Chapter Eight
Samara
It was easier to pick up on the signs of the vampiric fatigue when dawn approached now. Exhaustion crawled around my limbs. Not knowing how long I had, I slid under the bed. The grimoire, I hid behind my pillow. Even if it hurt, I wanted the comfort it offered.
Once I was hidden under my fortress of a bedframe, the weight of everything truly hit me.
Not the anger. The sadness. The grief. I sobbed and sobbed, pausing only to fortify my mental shields.
With the way emotions kept slamming into me, I wished I could block myself from the feelings the way I could block them from Raphael.
I didn’t want him to see me like this. Didn’t want to find comfort in my sire’s arms. It was his fault, after all.
I cried into the pillow until my eyes burned and my throat was hoarse.
Waking was a sudden, startling sensation.
One moment, I’d been deep asleep. The next my eyes were wide open and I glanced around, able to see my surroundings clearly even with the barest sliver of light.
I undid the locking mechanism and got out from under the bed.
If it was just after sunset, I had a little time before Thea came.
I went to the bathing chamber, carefully avoiding the mirror.
In yesterday’s exhaustion, I hadn’t actually washed myself, something I intended to rectify.
I filled the tub and perused the different scented oils available.
They were an indulgence I’d gotten a bit too used to.
My mother had used perfumes and the like as a weapon; she’d have enjoyed this.
Me, I favored them first since they reminded me I was no longer in Greymere, then because they were a little spot of brightness in what was meant to be my temporary time in the kingdom.
The old ascetic instinct rose to deny myself, to turn away from comfort and focus only on survival. But… did that really help anyone?
The glass was cool in my hands while the chamber steamed. I would spend the next however long denying these new instincts that had been forced upon me. Already, thirst had begun to scratch at the back of my throat, the kind that water couldn’t extinguish.
I uncorked a vial filled with the essence of jasmine and inhaled deeply. The scent should be comforting, familiar, even when everything else was wretched.
My lip curled back on reflex. It smelled foul. Perhaps it had gone off? I shut the stopper and picked up another that had notes of gardenia.
Awful. Maybe not rancid but… overpowering? My nostrils burned.
I bit down a growl of frustration. On top of everything, I couldn’t even enjoy a comforting scent? Was this what vampire sensitivity meant, that everything would smell bad to me except blood?
Memories of Raphael’s cedar scent came to mind. His scent didn’t get worse, just more intense. I grabbed a third vial, the mildest one on the shelf, and poured a few drops into the tub without sampling the honeycomb aroma.
I scrubbed my skin raw. Once, I’d been accustomed to being filthy at all times. I’d been spoiled during my time in Damerel. A single month of filth and now I felt the need to primp. I scratched at my scalp until I felt pinpricks of broken skin.
Drying was a quick matter with vampire speed. My skin burned under the sharp tugs of the towel, but I ignored the discomfort. I opened the door to let the steam out, and finally faced the mirror as the condensation disappeared.
I didn’t recognize the woman reflected back.
All I saw was a vampire.
My hair was white. I’d known that; I’d seen wisps in my periphery.
But it was an entirely other thing to be confronted with my head of raven-hued hair shocked to the same sterile white of all vampires.
Even my eyebrows were white, as all vampires’ were.
The white of my hair was only a shade lighter than my skin.
I’d never had a proper tan, but my cold pallor now reflected the fact that there was no blood of my own pumping through my veins.
I frantically searched my reflection for something familiar.
My hand traced over my bare abdomen. There was just the slightest indent where the skin was raised. The vampire healing had knit the knife wound before it could truly scar.
I yanked my hair to the side and twisted so I could see my back. Finally, some relief. The scars I’d gotten at the Monastery—still there: a crisscross pattern from where I’d been flayed.
Something, no matter how terrible, hadn’t changed.
I grazed the ridges with my fingertips. Gods, they’d hurt at the time. For weeks after. Raphael had waited for me to heal, bandaged me, not pressed after the first time I’d refused his blood.
Then, he’d given me a choice.
The anger bubbled up again, and finally I confronted the part of my reflection I’d avoided.
The eyes.
How many times had I seen the red eyes of a vampire and thought, Monster?
How many times had their bloodred gaze frozen me?
The unnatural shade—even in the Witch Kingdom, where disguise magic could turn eyes from green to lavender, blue to yellow, none had ever used red, even as a mockery, no matter the fashion.
Fury surged in me, sudden, violent. My fist slammed into the mirror with half a thought, my reflection splintering, shattering. Sharp pain sliced the back of my hand, then faded.
The glass fell to the floor, and in each piece my reflection stared back.
Vampiric.
Monstrous.
I left the washroom.
I tugged on a pair of trousers and a tunic. It even felt different on my skin. The fabric, which I’d considered decadently soft as a human, was now scratchy.
Thea had agreed to join me here for breakfast, as we often had in the past. Sometimes, we’d taken it in her room, but for the most part of my time in Damerel, I’d spent as little time as possible away from the safety of my locked door. Something I’d need to change if my plans were to succeed.
She wouldn’t arrive for a while longer, so I decided to see if I could make any more progress on the Black Grimoire. I tested my skin against the cover again. My fingertips burned on contact, the same way they had with cursed copper, but I moved quickly and pushed the book open so I could study it.
This is my birthright.
When I’d translated before, I’d started mostly from the beginning, establishing the premise of the grimoire.
The spells would be farther in. I scanned the open page.
After weeks of studying Old Runyk, it was easier, though still challenging, to decipher with reference texts.
This one called for several ingredients to make a potion that countered…
something. Perhaps the thrall? I wasn’t certain what the last few symbols meant.
The other side of the page offered something more malicious—boils and melting skin.
Even though it burned, I ran my fingers over the text. The ability to wield that power, to make the vampires afraid of me instead of the other way around? It was a sweet, seductive whisper in my chest. The blisters brewing on my skin barely registered compared to that.
But the meaning on the page and the ability to access its power were two separate things. Unlike other witches, I hadn’t trained in my magic as a child. Had never felt an inkling of the power I was now counting on to help me right the balance.
If I’d been stronger, could I have stopped the vampire that killed Mother?
A knock on the door jolted me from that thought. I wrapped the book in the tunic from yesterday, slipped the book back into its hiding place, and let Thea in.
She greeted me with a broad smile. “Good gloaming,” she chirped, and made her way into my room like she had a dozen times before.
Perched in her hands was an overfull tray of breakfast pastries. I could smell the sugar on them, the fresh notes of berries, but the appeal was gone.
She set them on the low table by the settee. “How are you feeling?”
Hungry. My eyes grazed her neck, and I swallowed sharply, a feeling of loathing rising in me. She’s your friend, not a meal!
“I’m unhappy.” I took a seat a distance from her and curled my knees up to my chest, wrapping my arms around them.
It was less for self-soothing and more to restrain myself from doing something I would forever regret.
“But I’m trying to make peace with my new abilities.
” My abilities as a necromancer, more specifically.
It was getting easier to skirt the truth.
Thea scooped up a pastry between her long fingers. “That makes sense. I know you didn’t want this, Sam. More than most.”
I wanted to confide in her more. To tell her of my fears and hear another witch’s thoughts on my new magic.
But while Thea might be willing to resume our friendship, she was still loyal to Raphael.
What if she put that loyalty first and told him?
I was so tired of the secrets, but everything until now made it seem like that was the only way to survive.
Even more selfishly, I wanted to ask her to look to the future and tell me everything would be okay, that I was on the right path. Not that anything was ever that simple.
“This… bond that keeps me near Raphael, do you know more about it?” I asked instead.
Thea shrugged. “Not much. All fledglings and sires have some kind of bond, but they’re fairly individual. The fact it’s keeping you so close is unusual. But Raphael doesn’t seem worried.”
Raphael wasn’t counting down the hours until he could run and escape. I debated pressing for more details, but would that rouse her suspicions?
“Besides unhappy, how else are you feeling?” she asked.
I clenched and unclenched my fingers, trying to decide. “Antsy, I guess. I know it’s been only a day, but I’m feeling stir-crazy.” Maybe a by-product of having spent the past month in a cell. My legs ached to run, my entire body wanting to move outside the walls of my room.
Getting back to training would’ve helped. Not that I thought Demos would be in any rush to get me back to our routine after everything.
I almost asked Thea if she’d like to spar, but the thought terrified me. What if I hurt her by mistake, the same way I’d wrecked the drawer? “Maybe you could help me run some drills. I need to move.” She’d sat in on enough sessions to be able to help.
She was nodding, about to say something, when a sharp knock on the door cut her off.
I exchanged a look with Thea, who just shrugged, so I went over to the door and opened it.
And there stood the king of vampires standing expectantly with a glass of blood in his hands.
Blood. Instead of feeling revulsion, my throat ached more acutely. I bit down on my cheek, trying to cover how much I already craved it. “Is that really necessary?”
“Every day,” he said, taking a step farther into the room and shutting the door behind him.
I flexed my fingers at my side.
“Drink,” he said.
My throat burned. I squeezed my fingers into fists. “Don’t use that power on me,” I growled. Speaking scratched my throat.
“Don’t endanger Amalthea by having her alone with you while you haven’t fed in a day,” he countered.
I snatched the goblet, which Raphael let go easily.
I knocked the goblet back, pouring the contents down my throat in three quick swallows.
What had smelled tempting turned to sludge in my throat.
A wet drop slid out of the corner of my mouth, and I wiped it away with the back of my hand, all the while glaring at Raphael.
His fault. His fault I’m like this.
I wanted to put a thousand paces between us.
I wanted to lunge at him and hit him.
I turned back to Thea, who was utterly unconcerned with our display. She’d polished off the remainder of the pastries.
“Time to train?” I asked her. I was even more eager to burn off some of this relentless energy.
Thea looked away. “Not with me, Sam.”
Before I could ask what she meant—
“I’ll be taking over your training.”
I spun back to Raphael, who hadn’t left the room.
“You?”
He rolled his shoulders back. For the first time, I noted his dress was more casual: a loose white top, left open in vampire style to expose his neck.
I forced myself not to focus on that neck too much.
Like Thea, he wore tight but flexible leather trousers that hugged his thighs.
“Your vampire hearing works fine. It’s just as well since you need to be close to me while the transition settles. ”
I opened my mouth to argue, then shut it. He’d dressed for the occasion. There would be no winning this argument.
“And I won’t have you defenseless,” he added. Despite the nonchalant tone, there was something almost tender in his expression.
I snorted. As if that mattered now. “Don’t you have other, more kingly duties to do than focus on me?”
He drew a step closer, focused on me with singular attention. “For this, I’ll make time.”