5. One Kind of Magic
5
One Kind of Magic
Calliope
S he didn’t know it was possible for a grackle to look suitably chagrined, but Kane somehow manages it. The man kneels in front of Calliope and swipes at Kane, forcing the bird to hop off her knee and down onto the ground “I told you to watch her, not start a conversation,” he says, not unkindly.
Calliope shifts closer to the wall, feeling the concrete snag on her shirt. Her arms come up to her chest, fingers ghosting over the scar on her arm as she instinctively shields herself. Not that her arms will protect her much, because now that the man is in front of her, she recognizes him as the sales clerk at the gas station.
The vampire .
Up close, his eyes are unnaturally gray and his skin almost translucent in the dark. His aquiline nose hints at ancient royalty and yet there is a small hint of a beard that is oddly endearing on an immortal being such as him.
“You’ll probably want to rinse your mouth out,” he says, handing her a glass of water. “The aftertaste takes some getting used to.”
She looks warily at the glass. “Aftertaste…?”
Instead of explaining, he sits the glass down on the dusty concrete floor and shifts so that he is sitting cross-legged in front of her. “I’m Rory,” he says, with a smile so ill-used it comes out more like a grimace. “Do you remember last night?”
“You bit me,” she says, steady and emotionless.
He nods. “I didn’t know what to do—you asked me—you were—”
“I was dying.”
He nods again, his eyes never leaving her. He seems poised for an attack, shoulders stiff, aware of her every movement.
“You saved me,” she says, softly.
He hesitates, a line forming between his furrowed eyebrows. “I did what I could.”
“What’s the aftertaste from?” Her voice is shaky in the dark. She plucks at the small tear in her skirt. She yearns to draw herself back into the Ether, to pretend this isn’t happening.
He runs his hand through his hair before replying. “You were dying. I bit you, then made you drink my own blood.”
“You fed off me?”
“No,” he says harshly, his voice echoing against the stone walls. He glances away briefly, before turning back to her. “I didn’t—I wouldn’t—it wasn’t feeding. I drank only what I needed to begin the process.”
“You Turned me?” she asks, giving the process the capitalization her grandma always gave it. Her teeth feel sticky with the word.
“It was the only way to make sure the bullet wound healed properly.”
“The aftertaste?”
“My blood. Vampire blood. It’s how vampires are made.”
She purses her lips as she looks at the glass of water, reaching out with shaky hands, dirty fingernails crusted with blood. Her blood. Or his blood. Or maybe even both.
“It’s cold,” he says, watching her bring it up to her lips. “It’ll probably feel good on your gums, at least. But don’t swallow it.”
She raises an eyebrow, cheeks puffed out with water.
“Just spit it back into the glass,” he clarifies.
She does as told and grimaces at the red-tinged water. The relief is marginal. Her mouth still hurts as if she has been grinding her teeth in her sleep. She’s beginning to acknowledge the red-raw pain in the back of her throat, too, as it pulses down to her clavicle and against her sternum. It feels like there is something she needs to cough up, like she swallowed poison, and it burned her throat all the way down only to sit, like lead, in her lungs.
“Why am I chained up?” She holds her hands in front of her, showing him the heavy metal of her bindings.
“Youngling vampires are unpredictable,” he offers hesitantly. “You’re not a prisoner, but—” She gives him a sharp look “—I need to keep you contained until…everything is complete.”
She lets her head dip back until it rests against the wall. “I’m a witch. I know about your kind.”
Rory’s scowl deepens, and he seems to be wrestling with something, unsaid words rolling around in his mouth. She tries to remember if there are any rules against Turning other supernatural creatures. Who makes the rules for vampires these days? She hasn’t had contact with any other magical communities since she got married.
It’s Kane who replies, however, hopping forward and cocking his head to the side. “You’re not a witch anymore. You’re a vampire.”
“Can’t I be both?”
Kane flaps his wings twice, flustered. “You can only have one kind of magic in your blood, Calliope,” he says, gently. “The curse of a vampire is always dominant.”
Instinctively, she reaches again for the Ether and finds its coolness at her back, like the concrete wall behind her and yet more welcoming, pliable, ready to accept her. She’s not sure how to explain the Ether to them. Vampires can’t do magic—not like witches can—and the Ether is unknown to them; it is a witch’s most sacred secret.
She looks down at her hands, clenching and unclenching. She can feel Rory looking at her, his apprehension almost like a physical thing being placed upon her shoulders. “You can unchain me. I’m not going to go on a killing spree.” She looks up at him, daring him to contradict her.
A lock of hair, dark but streaked with gray, falls across Rory’s forehead as he looks at the manacles around her wrists. The symbols flare orange with a soft sizzle. “I think you should drink first.”
“I’m not thirsty,” she says evenly. “You can’t keep me chained up down here.” She clenches her fists again, chains rattling.
Rory’s mouth is set in a firm line. “It’s only for a couple of weeks or so, until you get a handle on your cravings. Then you can do whatever you want.”
“I don’t have any cravings.”
He raises an eyebrow, his expression mildly challenging. “I don’t want you killing anyone,” he says, firmly.
She pushes away from the wall and leans closer to him. “You can’t keep me here against my will.”
He sighs deeply, which she finds curiously charming in its lack of necessity. But then his eyes flash back toward her, and he leans forward to match her gaze, so fast her eyes can’t track the movement. When he talks, his voice is pitched low, almost a whisper, and his words are far from charming. “Is your throat on fire? Do your teeth ache?”
She swallows, pursing her lips with a retort. But he continues talking, leaning so close to her, she can feel his words in her belly, feel them against her cheek like ice. “That’s called hunger. And it will consume you until it tears you apart. And when that happens, you will ache— ” A shiver runs down her spine, “— ache to feel another’s heartbeat in your mouth and you will laugh as their life spills down your pretty little skirt.”
A quick flash of the gas station. The bang of a gun. Pain. His mouth against her neck. He leans closer, so close she wonders how his words don’t touch her lips, and she can smell him, the same vetiver and wood smoke that sits at the back of her throat. Because of his blood.
She drank his blood .
Her mouth goes dry, and her eyes flutter down to his neck, marveling at the smooth skin. She leans closer, marginally, licking her lips. Her head feels fuzzy. Her eyesight narrows. His neck—and what lies underneath his skin—the sole focus of her mind. She knows he doesn’t have a heartbeat, so what is that noise in her head? The pulsing beat against her sore throat, the rushing of liquid in her ears? Her gums ache. For a moment, the coppery aftertaste lifts, and she remembers the rush of his blood down her throat, coating her teeth like honey.
She shakes her head, the fuzziness receding. “I won’t—” she begins to protest.
“Exactly. You won’t. Because I won’t let that happen.” He stands, brushing the dust off his jeans. He’s still wearing clothes from earlier, her blood staining the knees of his jeans.
“Is that a promise or a threat?” she mumbles, half to herself. She stands as well, the movement slow as she unfolds her legs. She wonders how long she’s been in this basement. Hours? A day? He’s holding out a hand to her, but she can’t tell if it’s to help her stand or push her back down. He doesn’t seem too sure either. She steadies herself against the wall instead.
“Both,” he replies, eyebrow arched. He considers her with a scowl, stuffing his hands in the pockets of his worn jeans. “Is there someone you’d like to call? A coven? Let them know your whereabouts? There’s a phone upstairs.”
She teases the edge of her teeth with her tongue, finding the sharpness unsettling. She shakes her head almost absentmindedly. “No one to call. But that’s beside the point. I won’t kill anyone.” She puts more confidence in her voice than she currently feels.
“She’ll be fine,” agrees Kane.
“And how do you know that?” asks Rory.
Kane hops up onto her shoulder and cocks his head to the side in contemplation. He grabs a wayward lock of her hair and tugs, as if the strength of will-power is evident in the strength of hair. She swats him away, chains rattling, but he holds firm, claws digging into her shoulder. “I can tell.”
Rory scoffs. “Oh, well, if you can tell.”
“Kane’s right,” she says. “Please. You can’t keep me locked in this basement. I won’t—” Without thinking she reaches out and touches him, her fingers circling his wrist.
She only has a moment to note the temperature difference between them—her skin so hot against his, which is cold like the concrete at her side, as cold as the Ether, really—before a loud scratching sound echoes around them, followed by the crunch of metal and glass, the creaking of wood, the groaning of something large moving with great effort. Dust and debris fall on their heads as the walls shift, the ground vibrating beneath them.
Kane takes flight immediately, disappearing into the dark. Without thought, Calliope reaches out, grasps Rory’s shoulders, the closest solid thing, and he gathers her in his arms, shielding her head from the debris falling around them.
She is burning in his arms, her whole body on fire and she presses her cheek against his chest, feeling a momentary relief from the pain in her jaw, like packing a wound with snow.
And then the house stills .
The silence that follows is heavy, and it stretches around them languidly, like a large cat unfurling after a nap. Calliope raises her head, and Rory’s arms slither away from her.
“What was that?” she asks, blinking away dust.
There is a flutter of wings, and Kane perches on Rory’s shoulder. “The house agrees with me,” he says, preening a bit of dust from his wing. “It made a room for her.”