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Emelie blinks at me. “Yeah, it’s eerie, right? That’s how Celeste figured it out.”
“What did she figure out? Sorry.” I laugh, trying my hardest not to sound too pressed. “I’ve had a really long day.”
“You know, the whole basis for her study in blood magic was figuring out that when a vampire drinks your blood, they’re basically giving up all control of their body to you. That’s how she got rid of those vampire bosses.” She motions with her hand as if cutting her own throat.
I’ve never gaped before but I do now. “They do?”
She squirms in her seat, rubbing her hands on her jeans. It looks like she wants to climb out of her own skin. Her voice is quiet. “I suppose most vampires don’t know this? But the ones dealing with witch blood definitely do, that’s why now they keep you drugged up with bindweed twentyfour-seven.”
I reach out and take the book from her hand with shaking fingers, reading the page it is turned to. “The astute practitioner will notice that spilling your own blood comes with unusual sensations – commonly, you will feel a shiver of cold, or a strange pressure that can’t be traced to its source. If you’re well-practiced, you might recognize these as somatomagic projections.
“Unfortunately, the in-tune witch will be confronted with these sensations at all times she’s awake, meaning their origin might be obscured or confused for something else. This is precisely why trauma can be so detrimental to our ability to practice our craft, as we can often no longer differentiate the sensations that come from within and those that come from without – what is somatomagic projection and what is somatic memory?
“I believe this plays and important role in the historical deterioration of our craft, about which I will talk in more detail in Chapter Sixteen. One specific example I would like to draw attention to here, however, is the historical exploitation of witches by striges, most commonly vampires.
“In theory, this should be impossible, due to the intrinsic power of our blood. Anyone possessing the knowledge laid out in this volume would deem drinking a witch’s blood ludicrous, a voluntary attempt to turn yourself into a puppet on strings. And yet our history books are rampant with this abuse–”
No longer able to focus on the words on the page, I lower the book.
“Is everything alright?” Emelie asks. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”
Anyone possessing the knowledge laid out in this volume would deem drinking a witch’s blood ludicrous, a voluntary attempt to turn yourself into a puppet on strings.The words play like a broken record in my mind.A puppet on strings.
“I… have to go.” Unable to explain myself any further and unable to hear Emelie’s response, I turn on my heels, grab my jacket –my own, not Celeste’s fur coat – and walk out the front door.
17. COMPLETE AND UTTER CONTROL, APPARENTLY
Think, Deni!It’s well past midnight and, for once, the train to Tartarus was on time, leaving me to do the route on the nightbus.She said she caught him in her warehouse, which has to be in Tartarus near the port somewhere.
Already, I’m not as sure about my assumption as I’d like to be. And then there’s another problem – he left his phone in her car. Why was he in her car? Did she take him somewhere? My stomach feels like it wants to turn inside out.
A puppet on strings.How? I’ve been drinking her blood for months, just like I let Casey drink my own blood for months.Because I’m an idiot, a naive idiot who trusts any woman who gives me a scrap of her attention.
I try to comb through my memories of the last few weeks and try to discern if any of my decisions felt like they weren’t my own. But would I even know? With bile rising into my throat I remember that very first night I stayed at her house, the images my brain conjured up, the way I kept touching myself even though she was watching. I thought that had been the bizarre and hard-to-control vampire part of my brain just overwhelming me with its primal desires after being suppressed for so long.
Now I’m not so sure.
Did I ever want her at all?
“I need to get off,” I shout when the bus takes a particularly precarious corner. “I think I’m going to be sick.”
There is a collective groan from the passengers and the driver mumbles something incomprehensible, then he slows down and opens the doors, stopped in the middle of his lane. Someone honks behind us.
“Thank you,” I mumble as I stumble off, clutching my stomach.
Maybe she didn’t kill Alastor because he hurt me at all but because he nearly gave her away.And you cuck yourself out to some witch likeher puppet He’d known that I had been drinking her blood.
I lean against the signpole signaling the bus stop and bend over, ready to dry heave. After finally having begun to fade in intensity, the image of those guys in the Myrrh & Adder once again plays over and over in my head. I never stopped being helpless at all. When my stomach vehemently refuses to purge itself from my panic, I straighten up and march off into the direction of the next stop. Only six stops to Tartarus.I need to find Mav.
One of the buildings, a tall, skinny community housing project jutting into the starless sky, catches my attention.Third from the right on the seventh floor. Mav’s mom’s flat.
Once, he confessed to me that whenever he didn’t know what to do, he’d come here to remind himself why he gave up everything to be a vampire. Every time we came together I could see in his face how badly he wanted to just go home to her. I speed up my steps. Maybe he went home?
It takes me a while to weave my way through the concrete jungle of Hel to the towering building. Throughout my trip, my phone occasionally vibrates in my pocket. I take it out.Three missed calls from Celeste.I scoff loudly before shoving it back into my pocket. Right now, I feel like I would cry if I heard her voice and I’m not giving her the satisfaction.
My fingers glide over the nametags next to the intercom until I get to a sign reading Kolesnik/Ramirez. My heart beats into my throat as I press the button.
After a few seconds, there’s a click in the intercom. “Hello?”
