by Rob Cornell
Elton pressed his blade against my throat. “I got permission to kill you, you know.”
“You do what you have to.”
“You're a real dumb son of a bitch.”
Paul chuckled. A puff of his breath warmed the back of my neck. But it smelled like salami, which made the urge to puke that much stronger.
Nobody said anything for a moment. Elton quivered with obvious rage. His trembling knife hand shook the blade against my neck. I could feel it nibbling at the top layer of my skin.
“Would you please,” Elton said. “Please come to your damn senses?”
Then I saw it. Despite the tough moves and the badass lightning bolt tattooed on his scalp, Elton here was not a killer. Not yet, at least.
“Just let me go,” I said. “Tell your boss I got away.”
“Why the hell would I do that?”
“Because you don't want to kill me. It's written all over your face. You don't have the stomach for it.”
He shuffled in close so that he nearly pressed against my body. “You think you know me?”
The pain in my leg and chest continued to sear, but it faded to the background while my mind evaluated my situation. Things had changed. It had turned into a conversation rather than a torture session. And even though Elton had a knife to my throat, he had forgotten to stay sharp. He was too pissed to realize he had put himself within my easy reach.
Granted, my arms were locked up and too numb to use anyway.
I didn't need them, though.
I glanced down at the circle of ash.
All it would take is one good shove.
“Elton,” I said. “I know your type.”
“What type is that?”
“You're a dumb shit.”
I drew up my knee—the one on my good leg—and nailed him in the nuts. He backed off and doubled over, his blade safely away from my jugular. I lifted my good leg and shoved the sole of my foot against his bare scalp. It wasn't a strike meant to hurt him, just knock him off balance.
He staggered a couple steps, then dropped to the floor with an oof.
And he landed right where I wanted him to.
On the circle.
The ash smeared across the floor under him. I felt the magic cage pop like a massive bubble, the sudden opening came like a magical breath of fresh air. Once again, I could feel my power flowing through me.
I called on fire to light up the length of my arms.
Paul shrieked and let go of me. I turned and watched him stumbled backward and thump onto his ass.
I worked my shoulders, trying to encourage the circulation back where it belonged.
A sudden blaze of pain racked across my back.
I spun around.
Elton had gotten to his feet. He was hunched slightly, favoring his poor bruised balls. But he had his knife at the ready for another swipe.
Realizing I had put my back to Paul now, I turned sideways and backed up so I had them both in my sight. Paul was slapping at the flames on his shirt and had most of them patted out.
Elton faked a lunge while he whipped his knife back and forth in front of him.
I jerked back, well beyond his reach.
“Drop the blade, Elton. I don't want to kill you.”
He narrowed his eyes.
“That's right,” I said. “I've done plenty of killing.” I held my right hand out and set it alight with blue fire. “I won't hesitate.”
He mashed his lips together. His face flushed. Even his scalp pinked up. Steam practically spewed from his ears. He wanted another shot at me. If he wasn't a killer before, he was now. But, unlike his partner, Elton didn't seem to have any magical tricks to toss at me, and he knew he was outmatched.
He dropped the knife and ran for the doors.
By now, Paul had the flames out. All but the ones in his eyes.
I had learned the hard way that he could throw flame and conjure wind just like me. I felt his magical energy coalesce around him as he prepared to take a shot at me.
Unlucky for him, I already had my fire ready.
I hurled blue fire at him. The flaming ball struck him dead center. This time, he wouldn't get the chance to beat down the flames that spread over him. His gathering power dispersed as he kicked, screamed, and burned.
With the threat neutralized, my adrenaline leaked away, leaving me with all the pain I had managed to ignore thus far. My head spun. I dropped to my knees. Squeezing my eyes shut, I pulled together my power and moved it into my wounds. The cuts were too deep for me to try to stitch them shut. I'd bleed out before my paltry of healing skills even came close. I did block the pain some, though.
Well, most of it.
The cut on my back still throbbed and stung. It felt infected. But that was impossible. It was too fresh.
Then I noticed the exact location of the cut.
A chill ran through me and stole my breath. I reached across so I could touch my shoulder, touch my brand. My fingertips brushed against the bloody split that ran straight through the brand's center. The skin was hot to the touch. Way hotter than blood should be.
I wasn't sure what it meant. I'd never considered what might happen if the brand was damaged in some way. Could a scratch, or even a deep cut, undo its magic?
No. You're suffering blood-loss and shock. This is all in your head.
The mage who had given me the brand never mentioned anything about situations like this. I had to trust that a cut couldn't undo the brand's effects.
I shuffled over to the chair with my clothes on it. Putting them on would ruin them with all the blood pouring out of me. But I couldn't damn well leave naked. Besides, I needed my phone. Needed to call for help before I passed out.
I dug through both pockets of my pants where my phone should have been. When I didn't find it there, I ruffled through the rest of my clothes.
Nothing.
They had taken my fucking phone.
A new wave of dizziness twirled through my head. It took every effort to stay conscious while I pulled on my clothes. I dressed with the clumsy care of an old man. The fabric instantly absorbed my blood, making my shirt stick to my skin and dampening my pants as if I'd wet myself.
If I wasn't careful, I might pass out and do just that.
I limped my way out through the doors Orosco had come through and found myself in an expansive lobby probably as big as my house. Blood leaked out my pant leg and dribbled across the ornate carpeting. A large stretch of windows looked out at a parking lot and a garden still mostly dormant from the winter, only a few of the flowers in bloom. The front door led out to a portico.
The cold night air felt good in my lungs, but chilled my blood-soaked body until I couldn't stop shivering.
A fence separated the grounds from the back yards of a row of houses on the far side of the lot. A hundred yards to the fence. A painful and slow climb over the fence into one of the yards. A grueling crawl to the back door. Then I could pound and cry for help. Hopefully, someone would be home. Hopefully, they would get to me before I died.
But I only made it a few shambling steps before I dropped to the asphalt and lost consciousness.
Chapter Sixteen
I sat at a table in a restaurant with Odi at my side. Not just any restaurant. The one where I had killed the guys I had meant to interrogate. Their burnt bodies lay around us. But it didn't seem to bother me. They might has well have been part of the decor. After I noticed the bodies, I looked up and saw Toft Kitchens sitting across from me.
The four-century-old vampire in a twelve-year-old’s body smiled at me as he adjusted his red bow tie. He wore a tailored tuxedo. His dirty blond hair was slicked back. He had his glamour dropped, going full on vampire. Odi, too.
“I'm glad you could finally join us,” Toft said. “I was worried you never would.”
I knew Toft was supposed to be dead. But much like the dead guys on the floor, his presence seemed perfectly normal. I felt apprehensive, though. Something was about
to happen. Something I knew I wouldn't like.
“You've done a terrible job, by the way.” Toft pointed at Odi. “He's a vampire. You need to treat him like one.”
“I do,” I said, sounding defensive.
Toft shook his head with a sad smile. His glowing red eyes dimmed.
“No,” he said. “You haven't been teaching him.”
“We train every night.”
“Sorcery isn't what I meant. He needs to learn how to be a vampire.”
I glanced at Odi, then back to Toft. “I can't do that.”
“So disappointing. I wish I were still alive.”
“If you were still alive, half of Detroit would be dead.”
He shrugged and studied his fingernails. I noticed they were long, yellow, and cracked on the ends. “I knew I couldn't trust you to take care of him.”
I pounded my fist on the table. “That's bullshit. I feed him my blood, for the gods' sake. My own blood. I'm doing the best I can.”
“No,” Toft said, his little boy voice going unnaturally deep. “You can do better. You can be better.”
“What's that supposed to mean?”
Toft's gaze roved to Odi. Odi hunched in his seat, his own gaze pointed down at the bright white, starchy tablecloth. He looked like he wanted to curl into a ball and disappear.
Toft templed his fingers and pursed his blood-red lips. “Do you really not know?”
“I really…” I stopped as I realized what this was all about.
Toft smiled. “There we go. Don't you think it's time to stop fighting it?”
“No. You're out of your mind.”
“It's your destiny, Sebastian. Did you think the brand could last forever? You're a sorcerer. You have a long life ahead of you, assuming you don't get yourself killed with all the antics you've enjoyed of late. Plenty of time for the brand to finally fail.”
I clenched my teeth. Heat rose on my cheeks. “Why did you help me stop the turn if you want it to happen so badly?”
“This isn't about what I want. It's about what Odi needs. He needs a mentor who understands him.” He sighed and pressed his hands flat on the table. “It's time, Sebastian. Time you stopped being the Unturned.”
He raised a hand and signaled a waiter in a white tux standing by the door to the kitchen. I hadn't noticed him there before. It was like he'd come out of nowhere.
“Please,” Toft said. “Serve the main course.”
The waiter nodded primly then strode into the kitchen. A few moments later he came out wheeling a long stainless-steel cart with a sheet draped over it. The shape under the sheet was unmistakable.
The waiter sidled the cart up beside our table then whipped the sheet off with a magician's flourish.
I didn't recognize the person on the table. He looked like an average guy you'd pass on the street without noticing. Brown hair and matching eyes. He was naked except for a pair of white briefs. And, although he'd been draped like a corpse in the morgue, this guy was very much alive.
Leather straps with rusty buckles pinned him to the cart. He struggled but could barely move. He wasn't going anywhere.
Not alive, anyway.
I glance from the man to Toft. “Are you out of your mind?”
He smirked. “I think you already asked me that.”
I held my palm out toward the cart and turned my face away. “No. No way.”
“Relax. The brand is already wearing off. You can feel it, can't you? Embrace the change.”
A static prickle rose on my skin, like getting wiped down with a dryer sheet. My mouth watered. My saliva tasted like blood. I pressed a fist against my mouth to hold down my gorge. Bile seared the back of my throat. That tasted like blood too.
I stood up, knocking my chair over with a clatter.
The man on the cart rolled his eyes toward me. The pleading in them turned me cold. Not because I feared for him. Or felt sorry for his fate. It chilled me because I didn't care.
I brushed my tongue against my teeth and felt the sharp points of each of my fangs. I balled my hands into fists and tried to will the fangs away, but I had no control over them.
The sickness in my gut turned, like a black snake inside of me. It turned into hunger.
Toft stood, gestured toward the man, and nodded at me. “You are the guest of honor. You have first dibs.”
I looked at Odi, but he was oblivious. His lips were wet, and the red glow in his eyes flared as he stared, fixated, on the man.
“Dude,” he said. “I'm seriously hungry.”
“Now, now.” Toft clapped his hands a couple times softly. “Manners.”
Odi ducked his head. “Sorry.”
I stared at the man, still struggling against his bonds. “Who is he?”
“It doesn't matter.”
He was right. Better not to know. I rounded the table toward the cart and stepped up beside the helpless man—dinner—and my stomach rumbled. I stared at his throat. I thought I could see his jugular throbbing in time to his heartbeat. My teeth itched. I couldn't hold off any longer.
I cried out against my cravings, but the end result was the same.
I sank my fangs into the man's neck and began to drink.
Chapter Seventeen
I woke up with a mouthful of spit that tasted like pennies. I gagged when I swallowed, but the taste cleared away, just a ghost from that fucked-up dream.
I lay in a dark room with only a hint of light cutting around the edges of a shade drawn down over the window. The pillowcase my head rested on smelled like lavender and had the crisp feel of fresh laundry. My body was slick with sweat, the single sheet over me sticking against my bare chest.
The memories from before I passed out came in waves, like a steady tide.
The ballroom. The circle of ash. Orosco's ridiculous offer. Elton's blade slicing me open. The cut across my brand.
A cold jolt of panic quickened my heart rate. I rolled onto my side and reached back to touch my brand. The cut was nothing more than a ridge of scar tissue now. I felt my chest. Same thing with the slice there. Someone with mad healing skills had tended to me.
Had the healing fixed the brand, too?
I took stock of myself while I lay in the dark. I hadn't even bothered trying to work out where I was yet. Before I did, I concentrated on my body, my senses, my…urges.
I noticed I had an unconscious bit of magical energy drawn up. The feeling was all too familiar. It was just like after the vamps had tried to turn me the first time, a portion of my magic held aside to fight the infection from taking over.
Maybe it was the dream that had caused the reflex. Or something left over from when the brand was first cut.
I slowly released the energy. Just a little.
Didn't feel any different. Hell, now I wondered if my fear of the brand failing had only come from the dream. The moments before I fell unconscious were a little blurred, seemed to blend with the dream.
Before I had a chance to test my condition any further, the room's door slowly opened, letting in a shaft of light from the hallway outside. I had to squint while my eyes adjusted. I couldn't immediately make out any details of the silhouette that stepped into the room. A general sense of their size and shape. A female, I thought.
Then the shock of the sudden light faded, and I could plainly see who stood in the wide stripe of light.
Fiona.
I pushed up onto my elbow and the world tilted. I flopped onto my back while my head spun. And the spinning turned my stomach. I'd been healed but apparently still needed time to recover from the blood loss. I had no idea what time it was or how long I'd been out. No idea how I'd gotten to this bed. And no fucking clue what Fiona had to do with it.
I thumped a fist against the mattress and grunted. I didn't have time for this.
“Are you okay?” Fiona asked as she came closer.
I waved her away. “Don't.”
She stopped short, wrung her hands together. The light from behind made her blo
nd hair glow. Stray flyaways glimmered like gold thread. “You're probably wondering—”
“Where the hell am I?”
She laughed nervously. “Yeah. That.”
I took another shot at propping myself up a bit so I could see around me. My head did a few pirouettes, but I stayed up this time.
The contents of the room surprised me. A dresser with an attached mirror hosted a dozen Barbie dolls on plastic stands lined up like a choir of clones, each with a different outfit. Mostly dresses, but one of them looked like a mail carrier's uniform.
A dollhouse squatted on the floor against one wall. More Barbies occupied various rooms, while a single Ken doll lounged on a couch in the living room. The indirect lighting left some sinister-looking shadows around Ken, making the plastic guy looked like a predator, waiting for one of the Barbies to come in and dare to sit down with him in front of the TV.
So I was in a dark mood. What would you expect from someone who had just woken up from a dream about sucking blood?
The walls had a border along the ceiling featuring smiling cartoon narwhals, the unicorns of the sea.
“Whose room is this?” I asked.
“Jonah's daughter,” Fiona said as if I was supposed to know who Jonah was. “Well, it used to be.”
My foggy brain couldn't parse that, so I let it go. “What are you doing here? How did you find me? What is going on?”
One corner of her mouth curled up. “Slow down, or you're going to pass out again.”
I wanted to snap at her for daring to mother me. But she was right. My ears rang as another wave of dizziness tried to carry me away. I took a second to ride it through. Once the worst of it passed, I chanced trying to sit up. I pulled the sheet off. I was wearing a pair of sweatpants a little too big for me. Not mine.
Fiona moved to help as I slowly swung my legs off the bed.
“Don't touch me,” I growled.
She raised her hands and stepped back.
I got myself up to a sitting position on the edge of the bed, teeth clenched as I fought vertigo and nausea. A minute or two passed, and I could feel Fiona watching me the whole time, which made me self-conscious. I had to look like a pile of shit run through a microwave. That's how I felt anyway.