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“We can’t know for certain,” I caution. “We don’t even know if she’ll be able to activate it. She’s shown no signs of having any kind of magical prowess.” Even with the small tests we’ve been putting her through, she hasn’t shown one ounce of holding any kind of magic. Our cruel dismissals and attempts at humiliation aren’t just for making her uncomfortable. They’re for drawing out whatever magic she may possess.
A witch’s power comes from her emotions, and the stronger the emotion, the more powerful the magic. Either Thalia Sinclair has her emotions under control like a Buddhist monk, or she has no abilities to speak of. Even in the throes of pleasure, nothing. Not even a hint of magic in the air for us to smell.
“Men are so ignorant.” Irena snorts. “If you think you’re going to draw her power out like that, you’re wrong. Every witch is unique when their abilities first appear, and they often need some kind of a jump start. That girl is used to having to keep her emotions in check. You’re going about it all wrong.”
Drystan sighs as if it pains him to ask his next question. “And, pray tell”—he clenches his jaw—“how would you go about drawing her abilities out?”
Irena’s lips stretch into a wide grin, her eyes beaming. “Give her the things she’s never had before.”
“And what’s that?”
“Love.”
Chapter 21
Thalia
It’s been four days since I’ve seen any of the King brothers. Still, each night, I feel as if someone is watching me from the shadows, but every time I wake, I’m alone, with only a hollow feeling to keep me company. I’m used to the desolate feeling of solitude and I often reveled in it back home, but now it feels like a punishment rather than a choice. They made me feel things I’ve never felt before, and then they suddenly ghosted me, as if I’m nothing more than a bad Tinder date.
Except they’re holding me hostage, and I can’t escape.
I open the wide double doors to the library, breathing a sigh of relief when I see that it’s empty. Right now, I’m thankful for the solitude. It’s what I need so that I can find the answers no one here is willing to give. I’ve repeatedly asked Miriam questions, but like the Kings, she simply shakes her head and remains quiet, a sorrowful frown on her face.
The silence in this house has become deafening.
If no one will answer my questions, then I will simply find them for myself. There must be answers somewhere in the pages of these manuscripts. Someone somewhere wrote about witches and vampires and all the other things that came along with them.
Like my family.
Evan mentioned that our family has been dealing with vampires for a long time. Long enough that they started developing technology to inhibit their abilities. That means there must be some kind of record of it.
I think back to what I know about my father’s family and where they came from. The name Sinclair is of Scoto-Norman descent, but I remember the photo of my great-great grandmother listed her last name as de Saint-Clair, which is French. Sometime after she was born, our name was changed. But why?
Biting my lower lip, I move about the large space, drifting from bookcase to bookcase until I find something that’s close to what I’m looking for.
Origines du Dhampir.
Origins of the Dhampir.
Miriam told me that dhampir are half-vampire prodigies.
“I’m surprised that a Sinclair doesn’t know what a dhampir is. Since your family’s bloodline comes from one of the greatest in history.”
Removing the book from the shelf, I take it to one of the overstuffed armchairs and make myself comfortable. Its cover is a thin leather stretched over wooden boards, with clasps instead of twine binding it together. Something that was common from the Middle Ages through the early fourteenth century. Rounded-edge books didn’t exist until sometime in the fifteenth or sixteenth century. It’s larger than books we think of nowadays and takes up nearly my entire lap.
With cautious fingers, I turn to the first page, surprised at such an old relic’s pristine condition. I shouldn’t be. Everything in the Kings’ mansion is in immaculate shape, despite the age of many of the antiquities that stand so boastfully on display. I let my fingers trail softly down the pages, careful not to press too hard or damage them with the oil from my fingers. The pages are old, thick vellum with handwritten entries in fading ink.
It’s written in an old form of French known as Occitan. It’s the romance language that was spoken mostly in Southern France. The place my father’s family originated. Luckily for me, Occitan is something I learned from one of the books in my father’s library. He never had much time to dedicate to my education, but that never stopped me from absorbing as much as I could.
With a fervent intensity, I scan the yellowed pages of the ancient book, my eyes hungrily devouring every word in search of any information that might shed light on my father’s lineage. Most of the writing is faded and illegible, a testament to the passing centuries, but I manage to glean a few fragments here and there.
Dhampir: a supernatural hybrid born of an unholy union between a vampire and another species, such as human or fae. These creatures possess longer than normal lifespans, often living up to six or seven hundred years, with heightened strength and speed and the ability to seamlessly blend into human society. Unlike vampires, dhampir are immune to sunlight and have no fear of holy symbols.
The process of bearing a dhampir child often proves fatal for the mother, due to their insatiable need for blood during the final trimester. Such women may even hemorrhage during childbirth. It is the price they pay for lying with the devil.
Offspring of dhampir carry the same heightened abilities that begin to diminish after several generations. Many of my colleagues believe that if a dhampir were to feed off a vampire that comes from its line, those abilities become refreshed, but there is no evidentiary support for this claim.
My mind races with questions as I turn more pages, stumbling across a list of registered dhampirs. And there, among the names, I see one that makes my breath catch in my throat. Grégoire Saint Clair. Could it be that my father’s great-great…way too many greats…grandfather was a dhampir?
