Chapter 9 #2
“I’m not exactly her type,” he replies dryly. “Look—Saskia’s a good actress who happens to excel at rapid line memorization. But she’s not the most grounded person, to put it mildly. It doesn’t matter, though—you won’t need your understudy because you’re gonna nail your performance, right?”
Mallory exhales through her teeth, thinking of Hendrix’s comments. “Right.”
Ezra slides off the bed, crossing to his desk. “You’re better off keeping your distance from Saskia, anyway. Trust me.”
“What? Why—?”
“As for everything else you just said,” he continues, “I think we should go to the source, don’t you?”
Mallory tips her head. “The source?”
“If Lily was exhumed and reburied as you said, her spirit is probably restless as fuck.” Ezra rummages in his desk before tugging a few objects loose. Mallory has to squint for a moment until she realizes. The candles. The lighter. The knife. Chalk.
“Last night, when we were under the stage,” he adds, “you made contact. Maybe we can try again. See if Lily will tell you what she needs to be put to rest.”
Mallory hesitates. “What if that’s not what she wants?”
“Only one way to find out.”
Mallory nods, swallowing her trepidation.
She bends to fetch the ribbon of hair she always carries in her bag now and hands it to Ezra, who lays it on the wooden floor.
He arranges the candles in their usual formation and lights them.
She takes the opportunity to glance around the newly lit room, registering his wooden bureau, his long coat hooked on the door, the frames hanging—
“What’s that?” she murmurs, approaching the wall at the head of his bed. She examines the divots in the plaster, the way they disappear underneath the edges of an indie film poster. “Are those…scratches?”
Ezra doesn’t even glance up from where he’s drawing the circle. “Maybe. It was like that when I moved in.”
Mallory studies the markings. Five of them in a row, as though someone had dragged their nails through the wall. But the more she inspects them—the jagged edges, the depth of the cracks—the more it appears the wall wasn’t damaged by nails at all.
They look more like claw marks.
She looks back at Ezra, primed with more questions, but her planned interrogation evaporates when she registers his contemplative expression.
“What are you thinking?” Mallory prompts, kneeling beside him.
“We’re asking new questions,” Ezra says, “so I think we need a new offering.”
She glances at her hand, grimacing. “More blood?”
“Yes, but…I think it should be from both of us. A joint offering.”
This surprises her. “What do you mean?”
He watches her carefully in the candlelight. “Do you trust me?”
When he first asked her that question, it felt like a reluctant leap of faith to say yes. But here in his room, in the aftermath of the pain he doesn’t let other people see, the words are easier to say.
“I trust you, Ezra.” Something flickers in his eyes. As though he didn’t expect her to say it so confidently. Or say it at all.
Wordlessly, Ezra brings the knife to his own hand and pricks the tip of his finger.
He barely flinches as blood pools on his skin.
His nonchalance strikes her as unexpectedly sad; she realizes how easy it is for Ezra to be wounded without showing it.
She wonders what it must have taken for him to learn that, wonders if it could ever be undone.
“May I?” he asks, reaching for Mallory’s hand.
She extends her palm despite her unease, watching as he cuts into her middle finger, releasing a pearl of blood. It stings, but she doesn’t wince, either. Perhaps because she feels safe with him, even like this. Maybe he feels safe with her, too.
“Here.” Ezra guides their bleeding hands above the candles with a gentle squeeze. “Just a drop or two.”
Mallory doesn’t respond, transfixed by the liquid splattering over the wax, the way bleeding alongside Ezra is as intimate and breathless as a kiss.
The way he can slice open her skin and it somehow feels like being held.
The idea is disquieting, intoxicating, turns the room into a blur of copper light and contradictions.
“That should do it.” Ezra’s blood drips slowly down her knuckles. “One more step.”
“What is it?”
“One of the most successful necromancers in history used joint offerings,” he says. “His work was documented so thoroughly it’s basically a how-to guide. But in order for a joint offering to work, we need to…” He lowers his voice. “Share blood.”
“We already are,” Mallory whispers with a laugh.
“Not like that.” He glances at their fused palms. “Like this.”
And then, Ezra brings her hand to his lips.
Every single coherent thought evaporates as Ezra’s tongue meets her fingertips. Barely brushing at first, and then again, more firmly. Steadily licking the blood from her skin.
“Ezra—”
His name dies on her lips as he slides her finger all the way inside his mouth.
The air around her seems to thin. Heat rushes to her face, between her thighs, burning brighter as Ezra releases a low growl around her hand. It’s a sound of sheer pleasure, of instinctive need, as though he’s been starving for years and she’s the one thing he craves.
Ezra works to draw out more, conducting the flow of her blood, shadows pooling in the hollows of his cheekbones with every pull. And Mallory isn’t sure what terrifies her more: the fact that Ezra is drinking her blood—or that she doesn’t want him to stop.
It’s over as quickly as it started. He pulls back, dragging his knuckles over red-stained lips. He’s slightly out of breath when he swallows, as though savoring her taste.
And then, he whispers: “Your turn, Jules.”
She doesn’t even have time to think before Ezra presses the pads of his first two fingers to her lower lip. Coaxing, until she opens obediently for him.
“Wider,” he says softly.
Face flushed, she obliges, tentatively rolling her tongue along his blood-slick skin. Metal. Copper. And something almost sweet.
Ezra cradles her jaw, guiding her. “A little more. Then you can swallow.”
Mallory leans forward, closing her lips gently around his fingertips. Ezra’s gaze remains glued to her mouth, like he’s calculating how much she can handle. Emboldened, she bends again, and his fingers slip farther inside.
He huffs a quiet exhale. “You take direction so well.”
Something ragged and desperate snaps inside her at that. More. She wants more of him. Mallory wraps her other hand firmly around his wrist—and sinks her mouth all the way to his knuckles.