‘You need to drink from her.’
‘What?’ I don’t understand.
‘Drink from her!’ He shakes Jessie, who moans. Blood pools at her feet, pouring from deep wounds across her ankles and shoulders, her arms hanging loose. In the corner of the room a tall shadow seems to lurk, a glint of silver.
‘She bit you. Her blood will heal the wound. But you must drink, Emelia. I can’t hold her much longer.’ Michael sounds desperate. Everything seems foggy. It’s almost dark, lamps starting to glow.
Jessie growls, bucking against Michael. He snarls and tightens his grip, muscles standing out in his arms. The tall shadow detaches itself from the corner. I know that gait, those long legs, the silver gleam of his gaze. But Kyle can’t be here, because I killed him. From somewhere I find a lick of strength, a last push. I lean forward and pick up Jessie’s arm. It’s boneless, bird-light, as I bring it to my lips. She screams, raging. Michael’s blade digs into her throat, a line of blood appearing.
‘Do it,’ he growls.
I bite down, her flesh giving between my teeth, trying not to remember doing the same to my mother, long ago when I thought there might be a chance for me to be what I longed for. Now I just want to live. Blood gushes into my mouth, thick and cool. I try not to retch, swallowing several mouthfuls, violet perfume stuck in my nostrils, coating my tongue like the world’s worst medicine.
There’s a crash and a shudder and Jessie is gone, torn from my lips.
‘Don’t kill her!’ Michael’s voice is sharp.
Finally. Night has fallen. My guard is holding Jessie face down on the rug, one of her arms twisted back at an acute angle. Like he’s about to tear it off.
‘My lady?’ The guard turns to me.
‘If you kill her before Emelia heals, the blood magic won’t work,’ Michael says, that sharp thread of desperation still in his voice. ‘The wound in her neck will reopen, and she’ll die.’
I’m so dazed it’s like I’m somewhere else, watching from a distance. I remember a cold night just before dawn, Kyle holding me after a guard almost drained me. Strange. I swear he’s here, talking to me, but I can’t quite make out what he’s saying.
‘Emelia!’ Michael shakes me. ‘Are you healed?’
‘I don’t know,’ I mumble, fighting for clarity. Kyle pads around us, his silver gaze flickering from me to Jessie, still held on the floor. Why can no one else see him? Am I so close to dying? Part of me wants to let go, to sink into the darkness of his waiting arms.
Michael blows out an exasperated breath. His fingers brush over my skin. I curl into them, into the warmth and comfort of his touch. Gradually, reality returns. Kyle is gone, and Michael is here. Jessie is sobbing, low guttural noises. I think I hear relief in them, though.
He turns to my guard. ‘She’s fine. Do it.’
I turn away, wincing at the crack of bone, the wet tearing.
Michael crouches next to me. He seems … different. Darker, somehow. I reach out, putting my hand on his.
He starts, turning to me with a slight frown as though he’s forgotten I’m there. ‘Your rug is ruined.’
I stare at him. What in darkness? I’m covered in blood, Laurel is dead, and that’s what he’s worried about?
‘I can get a new one,’ I whisper.
He nods, no warmth in his blue-grey gaze, then returns his attention to whatever my guard is doing. My hand lies slack on his. Panic curls in my chest. Everything about this is wrong, but I don’t understand why.
The rug disappears from under my feet. I flinch, letting out a yelp.
‘I’m sorry, my lady.’ It’s my guard. He’s young, his hair cropped close to his head. Blood is spattered across his face, almost black against his dark skin. ‘I smelled the blood, but the light … I couldn’t come upstairs.’
‘I understand.’ We need a way for him to control the shutters, I realise, then remember it doesn’t matter anymore, because I’m leaving. My breath hitches as the guard rolls up my rug and, with it, what remains of Jessie.
‘I’ll dispose of this, and then…’ He nods towards the kitchen.
I can’t speak.
‘Laurel needs to be buried.’ Michael’s voice is stern. ‘As is custom.’
I take a shuddering breath. I’m so cold, my sweatshirt sticky against my skin. ‘Y-yes,’ I manage to say. ‘I’m sure… Is there someone we can call?’
