Stray Magic Page 14

  Shiloh, what are you doing?

  Get out here, I thought back. Now!

  I raised my gaze and let my eyes meet Piotr’s. He blinked, not expecting me to do it, and it made him hesitate. I fired at his heart, three bullets, and each one hit. Piotr shrieked and collapsed, breaking the start of our gazelock. I entered my code in the lockbox on my side of the gate and stepped back so it could open.

  “Who’s going to turn Vincent now that you’ve fucked up and gotten yourself caught?” I asked.

  Piotr’s head twisted toward me, his face still shadowed by the hat and scarf, features twisted in agony. “The one I taught, in order to save the lives of my people. My debt is now complete. You are his, and they are safe.”

  Something in the air changed, became keener, crisper. I looked at the sky, half expecting a lightning strike. Wind rushed at me, and then Tennyson was there, his own cloak thrown hastily over his head and shoulders and tugged close. His expression was thunderous.

  “What you did was foolish,” he said.

  “So far so good,” I replied. Maybe the oath thing was just a bunch of bull—

  The sting startled me into dropping my gun, and it clattered to the asphalt. I turned my throbbing hand fast enough to see the black, eight-legged thing just before it leapt to the ground. Tennyson was faster, and his boot smashed it into a familiar puddle of spiky legs and green goo.

  White fire shot through my right hand, up my elbow, all the way to my shoulder. The tiny, twin puncture wounds, perfectly centered on the top of my hand, oozed clear liquid. Redness erupted around them as the site began to swell. All I could do was stare.

  “We need to—” Tennyson started.

  “Get Piotr secured and inside,” I replied. My lungs felt cold—not good. “I knew what I was doing. If he gets away, it’s for nothing.”

  At least he didn’t argue. And Piotr didn’t struggle much while Tennyson manhandled him to his feet and toward the house. Probably didn’t want to risk those bullets shifting and doing even more damage. Potentially irreparable damage. A vampire with a shredded heart won’t die right away. He’ll slowly succumb to thirst and hunger, no matter how much he eats.

  I couldn’t seem to recall why . . . .

  My arm went numb. Not the tingly pins and needles numb. The I-don’t-know-if-my-arm-is-still-attached-to-my-body kind of numb. I stumbled to the lockbox and hit the big blue button that shut the gate. Then I turned and face-planted on the asphalt. The jostle lanced agony up my numb arm, into a flame that fanned across my chest, neck, and abdomen. I tasted blood.

  Blessed spider.

  My head seemed to weight fifty pounds and was impossible to lift off the ground. Lying there felt nice. It hurt when I moved. I’d stay there until the numbness spread all over and nothing hurt anymore.

  No, I couldn’t do that. I had something else to do, something important. I got bit for a reason, bless it all. If I stayed here to die, it would be for nothing. Can’t lie here and let the bad guys win. Will not.

  Footsteps beat the pavement toward me. Someone strong and smelling faintly of blood and sage rolled me onto my back. I shrieked as fingers of pain raced through my body, tiny daggers slicing across muscle and organs and bone. He gathered me up. I had no strength to protest, no sense of coordination to hold on tighter. The fizzle-pop of power told me it was Tennyson.

  I let him carry me back to the house, up the stairs, and into one of the bedrooms.

  That’s when the real torture began.

  Chapter 11

  “Shiloh! My God, what happened to her?”

  “She’s been bitten.”

  “By what? Her arm—”

  “A spider, as penance for breaking a blood oath.”

  Mom and Tennyson’s dialogue faded a bit beneath the haze of heat and wet cotton balls invading my brain. I’d closed my eyes and left them closed. Opening them hurt. Moving anything hurt, so I did nothing as my traitorous body succumbed to the spider’s venom.

  “Magic,” Mom said.

  “Yes. Draining the wound will do little good at this point. The venom is in her blood.”

  “She’s half djinn, she’s strong. Spiders can’t—”

  “It was more than a simple spider, Ms. Juno.”

  I wanted to comfort my mom, to tell her it was okay. Tell her how glad I was the spider she choked on hadn’t bitten her, too. Apologize for dragging her into this mess in the first place. I wanted to tell Vincent the same thing. God, Vincent . . . .

  The whimper must have come from me, because both of them said my name.

  “We have to do something,” Mom said. Was she crying? On the verge? I couldn’t tell, could only hear the grief in her voice. A gradually thickening voice, as the wet cotton in my head pressed down harder. Smushing my feverish brain into the sides of my skull.

  “Her djinn half may be strong enough to combat the venom,” Tennyson said. “However, her human half weakens her.”

  “Her father might know how to save her.”

  Oh please, no, don’t call my dad. The last thing I needed was to have both of my parents mixed up in this mess. It’s my own mess. Only I couldn’t get the breath to protest. My tongue felt thick, heavy, my lungs too cold.

  “Her phone is downstairs by the computer.”

  Mom’s shoes clattered out of the room. Tennyson has a phone. Is he worried about roaming charges or something? A weak giggle worked its way loose.

  Something swished, then clicked. The bed settled a bit on one side, and the tiny movement sent agony signals to my sizzling brain.

  “Can you hear me, Shiloh?” Tennyson asked. His voice was quiet, his tone gentle. Eerie, from such a terrifying vampire.

  The giggle worked once, so I tried it again. It came out more like a sob. Hot tears leaked from the corners of my eyes.

  “You’re dying.”

  No kidding, you think?

  “I believe your human blood is making you weak, and I have a theory on how you may yet beat this.”

  Then what the hell are you waiting for?

  “Your permission.”

  I forced my eyelids to open. My eyeballs felt like balloons filled with scalding water, ready to burst at any moment. The dim light in the room cut into my head like a blade. Through the pain, I saw Tennyson’s face looming over mine, framed by swaths of painter’s palette hair. His eyes sparkled with red and his mouth was set. Determination rolled off him stronger than his aged power.

  Even through the fever of the spider bite, the telepathy worked. And he was sensible enough to not shout his thoughts into my overtaxed brain.

  Holding his gaze, I asked, What do you need to do?

  “It is widely known that vampire blood heals the wounds of other vampires. It is a guarded secret that drinking from a willing vampire donor can also heal the wounds of humans.”

  I had to think that one through several times for it to make sense. It hurt to think. My chest had gone numb, as well as my left arm. My father wouldn’t get here in time to save me, even if he knew how. I couldn’t die yet. Vincent had been kidnapped. Vampires and werewolves were being stolen off the streets, and we had a restrained vampire who was mixed up in all of it.

  Too much else to do; dying was off the list.

  Will I change?

  “No, there will be no blood exchange. However . . .” He looked troubled.

  What?

  “I have heard of instances of djinn reacting to vampire blood as a human to illegal narcotics. It can become addictive.”

  Gross.

  He raised a slender eyebrow. “There is little time, Shiloh. Your body is already taxed beyond its limits—”

  Do it. Let me drink.

  “You are certain?”

  I’m not ready to die, Tennyson. Please.

  He shifted to kneel next to my head, each jostle another stroke of fire in my body. He cut through the underside of his wrist with his fangs, then pressed the bleeding wound to my mouth. My rational brain protested the very idea of drin
king his blood (or anyone’s blood), and the warmth trickled down my chin.

  “Please, Shiloh.”

  The way he said it—a respectable distance from begging, but more than a simple request—parted my lips. Hot, thick, and unbearably bitter, his blood spilled into my mouth, across my tongue, scorching its way down my throat. I lost it somewhere below my neck, as my lower body was already numbed beyond sensation. I closed my eyes and drank deeply, sucking hard on the wound, thirstier than I’d ever been in my life. And hating myself for every single drop.

  The pulsing started in my toes—one of the last bits of my body I still felt—and spread upward. I felt it behind my eyes, a softer pulse that cooled the fever, only to replace it with rage. Unfiltered, undirected rage. It rippled through my sensitizing chest, flowed out to my extremities, then ran back to pool in my heart in a fist of hate as black as pitch and boundless as the heavens.

  Tennyson yanked his wrist away, and I shrieked out my rage. How dare he? With energy born of anger, I clawed at his face, scrambling for the wrist he’d offered and then taken away. Nothing mattered except getting it back. I fought and snapped, but he was stronger. Bless it, why was he stronger than me?

  He shoved me down and climbed aboard, straddling my thighs. His hands clamped around my wrists and pressed them down on either side of my head. I gnashed my teeth at his arms, at the sweet blood flowing beneath them. At the wrist still oozing down his hand, onto mine, teasing me with its heat. Bastard!

  “Shiloh, stop!”

  I laughed. How dare he command me? I wasn’t one of his children, one of his chosen. He’d done this to me, given me this terrible thirst, and he deigned to tell me to stop. I arched my back and nearly dislodged my captor. His legs clamped down tighter around mine. I kicked my feet, using the bed as leverage, reveling in this strange new strength.

  He slid his body down the length of mine, covering me completely, raised up only by his straight-armed grip of my wrists. Our bellies pressed together, our hips, our legs—so perfectly. Too bad he was a filthy vampire.

  “Get off me!” I was more surprised than him when I screamed those words at the top of my lungs. Fists pounded on the door, and a voice shouted my name. Demanded entry. “Mom!”

  Harder banging, then Mom: “If you hurt her, Vampire, I will kill you myself!”

  “Mommy!” Tears strangled my voice, stung my eyes and nose. Terror sharper than any blade cut through me like a winter wind. Something was very wrong.

  My right hand was on fire, being charred to a crisp. Tennyson didn’t care, the bastard, he just held me down. I yanked and bucked, pleading for him to let me go, let my hand go. He held fast.

  Something heavy was hammering at the door. Elspeth Ann Juno to the rescue.

  “Ride it out, Shiloh, you can beat it,” Tennyson said. “Ride it out.”

  I wriggled and wrenched. “Just let me go, it hurts.”

  “You will beat this.”

  “Hurts.”

  “I know.”

  I was crying in earnest. Taxed from no sleep, the spider bite, the blood, the agony of it all in such a brief space of time. Confused by wanting his blood and despising myself for something so disgusting. The pain of the bite was back in my right hand, which felt sixty-times its normal size, ready to explode if introduced to the tiniest prick. The rest of my body was alive with pins and needles—or, more precisely, knives and nails. Everything ached, smarted, felt like it was being ripped apart and stitched back together.

  “More blood,” I said, hating myself for asking. Stupid, idiotic, moronic—worst of all, weak. Weakness in front of a vampire is a good way to get yourself killed.

  “No more blood tonight, Shiloh, you’ve had enough.”

  The door pounding continued. Wood cracked.

  “Hurts so much.”

  “I know. It’s working. My blood is healing you.”

  Crack.

  I whimpered.

  Crash!

  My mother launched herself at Tennyson, all flailing fists and screeches of threats to his body. Her initial attack did little. He remained above me, an immovable object. I saw her palm the pencil. He didn’t.

  She stabbed him in the back.

  Adrenaline had her discombobulated enough to stab him on the right side, opposite his heart. He roared and reached back for the offending object, setting my arms free. I sat up and shoved him with feral glee. He toppled sideways and rolled off the bed, still grabbing backward for the pencil.

  Mom reached for me, arms open, face painted with worry and helpless tears.

  I shoved her away, too, just as hard. She stumbled and hit the nightstand with a pained shout. I bolted past her, for the door, every tortured muscle shrieking as I forced them to move faster than they wanted. I had to get away from them both; I had to find someone to slake the thirst in me. Someone to make the thirst and the ever-present pain go away.

  Tennyson tackled me in the hallway, his long, lithe limbs tangling around me like a fisherman’s net. I howled, cursing and punching and wriggling like a fish. He held fast, my back to his chest, his arms across mine to hold them down, legs looped and twisted at the ankle.

  He wheezed air, which struck me as strange, even through the haze of my fight-or-flight instinct gone haywire. Mom must have punctured a lung with that pencil.

  “Shiloh, baby?” Speak of the devil.

  A hand got within biting distance, so I snapped at my mom’s manicure. She gave a startled yelp and jumped back.

  “Stay back, woman!” Tennyson’s roar forced her to retreat several steps. She hit the hallway wall and stopped with a thunk.

  I glared at her ankles, unable to lift my head. Moving took too much energy. Energy I didn’t have, because I was too busy crying. Crying in front of the vampire. Bless it! Again, fury at showing weakness fueled my body. I lurched and nearly broke free. I jerked my head back and heard a satisfying crunch, followed by a streak of swearing. The back of my head ached from breaking his nose.

  Something hot and wet flowed from my right hand and soaked into my jeans. I couldn’t see it. Didn’t care. Tennyson hadn’t loosened his hold. I snapped my head again, hoping for a second blow. He jerked to the side and forward, effectively trapping me between his chin and shoulder. Breath from his wounded lung hissed across my cheek.

  A strange, keening sob ripped from my throat. Confusion muddled my world. Up, down, left, right, everything I knew was wrong. Backward. Nothing made sense, would never make sense again.

  “You need rest,” Tennyson said. “Forgive me this trespass.”

  “What are you doing?” Mom asked.

  Tennyson bent his head lower, changing the angle to press his lips to my neck. Mom let out a startled squawk. I trembled and whimpered, but did not protest. His fangs broke skin in twin bursts of pain that quickly melted into a pleasant tingle. Then numbing pleasure spread from my neck, down to my groin, and I groaned.

  A lovely sleepiness came over me, melting away the rage and shame and agony of the last few minutes. Cocooning me in warmth and safety, and I fell. Fell down, down, into the darkness below.

  And I didn’t dream at all.

  Sensations and scents sneaked through the haze of unconsciousness long before I clawed my way up and out. The damp pillow beneath my head, soft sheets over my body, pleasant warmth without fever. The sharp odor of sweat lingered over the residual scents of emotions—fear, anger, confusion. Not mine.

  Other people were afraid, angry, and confused. Why?

  I shoved the question away and concentrated on the pillow—this wonderful little invention aiding in my restful slumber. Sleeping felt amazing, as though I hadn’t done it in quite a long time. Why mess with a good thing?

  Two new sensations stole through the veil of sleep and poked me in the mental eye. The first was my right hand. It ached like I’d been clenching it for hours, stiff and unyielding. The second was my neck. It ached as well, but in a different way. Tiny, twin tingles, more sore than painful. Why was—?
/>   A vampire bit you, you idiot.

  Why did a vampire bite me, though? I didn’t really want to know. If I fell back to sleep, I wouldn’t have to think about it.

  Eventually I’d have to wake up, though. Putting off the inevitable didn’t make it go away. It just delayed the . . . ah, inevitable.

  I clawed against the heavy veil of darkness swaddling my mind and body, yanking and tearing until it gave. With it came nauseating clarity. My entire body ached like I’d been smashed with a steamroller. My right hand wasn’t just stiff, it was also bandaged and swollen. The twin tingles in my neck remained the only soft pain, barely there over the agony of the other injuries.

  Spider. Blood. Running.

  Crap.

  My tongue was thick, dry, and stuck to the roof of my mouth. I worked it off and ran the tip over my fuzzy teeth. No fangs. A shudder of relief wracked my body, and I started working on my eyes. They felt crusty, sealed shut. So gross.

  “Shiloh?” His was not the voice I wanted to hear.

  I mumbled something intended to come out as, “Go away,” but managed only garbled nonsense. Bastard took it as permission to sit next to me, his pop-sizzle of power stronger than ever. It felt like the gentle burst of carbonated soda off the top of a freshly poured, frosty glass of the stuff—cold and sparkling. I didn’t want him near me.

  He stood up and moved away with a whispered, “I’m sorry.”

  The unexpectedness of it gave my left hand the energy to creep up and wipe the crusties off my eyes. I blinked them open, immediately grateful for the dim lighting. Tennyson stood a few feet away, close to the wall, hands clasped behind his back. His face was stony, his thoughts impossible to read from expression alone. And I say that, because I unexpectedly felt a wave of regret from him—a chill I couldn’t explain any other way, coated with a repetition of his spoken words.

  I licked my lips, working up enough moisture to speak. “You bit me.”

  “I felt I had no choice,” he said, and again, that regretful chill rolled off him. “You needed to rest and allow my blood to heal you.”