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“Where the hell is he going?” Wilder craned his neck to watch the witch leave. From the kitchen I could hear the rattle and bang of things being moved and sorted through. A faucet ran. A moment later Santiago returned with a black iron pot in one hand, water sloshing around inside. In his other hand was an athame.
Wilder and I both watched with wary expressions as Santiago set the pot on the coffee table in front of us and held out his hand, palm up. I stared at it like he was offering me a poisonous snake.
“What?” I asked.
“Give me your hand.”
“Like hell,” Wilder said.
“I’m not asking you,” Santiago countered. “And the last time I checked, the princess has a mind of her own. Can I please have your hand?” he asked me.
“What’s the knife for?” I jerked my chin towards the athame.
“For cutting.”
“For cutting what?”
“You.”
The three of us exchanged glances and I could feel the rage radiating off Wilder. I put a hand on his thigh. “It’s okay.”
Then I offered my other hand to Santiago, laying it in his so my own palm was exposed. He drew the knife lightly over my skin and the blade was so sharp the blood was already pooling before I even felt the sting. He held my hand over the pot and my blood dripped into the water, making tiny ripples on the surface. I half expected the pot to steam, or hiss, but nothing especially magical happened.
Before I could ask what was going to happen next, Santiago lifted the pot to his lips and drank.
“Wait.” I was much too late to stop him.
“What the fuck?” Wilder asked.
Sneaky goddamn bastard.
Santiago set the empty pot back on the table, but rather than looking like he was ready to gloat—after all, getting a taste of my blood was a surefire way to sample my powers first hand—he simply trailed his thumb across his lips to wipe away the water, and stared at me thoughtfully.
“That wasn’t part of the agreement here,” I snapped.
“We don’t have an agreement right now. But this does—in part—fulfill the last one we made that I know you’re hoping I’d forgetten. And I suspect he’s happier about me doing it this way than the other ways I could have imagined getting a taste of you.”
Wilder growled. It was audible and angry, and brutal rumble right from the pit of his belly. I could feel the vibration of it in my own ribs where we were pressed against each other.
“Calm down, wolf boy,” Santiago said. “I’m trying to be generous here.”
“Some generosity,” Wilder replied, his voice raspy with barely contained anger. If I didn’t change the subject soon, these two were probably going to murder each other.
“Hey. Guys. My blood, here.” I held up my still bleeding palm, and Wilder grabbed a handful of tissues from a box on the table, pressing them against the cut. They were soon stained red, but the worst of the bleeding seemed to be finished. “Care to explain what that was really about, because I don’t think for one second you were just fulfilling a debt owed.”
“Not just a pretty face, are you?”
“Thank god.”
Santiago emptied his teacup into the iron pot and left the room with the empty mug and the athame.
“Want to explain to me what the hell is going on?” Wilder asked in a low tone.
“That would require me having the first clue. But if you rip his throat out we’re not going to get any answers, so just try to play nice a little longer. Please.” I gave him my best soothing smile and rubbed his cheek with my uninjured hand. My werewolf healing would have the cut set right in no time, I could already feel the skin stitching itself back together, which tickled.
/> When Santiago came back, the mug was steaming once again, but this time it didn’t smell of bergamot or mint. There was a pungent, earthy aroma coming from the mug as if he had just steeped a bunch of moss and twigs. Which, knowing Santiago, might very well be the case.
“What are you doing?” I asked as he took a seat in the big armchair again, looking so relaxed I thought we were going to complete gloss over what had just happened like it was a perfectly normal thing to drink your guest’s blood.
