Anagenni, the goddess of death. Who was both dreaded and revered by the vampires—and unknown to witches altogether.Was that why the Witch Kingdom lived in fear of the vampires? Because they didn’t know there was a chance to fight back?
Through the goddess’s will, the necromancer has dominion over bone and blood, soul and spirit. The undead bow to the necromancer.
The very reason Raphael would kill me if he found out what I was. As a goddess of death, Anagenni controlled vampires, and with her gifts, as a necromancer, so could I. I’d forced Demos to back off when in the cells—and to forget, based on the fact I was still living. And maybe more than that. There had been the ancient vampire in the library who’d attacked me. Had I won that fight by surprising him, as I’d let myself believe? Or because when I’d yelled at him to stop, some magic had been imbued in me even then?
Though I didn’t know how to use the skill, I could thrall them just as they thralled most humans. That must have been why the thrall had never worked on me. Did that mean Raphael suspected I might have this magic?
I dismissed the thought. If he suspected, no matter what affection he had for me, he’d have killed me.
One witch is gifted to the world every two hundred years with Anagenni’s blessing. They alone can right the balance.
And there it was. Once every two hundred years . . . if I didn’t act, it would be another couple centuries before someone could stand against the vampires.
Images of their brutality hounded me. Blood and blood and blood . . . The memory of my mother being ripped apart. Once, I’d have been lost to it. But now I knew I could help stop that same death from playing out ever again.
I lowered the fabric and tried to turn a page. The grimoire stung me again. I bit down on the pain and accidentally scraped myself with a fang. The blood beaded and fell on the open page with a sizzle.
I watched, pain forgotten, as the bright red splotch burned to cinders.
Finally, I had magic, the thing I’d craved all my life. I was the necromancer, created to stand against the vampires. I even had a grimoire filled with unimaginable power to aid me.
And I was an abomination.
Chapter Eight
Samara
It was easier topick 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 vampiresensitivity 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.
