Page 8 of Mortdale

Shit.

I snatched my curtain-veil down, hiding under it to wipe the blood from my nose. I’d been having these nosebleeds for so long now. I couldn't even remember when they’d started. But they only occurred when my heart beat so hard I could feel it pulse through my throat.

My attention flew back around in his direction at his gruff voice. “Witch.”

My spine steeled straight though I very much enjoyed the act of slouching. “Blood-sucker,” I muttered, lowering my head in a quick bow.

Besides being sold to them as breeding stock, I was first and foremost a peace offering. Refuse or harm me, and he could face the fallout of a five-hundred-year-old pact.

Marilla’s low gasp broke the quiet room, and tension seeped into the air. The men who sat neatly along the pews had all finally straightened on their seats. There’d been only a few rare incidents in all five hundred years during the exchange on Sunstead, so I trusted they wanted to leave Meridian with a witch today and for the foreseeable future.

Despite the odd stillness my groom was carved from, I could have sworn those strange gilded eyes of his deepened, descending into a dark endless abyss to swallow me whole. “Have they not told you my name at least?”

“They have. And I suspect they’ve also told you mine, too.” Asshole.

I flinched back when his gloved hand came up to pull back the curtain-veil. As the lacy cloth slid down my shoulders to pool at my feet, the tips of his fingers traced the string of pale grey hair covering the corner of my eye. They ghosted over the skin around it, brushing over my pale lashes. Though the darkness hid much, at this distance, he could probably see the patches of much paler skin scattered here and there around my face.

Pressing my finger to his, I slowly pushed his hand away. “I’m not sick,” I quickly said. “Also not contagious.” I must have repeated those exact sentences more than my name throughout my existence. My hair and skin had started losing pigment around the time I’d turned eight or nine, and if the fact that I was a witch carrying a curse had not been enough, this had surely been the nail in the coffin—no vampire pun intended. Did they nail their coffins? It seemed inconvenient. Anyway, if I uttered the word vitiligo at anyone, they’d think I was putting a pox on their entire bloodline, so I always stuck to the long version of it. Because people always asked—unless they took it upon themselves to assume, which most did.

“I didn’t ask.”

I blinked at him. “You’re not balding or old. And I am starting to doubt you might not have erectile issues either.”

He studied me for another moment, the corner of his mouth twitching as he leaned in. “I’m as surprised as you are.”

Then his unnatural gaze fell down my body, slowly taking in every inch of me like he was about to unlock a puzzle. And like he’d locked all pieces in place, his attention caught on the pendant nestled between my breasts that were currently being squeezed in a dress sewn for the body of a teenager.

Before I could back away, the pendant was between his fingers. “Whitelock,” he said, studying the pale, milky gem encased in silver.

Whitelock had another name in our circles: Vampire’s bane. Whitelock didn’t do much except feed into the superstition. It was in fact the product of a long ancient trade to humans who believed keeping whitelock on their person would ward off vampires. The necklace I wore was the only thing I’d inherited from my human mother—or so I’d been told. Though I’d long forgotten the need for such a figure, I’d always kept this piece of her with me. A reminder that I’d briefly belonged to someone.

“Never seen a witch wear whitelock,” he said, his dark voice as smooth as silk despite how harsh and deep it was.

“Never seen a vampire touch whitelock without turning into foam.”

He gently lowered the pendant back against my chest. “I’m sorry for the disappointment.”

“Well, there’s other things we could try. Don’t be sorry.”

He reached into his pocket, bringing out a silver tin and pulling a cigarette from it. “Already so eagerly planning my demise.”

I lifted my shaking finger to the tip, lighting the tobacco, watching him as he watched me—like a snake sizing up his prey. “Not eagerly at all. I mean, you’re some fancy duke. Your chances were never that great to begin with.”

“Willow!” Marilla hissed under her breath.

He shot a scathing glare at her when she stepped towards me, blowing a dark cloud of clove-scented smoke in her face. “I don’t like reminding people they can’t touch what is mine. It should be implied. And you’re clearly not a child.”

Marilla nearly flung herself down the aisle in an attempt to get away from his violent attention, which strangely softened when it returned to me. His eyes briefly drew shut as he stretched his neck from side to side, his nostrils flaring before he brought the cigarette to his lips again and took a long drag. “Let’s get this over and done with.”

My ribs swelled with the next clove-scented breath I inhaled. “Or—”

His gaze narrowed. “Or?”

I blinked at him. “Honestly I don’t know what I was about to say. Give me a minute.”

He flicked the ash with the tip of his thumb and stuck his other hand in his pocket, relaxing as if this was just another walk in the park. “Want a dictionary, too? A phrase book, perhaps?”

“Don’t be funny, I feel sick. I will hurl at you. In a very non-romantic way.”