by Kelly Meding
The meltdown had to wait for another day. Maybe early next week.
I shored up my courage and stood a little straighter. Tennyson relaxed his hold and gently spun me around to face him. I looked up and focused on his nose, not interested in a gazelock. The rigid stone of his face had softened, and his eyes had reverted to their natural coppery brown.
“Do not bear the weight of your emotions as a burden, Shiloh,” he said. “Embrace them as part of yourself, for it is a gift enjoyed by humans and few others. As vampires, we must control ourselves at all times, lest we revert to our monstrous natures.” His hand brushed mine. “I would give anything to feel the freedom of true human emotion once more.”
I blinked. Had he just stated intention to make a wish? No, the tether hadn’t changed or sparked; it was merely a statement of fact. But it was something I could grant him, if he so desired. Besides, human emotions aren’t all they’re cracked up to be.
“Shi?”
I angled my head to look over Tennyson’s shoulder. Mom stood just inside the living room. Blood stained her blouse, and she was worrying a hand towel between her fingers. My half smile seemed to signal her that it was okay to approach, and she did, her face carefully schooled into neutrality. I could only imagine what she thought of her only daughter standing so close, speaking so quietly, with a vampire a hundred times her age.
“Let me take a look at your arm,” she said.
“Jaxon?
“Resting as best he can. I wish I could do more for him, but I’m afraid anything I try will make it worse. I know so little about skin-walkers . . .”
“It’s okay.” I took her elbow with my good hand and squeezed. “For all the scrapes we get into, this is the first time I’ve seen this sort of injury in his animal form. I don’t know how to help, either. He’s never talked about it. Is he coherent?”
“Babbling, mostly, from the pain I think.”
So much for asking him how to help. We could probably get the information we needed off K.I.M., and if Weller was involved in the attack, he’d know we’d been hurt by the vampire tag team. Did I have a choice?
“I’ll see if K.I.M. knows—”
Mom made a noise somewhere between a grunt and a gasp. “You will not, young lady. Tennyson is quite capable of doing a computer search for you. That arm needs to be taken care of before it gets infected.”
Young lady? Tennyson smirked the word at me.
Shut up. “Can you?” I asked him out loud, for Mom’s benefit. “See what we have on skin-walker injuries? And then have K.I.M. call Novak. They need to come home ASAP.” It was the first time since the attack I’d even thought of Novak and Kathleen. They had to be worried sick if they’d tried to call my shut-off phone and gotten no answer for the last few hours.
“Of course I can,” he replied.
I followed Mom upstairs to the bathroom and sat down on the toilet seat. She left for a moment, then returned with the medical kit. I managed to stay relatively silent, head turned away and eyes shut, while she unknotted the towel and swabbed away the drying blood with alcohol wipes. The wound blazed. My shoulder felt like someone had cleaved it from the bone and poured lemon juice across the meaty ruins.
“Shiloh, what cut you?”
“Silver knife.”
“Poisoned?”
My heart stuttered. “No, one of mine.” I thought back to the fight. The female vamp had cut me with the knife I’d used to stab her first. “It had vampire blood on it.”
Her sharp intake of breath set my internal alarm ringing. Too many seconds passed in silence, so I hazarded a look at my wound. The skin on my upper forearm was inflamed without being swollen, and likely feverish to the touch. The slice was five inches long, a lateral cut from front to back, just below my tricep. It was deep, which didn’t surprise me. It was also jagged on the edges and turning black, which did.
Okay, it didn’t surprise me so much as made me want to vomit. The words necrotic tissue flew through my mind. Something told me peroxide wasn’t going to clean this. I looked away from it, struck by the overwhelming need to cry again.
“Honey—”
“Get Tennyson.” He’d told me vampire blood given willingly could heal a human. What happened when we came into contact with vampire blood forced on us in the heat of battle?
I listened to her footsteps, first in the hall, and then on the stairs. Don’t panic, don’t panic, don’t panic . . .
“Sweet Mary.” The surprise in his voice didn’t help quell my anxiety. In fact, it pretty much skyrocketed.
“The blade had vampire blood on it,” I said.
“Your mother told me as much.” His clothing whispered, and then he was crouched by my side, examining the wound. Cool fingers touched my heated flesh, and I winced.
“Magic’s a funny bitch, isn’t she?”
“How so?”
I shrugged my good shoulder. “So much depends upon force of will. You willingly offer your blood and it heals. You get blood on you during a drag-down fight and it tries to rot your arm off.”
He was so quiet that I turned to look at him. His eyebrows were knotted in worry, but the rest of his face was . . . calm? Contemplative? Something. The fever in my shoulder was messing with the emotional back-draft I usually got from him. Or his blood booster had worn off enough to make that particular connection dissipate.
“I have never considered it in such a way,” he said. “You are correct. Magic is a funny bitch.”
Hearing him speak my own words back at me forced my mouth into a smile. He rummaged in the medical kit and produced a pair of shears, their well-kept blades gleaming. He pressed their sharpest edge to his palm. “My blood healed you once before. May I?”
It was why I’d asked for him. Another dose of vamp blood and its resulting bloodlust was a minor price to pay if it meant I avoided losing my arm to the encroaching necrotic tissue. “Yes, do it.”
Chapter 17
Tennyson sliced his palm neatly. Blood welled in a straight line, gathering in his hand, and then he pressed it against my wound. I started to shriek. Clamped my mouth shut instead, as fire raced up my shoulder and across my chest, down my arm to my fingertips. I clutched at my leg with my right hand, then found myself squeezing Tennyson’s. Hard enough to snap a few fingers if he had been human. My heart thudded wildly, and my stomach churned with barely contained nausea.
The fire ceased as suddenly as it began. A caressing throb remained when he drew his hand away, his own cut already half-healed. I hazarded a look at my wound. All signs of dying flesh were gone. A narrow, partially healed slice remained, the skin pink and healthy. It might scar, but it would mend without stitches.
I realized I was still squeezing the hell out of his hand and relaxed my hold. “You know something?” I said, blinking away the tears that had pooled without actually spilling. “I think I’ve cried more times in the four days I’ve known you than in the last four years.”
He pulled his hand completely out of mine. “I apologize.”
“Sorry, not saying it’s your fault. Just an observation. This partnership is hazardous to my mental health.” I tapped his leg, and he looked at me. “Thank you. You saved my life outside by attacking Azuriah’s vampire, and you didn’t have to.”
His eyebrows arched a fraction, barely perceptible but enough to indicate his surprise. “It was a rash decision. However, I do not regret it, and I will face its consequences. You are important . . . to this investigation.”
“Thanks.” It was all I could think to say.
He bandaged the wound so it would stay clean while it finished healing naturally. The scent of blood in the house struck me suddenly, like a bad wind had shifted upstairs. Warm and metallic, but also spicy and enticing. I licked my lips, then chided myself. Ugh. Gross. It was probably Jaxon’s blood, too. He’d never let me live it down if he found out I was craving his blood for a late-night snack.
Jaxon. I had to see him.
We met Mom in the
hallway. She eyed my bandaged arm.
“It’s fine now,” I said.
“There’s not much in your computer about skin-walkers,” she said, and I nearly fell over from shock that she hadn’t asked for details on how my arm was “fine now.” She continued: “Mostly history and explanations of the skins they use and how the incantations help them shift shape. One or two articles on how to reverse the incantations if you’re battling one, which mentioned rendering them unconscious as an alternative method.”
I’d seen that in person—Jaxon shifting back to human form when the pain had plunged him into unconsciousness. “Nothing at all about wounded skin-walkers?” I asked.
Mom pursed her lips. “K.I.M. said the system had recently purged six files related to skin-walkers.”
My skin crawled. “How recently?”
“Within the last ten minutes.”
“Crap.” It all but verified what I’d suspected about Weller. Only someone with top clearance—which meant him or Julius—had access to the programs that purged K.I.M.’s files. Purging was only done in case of extreme emergency, or if ordered by the DOJ in relation to a sensitive case.
Weller knew Jaxon was wounded. Weller was hiding information that could help us save his life. Bastard.
“Shiloh?” Mom asked. “What’s that mean?”
I filled her in on everything she didn’t know, and watched a marathon of emotions track across her face—shock, disbelief, anger, disgust. “It’s all starting to make a sick kind of sense,” I said when I’d brought us full circle to now. “The only thing I can’t make fit is the werewolves.”
“Maybe it doesn’t fit,” she said. “Maybe the timing is coincidence.”
“Maybe, but I doubt it.” My doubt didn’t discount the possibility, though. I hated the idea of it being unrelated, because it meant a whole other mystery to solve once the necromancer was stopped. And I didn’t want another mystery. I wanted a vacation. Drinks with umbrellas in them.
“Oh, and your other friends will be back within the hour.”
At least that was somewhere in the realm of good news. With any luck, Dad would return soon with information from the sidhe, and we’d be able to start formulating an attack plan against the necro’s compound.
“What about him?” Mom asked, pointing at Tennyson.
“What about him?”
“He’s healed you twice. Jaxon is mostly human. Can’t he heal him, too?”
“His wounds are magically inflicted,” Tennyson replied. “I cannot guarantee my interference will not make it worse.”
“Shiloh’s spider bite was magical.”
Tennyson’s eyebrows drew together and his mouth flattened into a thin line. I watched him, unwilling to ask such a favor on Jaxon’s behalf. He’d despise the idea of vampire blood healing him. But he’d probably despise dying even more.
“Do you wish me to do this?” Tennyson asked me.
I thought of sweet Jaxon, always ready with a smile and a joke. Snack food readily within reach. Great in bed, and funny to boot. Smart and strong, a former lover, and one of my very best friends for almost six years. I didn’t know what I’d do without him giving me grief on a daily basis, and hugs exactly when I needed them.
I needed Jaxon to live. If it worked, I’d gladly suffer through him being pissed at me for the method. “Yes,” I said. “Please try.”
He nodded and strode down the hall toward the strong scent of blood. I followed him to my room. The sight of Jaxon on the bed made me want to scream. He lay propped on his right side, bare-chested except for the swaths of bandages crisscrossing him front to back. Pillows behind his legs and shoulders kept him sideways. Blood had soaked through the bandages on his back, and the cloths on his head wound were similarly stained. He was paler than white, his skin papery-thin.
For a moment, I didn’t think he was breathing. Then the subtle rise and fall of his chest struck away an icicle of fear. Seeing him like that hurt my heart. The sudden grumble of my stomach and desire to taste his blood made me sick. He could barely stand violence in movies. He’d be disgusted by any residual bloodlust this may cause.
“Shiloh, please hold his head back and open his mouth,” Tennyson said.
I carefully crawled onto the bed behind Jaxon. As gently as I could, I turned his head and worked his jaw open. No eye flutter, no sign of waking. Tennyson punctured his own wrist with his fangs, then pressed the oozing wound to Jaxon’s mouth. The small holes dripped blood slowly enough to prevent choking. I rubbed his neck with my free hand, coaxing it down, and it worked instinctively to swallow.
Tennyson had to reopen his punctures three times to get what he deemed to be enough blood down Jaxon’s throat, who had amazingly remained asleep through the entire production. I was salivating by the time Tennyson finished, which only fueled my anger. Blessed bloodlust. I was officially the worst djinn ever.
“Shiloh?” Dad’s voice was in the hallway, preceding his appearance in the doorway by a half beat.
Mom pivoted toward the door. “Gaius?”
He took in the scene, his face settling into unveiled disgust. Whatever. I was so not up to his anti-vampire crap right now.
“May we speak in private?” he asked.
“One sec,” I replied. I wiped errant drips of blood from Jaxon’s lips, then carefully turned his head back into its previous position. His color was a little better. Nothing else seemed to have changed. I pressed a kiss to his temple before standing.
I followed Dad into the hall, all the way to the back stairs leading up to the unfinished attic. We didn’t keep anything up there—plenty of rooms existed downstairs for storage—so it held the musty odor of disuse and abandonment. Wood planks made the floor, and bare studs and exposed insulation the walls. He closed the door behind us.
A flash of white light seared my eyes and I squeezed them shut. The sweet fragrance of flowers and fresh-cut grass filled the attic, so out of place my eyelids popped back up. A woman stood in front of us. Her skin was a dusky gray color, almost corpse-like. Long blond hair flowed nearly to the floor. A green dress and cloak matched the sparkling emerald shade of her eyes, accentuating her radiating beauty.
Dad bowed politely. I just stared. She stared right back a moment, then her ruby lips curled into a creepy smile.
“You must be the offspring of Gaius Oakenjin,” she said. Her voice sounded like a brook babbling over pebbles, snarled with a faintly Scottish brogue.
“I am,” I said, feeling stupid for no good reason. “Shiloh Harrison.”
“Such trust to offer your name so quickly.”
Crap.
Her smile only widened. “Shiloh Harrison, it has come to my attention that you require knowledge I possess and are willing to trade for such knowledge. Is this correct?”
“It is.”
She took a step forward, her shoe clunking heavily on the wood floor. No, not shoe. Her skirt had shifted back, revealing a shiny black split-toe hoof. Oh-kay.
“I have sensed the black magic being wielded by a man dabbling in the necrotic arts. It is a forbidden practice among magic users, avoided even by the abusers. It taints this world with its unnaturalness. My way is not to track this magic to its source, but I can give you a location that is accurate to within one kilometer of its origin. Is this what you were told?”
I swallowed. The attic felt ten degrees warmer. “Yes.”
“I trade only in what has value, and to mortals, memory is a most cherished possession. I will require such a trade from you. Is this also what you were told?”
“Yes.”
“Excellent.”
“What memory?”
She frowned—even creepier than her smile—and stared at me as though I’d just asked why the sky was up. “My price is the memory of the person in your life whom you love the most.”
Cold dread squeezed my heart. The person I loved the most. I wanted to flee the attic and never look back at the Green Lady and pretend she’d never suggested su
ch a thing. How could I agree to pay such a staggering cost? And how on earth would I know who I loved most? Mom? Dad? Vincent? Who?
Dad’s hand gripped my elbow. “You don’t have to agree to this, Shiloh.”
He knew I did. We needed this location. Without it we could never hope to strike at the heart of the necromancer. He would just keep attacking us until no one was left.
“How do I decide who I love the most?” I asked.
“I will know.”
“Even if I don’t?”
“Yes.”
I didn’t know if I believed her, but I had no choice. Or did I? “May I add a term of my own to this agreement?”
“I will hear the term first.”
Oh, gods, oh, gods, don’t screw this one up, Shi.
“My term is this: I keep all of my memories intact until after the necromancer we seek is successfully incapacitated or killed, and no longer in a position to continue his forbidden magic.”
Her face didn’t so much as twitch, and I had no idea if that was good or bad.
I continued. “My reasoning for such a term is this: until the necromancer is successfully incapacitated or killed, I am gaining nothing of value in this bargain. For the bargain we make to be fair and free, value should be traded at the same time.”
She smiled that gut-liquefying smile. “You trade for the value of my information, daughter of Gaius Oakenjin.”
“The information has no value to me unless it leads to such an end as I have described. I will not trade a memory of such value for information that, simply imparted here, has none.”
Her silent contemplation stretched out for such a length I almost started tapping my foot. She was in no hurry, but I was. Every passing moment gave the necromancer more strength.
“You are a clever girl, Shiloh Harrison,” the Green Lady said. “I agree to your term. Payment to me will be rendered at such a time as my imparted information leads to the successful capture or death of the necromancer you hunt. Are we in agreement?”