My Blood Is Yours (The Summoning #1)

5. Elowen

ELOWEN

T he unmistakable bang of gunfire jolts me from my dream—a blissful one of the male I always dream of. It takes a moment for me to realize that the gunshot occurred inside Dr. Forsythe’s home. Dread sinks in the pit of my stomach as icy-cold fear trickles through my veins. Despite this, I find myself peeling back the bedcovers and quickly sliding my feet into my slippers, beelining for the door. If I had any sense of self-preservation, it would have me crawling out of the tiny window in my room and onto the roof to hide until the police arrived—or until the doctor came searching for me.

Instead, as though tugged by some unseeable force, I find myself wielding the nearest candelabra and padding through the doctor’s dark home. Making my way down the stairs, light spills from Dr. Foresythe’s study into the dark hollow, shadows dancing on the opposite wall. Big shadows.

My heart slams violently against my chest, and I screech in terror as a towering dark figure takes up the space in the doorway.

“What the fuck are you doing?”

While the voice sounds more animal than man, it is still quite obviously Forsythe’s. “Get me a sheet, woman.”

He turns on his heel, steps thundering back into his study.

Drawing in a deep breath, I exhale my relief—or at least some part of it. There’s a certain pressure on my chest that seems to demand I go into that room. But I’m not about to ignore my master’s command in favor of it, lest I be reintroduced to the back of his hand. Again.

Rushing toward the hallway cupboard, I pull out one of the large cotton sheets stored there before heading into the study, but what greets me once inside has me stopping in my tracks.

Horns…

Wings…

Grey skin…

The male is giant. And easily the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen. Something in the depths of my soul recognizes him so viscerally, there is no doubt—this is the male of my dreams. The one that has haunted me for years, like a phantom only I can see, and nearly driving me to madness at his questionable existence.

There’s a black spot in the center of his head, and it takes a moment for my mind to accept what my eyes are telling me.

Right in the center of his forehead is a tiny, round hole.

And suddenly, I can’t breathe. The pressure in my chest cracks wide open, and I find myself gripping the nearest shelf to stay upright as a sob creeps up my throat. Forsythe’s gaze wrenches from the felled male up to mine, a sneer marring his features as he marches towards me and snatches the sheet off the ground from where I’ve dropped it. “Useless, woman.”

Tears spill from my eyes as I bowl over and collapse to my knees. Forsythe’s compassion proves absent—as per usual—as he narrows his eyes at me like I’ve turned into some sort of bug. “Are you mad, woman?”

Whipping the sheet in the air in front of him, Forsythe returns to the male and drapes the sheet over his body. He turns towards his desk, lifting the receiver, and cranks the handle.

“… Connect me to Dr. Thoren Watson of Baker Street...”

Forsythe turns his back on me, one fist propped on his hip as he waits for the operator to connect him. As if driven by some unseen force, I find myself crawling towards the beautiful male hidden beneath the sheet. My tears pepper his dark grey face as I uncover his head. His large black horns are decorated in elegant yet understated gold finery. Two dim gold lines trace across the width of his face, over his high cheekbones, and something intuitively tells me it would glow if he were alive. I feel like my soul has been torn in half.

The tap, tap, tapping of Forsythe’s foot announces his impatience. Sneaking a glance at him to find him still facing the window, my eyes drop back to the dead male as some part of me refuses to believe that he is truly dead. My trembling hand caresses over his still-warm cheek. Without thought or reason, I find myself uttering silent prayers. Please, wake up. Please.

“Ginny, it’s Dr. Forsythe. Put Dr. Watson on the phone at once. It’s an emergency...”

A hissed curse tells me Watson must not be in town. He is a kind man. Though I’ve only ever met him once, that much seemed clear.

“Get your hands off my corpse! Are you deranged?”

I find myself ignoring the doctor as he slams the receiver back down, only to lift it again and crank the phone once more. I can feel Forsythe’s scowl upon me as he waits, and I have to physically force myself to remove my hands before he drags me away from him.

“… Evandriel Vayne of White Chapel Rd...”

Evandriel is not a nice man. He’s not even a doctor. He’s the Undertaker. I’ve known him since I was a child, and his presence is just as unsettling now as it was then—a certain darkness seems to loom around his otherwise bright, otherworldly features. Forsythe hires him privately to bring him corpses when his research requires something altogether different from what the morgue usually has to offer.

“Evandriel. I need your discreet assistance with something rather urgent.”

“Not a word. Do you understand?” Lightning streaks across the pregnant sky beyond the back door as Forsythe’s eyes bounce between mine, filled with both impatience and excitement. The ominous rumble of thunder follows a moment later as my throat works against the emotion swelling in my chest. Something inside me screams not to let them take the so-called daemon away—to let me keep him—but I have no power here. Forsythe would sooner have me committed. Not that he would be wrong in doing so, logically speaking. What in god’s name would I do with a corpse? Still, I can’t help it as my eyes wander from Forsythe’s to the horse-drawn hearse waiting in front of the house.

Where Evandriel waits.

My eyes connect with his—an unnatural shade of pale blue—no doubt brimming with secrets beyond my imagination. His expression is entirely unreadable as he tips the brim of his cloth cap towards me, pipe in hand.

Forsythe slams the door, and I realize then that I’ve never felt a greater sense of doom and longing in my entire life.