Guild, but outside it? A name like De Vries carries weight.”

  I grunted. “Eric said he was old magic.”

  “He is. Not as-”

  “Not as old as D’Argent, yeah. Eric said that too.”

  “Mm. Well, unlike the D’Argents, the De Vries family didn’t lose most of its members to sanguimancers. They’ve got numbers. And those numbers are all in agreement that blood magic should be met with zero tolerance. And considering the power we’re talking about here, it’s not surprising that most of the world agrees with them.”

  I felt stuck. Caught between the textbook right answer and the one that had actually worked.

  “I couldn’t think of any other way to save them.”

  “I know you were trying to do the right thing,” Deepti said, her tone gentling.

  “I still think I did,” I said. “Eric’s alive. Even De Vries and Ritter are alive because of me. You weren’t there—he was juiced up from more than just the one victim on the scene. Even using blood magic, I barely broke through that guy’s shield. It was De Vries that shot him.”

  The line was quiet for a moment, and the dogs were all looking at me hopefully, tails wagging slowly. I went back for more dog biscuits.

  Deepti let out a breath. “There are some who think defensive sanguimancy is appropriate use, but they’re in the minority. Most still see it as a gateway to ritual sacrifice and murder.”

  I scattered milkbones through cage bars, taking care to avoid the particularly evil Chow-mutt whose trust we’d been trying to gain for the past month.

  I thought about what she’d said. Was Sanguimancy a sort of gateway drug? There was a high to it, a feeling of extreme possibility. You felt like a storm cloud charged up and crackling with potential. It scared me to have that much power, but I could see how some people wouldn’t want to go back to regular magic after experiencing that, the same way it was hard to resist shooting up after the first time.

  “So what’s going to happen?” I asked.

  I heard the sound of her moving around, going down stairs. “Normally,” she said, “if a Guild member is caught using sanguimancy, he or she stands trial.”

  I frowned. “Didn’t they accuse me of sanguimancy already? Isn’t it technically sanguimancy every time I transform, even if it is my own blood getting sapped?”

  Poo-stank nosed me for another cookie and I let him lick crumbs from my palm.

  “We escaped a trial last time because you did not cast the spell that made you what you are, and the fact that it draws from you makes it practically indistinguishable from regular magic. Given your assistance capturing Gwydian, the Guild leaders were willing to grant you a pardon. But only barely. I…” Deepti hesitated. Immediately, I felt my nerves rise. Deepti never hesitated about anything. She was the second most decisive person I’d ever met, besides Sanadzi.

  “It’s possible I’ve protected you too much.”

  That was not what I’d expected her to say, and I had no idea what it meant. Was she sorry she argued so hard for my pardon? After all this time, was she having regrets about recruiting me?

  “I should have told you earlier, just how much commotion you’ve already caused.” Deepti said.

  I leaned back against one of the examination tables. “What do you mean? Are people still disagreeing about making training me as an Enforcer?”

  “Disagreeing is a mild word for it. The fact that you’re a Spellhound, that you refuse to get a permanent tracking tattoo, that you carry both the d’Argent blood and the d’Argent gift, and that you were raised by Gwydian….” I heard a thunk on the other end of the line, and something that sounded like the seal of a refrigerator door slurping open. Weird, to think of Deepti having a fridge. A kitchen. A house. Did she have kids? A husband? I didn’t even know.

  “Just one of those things is enough to inspire controversy. All of them together means that half the Guild is calling for your blood.”

  “My blood?” I said, reaching down to pet a begging Poo-stank. “Figuratively, or they still want me dead?”

  Her reply came out slightly garbled, like she was speaking around food. “Yes, that is exactly what they want.”

  I paused a moment, detangling the slightly indelicate words. “Are you stress-eating?”

  “Ice cream!” she snapped. “From the carton, like a pregnant woman!”

  I wasn’t overly familiar with Deepti’s snacking habits, but I gathered this was not a common occurrence, magic metabolism or no. Still, the idea of a clutch of sorcerers lusting after my blood wasn’t exactly new, and Deepti was a badass. Surely she could take care of it.

  “Can’t you just tell the haters to stuff it? You’re in charge.”

  Deepti hesitated. When she spoke again, the animated anger had drained away. “I don’t mean just the local guild,” she said.

  The resignation in her voice pinged off my spine. I froze with my hand in Poo-stank’s ruff. “Like…wait. The whole Midwest is fighting?”

  There was a long, pregnant silence from the other end of the line. “Helena,” Deepti’s voice sounded mechanical, and in that instant I understood the miles and miles between Henard and her office in Des Moines. She was far away. She could do nothing to protect me from where she was.

  And somehow, it almost didn’t surprise me when she said, “Helena. I mean the whole world.”

  Chapter 5

  Helena

  It was a distressingly early hour when the couch cushion beside me tipped. I barely woke up, because I could already smell who it was, sliding fingers into my hair. A gentle glimmer of contentedness rippled through the fog of sleep and stress-dreams, and soon there was an arm sliding under my neck, and a warm body settling on the cushions beside me.

  I was heavy with exhaustion, but Jaesung had always been strong enough to toss me ten feet in whatever direction he wanted. He scooped me against him and a moment later, he was beneath me. I didn’t wait for him to readjust the blanket over us before snuggling into him. I buried my face in his neck, and dropped back off to sleep.

  I’m not sure how much later it was when I actually drifted into consciousness, but I crept slowly out of the drowsy cobwebs, wedged between the back of the couch and Jaesung’s solid heat. Our legs were comfortably tangled, my head rested on his upper arm, and he was awake, fingers tracing along my back.

  Facts were swimming back to me, dodging around the slow, sticky strands of sleep still netting my brain. Jaesung had been upset last night. His knee was irreparably damaged, and ballet was impossible.

  The whole of magic-conscious humanity was trying to decide if I should be allowed to live.

  I was suddenly grateful for those solid arms now sliding hard around me. I sucked in a slow breath, struggling to get my arms around Jaesung’s waist.

  He was nuzzling my hair, his lips marking my temple, my cheekbone, my forehead. My nails dug a little into his tee shirt. Relief slid through me, setting me shaking. He loved me. He still loved me, even if I’d fucked up everything for him. Even if my life was starting to get unsteady again, he was here, and he wasn’t going to hate me for ruining his life.

  He squeezed me against his chest, cupping my head close to his neck. With a sigh, he pressed his lips to my ear.

  “I’m an asshole,” he said.

  I clenched my arms and legs tighter around him. “You’re not an assho
le.” The words sounded groggy. I managed to pull my head back a little and nudged his chin with my nose until he tilted his face down.

  We looked at each other. He must have left his glasses upstairs, because his face was bare and open. His eyes, so dark and large, were missing their wicked glint.

  I’d seen this dullness before, but I would have recognized it even if I hadn’t. Guilt. It was more immediate than the underlying pain of his bigger problems, and easier to reconcile. He wasn’t the sort to avoid uncomfortable moments, which was one of the many things I appreciated about him.

  “I was an asshole to you last night,” he said. “I shouldn’t have…. I didn’t mean what I said.”

  “You were hurting,” I said, and wriggled an arm free. I slid my hand around the back of his neck. His undercut was freshly trimmed, and the short hair on the back of his head felt nice against my palm. “Even if you did mean it, you weren’t wrong.”

  “I still shouldn’t have said it.” He was trying to keep his eyes focused, but they kept trying to drift shut as I slid my nails along his scalp. It might almost have been unfair of me to do it. He was more susceptible to head-scratches than his own dog, so it was almost a shortcut to making him feel better.

  “It’s sort of a relief that you said it,” I said, raking soft lines along the side of his head. “At least I don’t have to sit here and suspect you of blaming me. Knowing it means we can…I don’t know. Work through it.”

  “Mhmm,” he intoned. “Wait no. No. I’m supposed to disagree. You and your stupid fingernails.”

  “Shh, listen to the fingernails. They’re telling you it’s fine.”

  “Evil fingernails tryin’a hypnotize me. I won’t let them.” He opened his eyes wide and stared at me. “I’m sorry.”

  I tried to suppress my smile. It was hard to take him seriously when he was doing the crazy-stare.

  “Bitch, I am apologizing. You’re not supposed to laugh.”

  I pushed him flat on the couch and shifted on top of him. I’d been about fifteen pounds heavier six months ago, before constant magic use had whittled away my muscle mass. It was not a look I liked on myself. I was used to fighting strength and solid definition, not this weird willowy stuff. I preferred looking like a fighter to one of those sylph-like ballerinas Jaesung could lift with one hand.

  Not that ballerinas were weak, but people didn’t mess with you when you looked like you were fresh off an MMA circuit.

  I folded my arms across Jaesung’s chest and settled my chin on them. The rest of me molded against him.

  He was watching me, a question there in the near-black of his eyes, the same question I felt as a quiet, hesitant pulse in my arteries. Were we okay? We searched each other's eyes for confirmation, knowing, but needing to see that the night before hadn’t broken us.

  I bent, brushing my lips against his. I felt the tension in his chest release, and he let out a breath he must have been holding. It ghosted into my hair.

  His hands glided over my hips, calluses catching on the soft fabric of my pajama shorts. A slow, creeping tightness worked its way down from my belly, and I smiled against his cheek.

  “That doesn’t feel like guilt,” I murmured.

  His lips twitched. “So, there’s actually this thing called a guilt-boner…”

  I chuckled and pushed against his chest, lifting myself onto my hands so I could look down over him. There was that wicked gleam. I smirked back.

  “Does it go away if you stop feeling guilty?”

  His smile was slow and shameless. I watched the muscles in his arms go tense. “I guess we’ll only find out if you forgive me,” he said.

  Anticipation made a delightful fizz of static over my skin, all the sensitive places on my body going warm and alert. A slow, hesitant happiness was stretching from the wounded places in our hearts, seeking out safety in each other. We were both eager to rebuild it.

  He started moving beneath me, and the static flashed hot. My arms weakened, and I had to catch myself not to immediately slump against his chest.

  I’ve been a fighter my whole life. I learned to kill before I learned to kiss. Experience taught me to endure pain and exhaustion and fear, to anticipate a punch, to read a man’s posture to see if he was carrying a gun or a knife, and where.

  The gentle touches had been limited to my parents and godparents. Even the lovers I’d had before were a thing of transient sensation, of hands desperate and rough, making bruises that outlasted the men who’d put them there.

  I had no circuitry to process the things that Jaesung made me feel. My hound form could rip out a man’s throat, but my boyfriend’s mouth on my neck set me trembling.

  It was a reversal of our usual roles, in a way. Where I was afraid, he was sure, and strong, and so patient it made me want to scream. He loved it. He loved how badly I wanted him, and how little I could do about that want once he had gotten me to this lightheaded, weak-armed, barely-verbal state of lust. Which took embarrassingly little effort. After the first few times, my brain did half the work for him, just on memory alone.

  I almost felt bad, because I couldn’t help at all. But he seemed more than comfortable taking control.

  Within a few seconds, our positions reversed. My back pressed hard into the couch, and Jaesung was bearing down on me, mouth hot, tongue making slow, firm promises against mine.

  God, I loved him. I wanted to laugh. I wanted to force him to swear he was never going to leave me, because if he ever did, I was going to die. There would be nothing for me after this.

  I did my best to shift up as he pulled down my shorts. I tried to reciprocate, but my hands were clumsy, and his teeth were on my neck, splitting my attention.

  Then his arm slid under my waist, the other under my neck, and he was against me. His lips dragged up my jaw. It was gratifying to hear that his breath was ragged.

  “Forgive me?” His breath was hot in my ear.

  I made a frustrated noise that wasn’t a word, and felt him smile against my ear. “Come on, Hel. For science. Do you forgive me?”

  I was desperately pissed off. Rage gave me enough power to swing my hand up and thread it into the longer hair on top of his head.

  He actually laughed—that laugh of a person getting exactly the reaction they want. “Say it.” His voice was ripe with restrained laughter. I tightened my fist in his hair, but it did nothing to encourage the movement I was looking for.

  “Yes, Jesus Christ,” I breathed, furious. “You’re way more of an asshole right now than you were last night.”

  His smile softened, and he kissed my jaw gently. “No I’m not,” he murmured. The vibration of his voice against my skin was torture. “I would be an asshole if guilt boners were real, because it would have just gone away.”

  “I hate you,” I whined.

  “Hate-boners are absolutely a thing,” he said.

  I dragged his mouth to mine to shut him up. He grinned into it, and gave me what I wanted.

  We spent the dark hours of that morning not thinking about sorcerers or blood magic, or about the guilt that still wracked us both, and when we stumbled back upstairs to his bed, it was to sleep off a far more pleasant sort of exhaustion.

  Chapter 6

  JAESUNG

  It was exactly the look I’d hoped to avoid. The combination of horror and pity, followed by that quick sideways flick that meant Big Calculations Were Happening inside the head of Rosemary Walker, artistic director and Supreme Overlordess of Henard Ballet. She sucked on the end of a pen, gripping it hard with fingers half-covered by the sleeves of her fuzzy warm up sweater.

  I could have called her to drop the news, but after three years as her premier danseur—which is what you call a prima ballerina when it’s a dude—I figured she deserved the news in person. Thus putting me in the direct line of fire for The Look.

  “This is a goddamned fucking mess, isn’t it?” She said. I smiled wryly. She tossed down her pen. “I thought you were doing really well. Jumps aren�
��t hurting anymore?”

  “Not much.”

  “Did we start you back too soon? Did the conditioning make the scarring worse?”

  I sighed. “I wondered the same thing, but I don’t think there’s really any way to know. It just…” I couldn’t think of a way to sum it up.

  “It sucks a giant, ugly, unwanted dick.”

  Rosie was nothing if not delicate and prim.

  “Pretty much,” I said, and slumped down in the uncomfortable chair opposite her desk.

  Rosie eyed me over her glasses. Even at somewhere north of sixty, she had that Cate Blanchett-like ability to defy time. Though her hair was completely white, her face could have been forty. Her physique could have been half that.

  And there was The Look again. Shaded horror. Pity. She slapped her desk and turned the palm up.

  “Give me the foot,” she said.

  This was not an unusual question from Rosie, so I pushed off my sneaker with my other foot and slung my leg across her desk. My calf landed on a pair of contracts for two new dancers from the company-associated school. Her small, chilly hands shoved the cuff of my track pants up to mid-thigh and began prodding.

  “Point. Flex. Motherfucker. I can feel the scar tissue right there,” she rubbed at the tendon, which was not comfortable, but also wasn’t as bad as it could have been. “Park. You’re killing me.”

  She took my ankle in one hand, toes in the other, and carefully twisted my foot back and forth, watching my face for the inevitable wince. “Pirouettes?”

  “Hurt. Not unbearably, but they make Dr. Lambert nervous.”

  She dug her thumbs into the arch of my foot, as if massaging it hard enough might feel like a sort of revenge. Aggressive affection was totally her style. I could respect that.

  ”You’re the only one tall enough to stand next to Dana when she’s en pointe! I’ve been fighting off Madison Ballet for a whole damn year! You could have been good enough for Chicago! I. Am. So. Pissed. Off. Fucking. Why? Why did you have to get injured?”