Blood Hunter (The Vampire's Mage Series Book 3)

by C. N. Crawford

  Caine closed his eyes, and she stared as the shadows around him thickened, growing denser. Silvery vines of magic grew from his body, reaching to the reddening sky over Lilinor.

  Wracked with fatigue, Rosalind crossed to Ambrose’s bed. She threw herself down on the silky sheets, watching as Caine began to work his magic. Under the blood red sky, his strong body glowed like starlight.

  If Caine can use the night to cloak a world, she thought, I can bring life into Miranda’s body.

  Chapter 9

  Rosalind pushed through the door to the Gelal Field, retracing her steps to the last place she’d seen her sister smile: the old temple of Nyxobas.

  Everything was in its place again. The moon hanging in the sky, the stars twinkling from a blanket of black.

  She’d slept just long enough so she could walk steadily again—enough time for Caine to fully shield the city from any more alu attacks, or from Drew’s return—but her legs still quaked. And that sound… the breaking of Miranda’s ribs… it replayed in her mind, hammering over and over like a war drum.

  Her footsteps crunched over the dirt path. It hadn’t been that long ago that she was walking down here to meet Miranda. But now the myrtle and sycamore trees didn’t smell quite as sweet. In fact, their scent was overpowering, the sickly perfume of a funeral wreath.

  It wouldn’t be long before they’d want to bury Miranda’s body. The wind rushed over her skin and rustled the leaves. Everything had begun to rot. Miranda was dead. Tammi was gone. Half of Lilinor had been slaughtered. And in the chaotic aftermath of the slaughter, Rosalind still didn’t know what had happened to Aurora.

  A sharp pain pierced her chest. So this is what it feels like when your heart breaks.

  A tear rolled down her cheek, and she wiped it off with the back of her hand.

  She was supposed to bury Miranda soon, by the old yew tree. She was supposed to tell stories of Miranda’s life, to free Miranda’s soul. But she hardly knew any.

  She just needed some time alone, to think things over. To cleanse her mind of Cleo’s thoughts.

  The sound of tinkling bells floated on the wind, and Rosalind crossed through the door into the old ruin of a temple. She glanced at the spot where Miranda had woven the wildflower wreaths, then crossed to the tall window. From here, she had a perfect view of the giant yew.

  She climbed through the window, landing in the dirt. Hugging herself, she trod the path that meandered down to the yew. Where would they want to bury Miranda? Would she get her own grave, or would they throw her in the whore pit?

  Emptiness bloomed in Rosalind’s chest. She had no idea what had happened to her parents’ bodies. Out there in the wilderness, they’d probably been left on the stakes until they’d rotted off.

  And that was what Drew had planned for Miranda—to leave her pinned to the post like an entomologists specimen, after he’d forced Rosalind to kill her.

  Bile rose in her throat, and she choked it down.

  As she drew closer to the yew, the tinkling of bells floated on the wind. Aurora had said that was the dead speaking… Was Rosalind losing her mind, or could she hear Miranda’s voice whispering on the wind?

  Sometimes, what’s buried doesn’t stay underground…

  Rosalind’s pulse raced, and she hurried under the canopy of the yew boughs. Around her, mementos of the dead sparked in the moonlight—silvery ribbons and lockets. She traced her finger down a sheer streamer, to the tiny glass bottle at the bottom. The keepsakes here were beautiful and delicate—but forgotten. No one came here to remember the dead. How many years until Miranda was completely forgotten, until Rosalind had forgotten the sound of her voice and the briny smell of her magic?

  She turned her back on the trunk, sliding down to the ground. A threadbare gold ribbon dangled near her head. She turned and saw the name Julietta written in old, faded ink. Who had Julietta been? No one remembered her now.

  Another body for the whore pit.

  Rosalind wasn’t going to let her sister lie here. Miranda deserved a second chance.

  Sometimes, what’s buried doesn’t stay underground…

  Bone-conjuring. That’s what Aurora had called it. And whether or not Caine approved, Rosalind was going to learn how to do it. She’d get her revenge on Drew. And when she did, her sister would be by her side.

  A flicker of movement through the branches caught her eye. From the darkness, a raven fluttered to the ground before her. Rosalind stared, her pulse racing, as the raven began to grow larger. With the sound of a hundred bones cracking, and a low grunt, the raven transformed before her eyes.

  In the next moment, Caine stood before her, silver magic curling off his body.

  Rosalind’s heart thumped. “What the hell was that?”

  “What?” He took a step closer.

  Her throat had gone dry, and she stood slowly. “Nothing. It’s just that I’ve never seen you transform before.” As she spoke she realized her cheeks were wet, and she wiped the tears off with the back of her hand. “How did you know I was here?”

  “I could smell you.”

  She wrinkled her nose. “That’s disturbing.”

  “I like your scent.” Caine closed the distance between them. “I needed to find you.”

  “For what?”

  Gently, he wiped a tear from her cheek. “I know what it’s like.”

  She flinched at his touch. She wasn’t ready for kindness right now. Rage was the one thing keeping her from collapsing under a wave of grief. “What do you mean? You know what what’s like?”

  His expression darkened. “Never mind. Tell me what happened with Drew.”

  Not a question, she thought. Even when Caine was comforting someone, he gave orders.

  “Is it important now?” she asked.

  “I need to understand our enemy.” His voice was low but insistent. “If he can truly use gods-magic, I need to know what he wants, how he operates. We need to understand his power.”

  “Right.” She squeezed her eyes shut, trying not to picture the crimson stain on Miranda’s gown, the blood pooling in the rainwater. She wrapped the bluebell stem around her finger. Focus, Rosalind. What was important here? “For one thing,” she began, “Remember that scar that Drew gave me in Maremount?”

  “On your stomach, yes.”

  “It serves a purpose. It wasn’t purely sadism. He could control my body, like a demon can.”

  Caine growled. He, too, had the power to control her mind—but he’d never once used it.

  “He uses gods-magic like you do,” she continued. “But not just one. All the gods. I saw and felt all their auras.”

  The shadows around Caine grew heavy, so thick they almost seemed tangible. His magic crackled the air. “And what did he do to Miranda?”

  His voice was low, laced with cold fury. She could feel the rage coming off him, darkening the very light from the stars. No matter how many times Caine saved her life, when he turned primal, the ancient part of her brain told her to run.

  She took a small step away from him, backing up to the tree trunk. “Drew thinks you’re his nemesis. He thinks my parents were the true king and queen, and that you killed them. He thinks I’m a traitor for sleeping with you.”

  Caine cocked his head, but didn’t respond.

  Maybe her grief had made her a little reckless with her words. “I told him it wasn’t true,” she added. “But he said it was just as bad if I thought about it. He’s totally lost his mind.”

  The temperature dropped in the cemetery, and goosebumps rose on her skin. A cloud of steam rose from her mouth when she exhaled.

  “What else did he say?” Caine pressed. “What did he do when he controlled your mind?”

  “He put a collar on Miranda. He made us walk outside, into the rain. To the esplanade.” She swallowed hard. The sound of Miranda’s ribs cracking played again in her skull.

  “What happened next?” he asked softly. The air chilled further, and frost spread over the yew leaves
.

  “He wanted to teach me a lesson. He told Miranda to stand against the stake. He told me to take the iron nail from his hand.”

  Caine’s eyes had turned to pure black, and his body was completely still. When she glanced into his eyes, she felt as though she were looking into the void itself. She had the feeling that he kept his energy coiled tightly inside that lean, muscled body, and if he were ever pushed too far it could burst forth at any moment, leveling the whole city.

  “A stake and an iron nail. Recreating your parents’ death, what I did to them. He was punishing all three of us at the same time.” Icy venom laced his voice. She could feel the shadows seeping off him, cold and empty. “He made you stab her.”

  Rosalind shook her head. “I was able to stop it; I’m not sure how. But I didn’t stab her—Drew did. He’s really rotten at his core. I don’t know if he was always this way, or if the magic twisted his mind.”

  “I’m going to slaughter him in the most painful way possible,” Caine seethed.

  “I almost killed her.” Her voice broke. “I really wanted to stab her. I nearly did it.”

  “But you didn’t.” A sharp tone undercut his words. “Count yourself lucky.”

  At his words, hot rage simmered. “Lucky? Are you serious?”

  “You didn’t kill her. Drew did. It was a lucky escape for you.”

  “Not so great with your people-skills, are you? Sometimes, it’s like you have no humanity. When someone watches their sister murdered, you don’t tell them three hours later that they’re lucky.”

  He glared at her, his dark eyes completely demonic.

  “Of course, you’re not really human,” she muttered.

  “And I suppose your humanity makes you better than me, right?” Bitterness poisoned his words. In his black eyes, she couldn’t find a hint of compassion. “You resisted. A demon would have given in to the lure of the slaughter.”

  “Yeah, probably,” she snapped. “I guess I am lucky, then.” And I’m going to raise Miranda from the dead. Not a damn thing you can do about it. “I just ask that you don’t bury my sister in the whore pit with all the other humans you’ve discarded in Lilinor.”

  His silver aura sliced the air around him. “Where the hell did you hear that term?”

  “Esmerelda. She quite helpfully pointed out that Miranda and I would end up in the whore-pit. Another body for the mass grave. And since you won’t help raise her from the dead, I guess she’ll stay there, right?”

  “I’m going to murder Esmerelda.”

  “You can’t solve every problem by murdering people, you know.” She shook her head to clear her mind. “Do you need anything else from me, or are we done?”

  “Ambrose is calling together a small council. Aurora, Malphas, me, and you. He wants a debriefing.”

  “Aurora and Malphas are okay?” This was the first good news she’d heard.

  “They’re fine.” His eyes had returned to their usual pale gray. “Meet us in the armory as soon as you can.”

  He turned, walking away. And just as he took his third step away from her, his body darkened, condensing in a burst of silver magic. In his raven form, he took off into the air, leaving Rosalind alone with the faintly tinkling bells.

  Chapter 10

  Rosalind stalked through a long stone tunnel, deep in the bowels of Ninlil Castle.

  A dark, empty hole burned in her chest. Her whole body felt cold, like she’d died alongside her sister. She certainly didn’t feel lucky.

  She hugged herself, rubbing her arms. After the chaos of the massacre, at least she’d see a few more familiar faces. Aurora might be her only friend left in the city, since Tammi had been stuck in the Abzu.

  And then there was Malphas, Caine’s brother. She hadn’t seen him since arriving here. The incubus had hardly left his room, from what she could tell.

  Would Malphas help her raise Miranda from the dead? Not likely. He probably blindly followed the same rules as his older brother. He’d probably tell her she could count herself lucky since she hadn’t delivered the final blow herself, and she should just get on with things without complaining.

  That meant there was only one person who could help her: the demented witch who inhabited her body. “Cleo, I need you now. I need to know how to bring the dead back to life.”

  Cleo’s aura washed over her skin. That magic belongs to Nyxobas, and I belong to Druloch. Why don’t you ask your lover?

  A lump rose in her throat. “He won’t allow it. Neither will Ambrose.”

  So how else was she going to figure this out? Maybe Lilinor had a library or something. A collection of forbidden spell books.

  And how would she find that? Maybe Aurora knew. Aurora, at least, had known the term bone-conjuring.

  At the end of the hall, she pushed through the door into Ambrose’s armory, a large black dome crammed with weapons. In the center of the room, Malphas leaned against an obsidian altar, its sides hung with ornate silver axes.

  She didn’t want to meet his pale gray eyes—she wasn’t sure what she’d find there. After all, she’d tortured him. Maybe he thought she deserved what had happened today.

  Either that, or he’d look at her with sympathy. She wasn’t sure she could take that, either.

  Instead of meeting his gaze, she surveyed the room, scanning the medieval armor hung from the walls. She crossed to one of the displays, running her fingers over a smooth, silver breastplate. The sharp-peaked silver helmets screamed menace, yet the armor drew her in. How would it feel to live shielded by impenetrable silver, immune to arrows and bullets, to iron nails?

  What would it be like to stop feeling pain?

  She shoved her hand into her pocket, curling a bluebell’s stem around her fingertip, and her chest unclenched just a little. Miranda had been right: the wildflowers did bring peace to her mind.

  “Rosalind,” Malphas said. He spoke quietly, but his voice echoed off the high ceiling. She turned to look at him, and when she did, she recognized the sadness etched on his beautiful face. “I’m sorry for what happened to your sister.”

  Rosalind could only nod mutely. She couldn’t tell him about her plans, that she’d find a way to bring Miranda back.

  “She was always kind to me,” he added, “when we were little. She gave me food when I was starving. She gave me a blanket to sleep in when I went to bed at night in the prison cells.”

  A lump rose in Rosalind’s throat. This wasn’t what she wanted to hear now. She was holding it together by shoving her grief and fury deep under the surface, like ravenous demons too dangerous to unleash. It would take just a light brush of kindness to unearth them, and who knew what destruction they’d wreak. “Yes,” she said. “She was the sweet one.”

  His brow furrowed for just a moment, as if he was confused. “I loved you both.”

  A hot tear poured down her cheek, and she wiped it away. She hadn’t expected to hear that at all. She blinked away the tears. “Where are the others?”

  “Coming,” he said.

  At just that moment, the door creaked open and Caine stalked into the room. Like her, he was dressed for battle: black leather clothes, laden with silver blades. In contrast to his battle gear, his features were soft when his gaze met hers. As he crossed to her, his aura rolled off his skin in waves of thrilling power.

  He stopped mere inches from her. “How are you?” The question sounded almost unnatural for him, like he’d never uttered those words in that sequence before.

  “Still alive. I guess I’m lucky.” Tears brimmed again, and she blinked hard. Keep it together, Rosalind. “But we’re not here to talk about me. We’re here to talk about what we’re going to do next, right? Ambrose must have a plan.”

  Caine’s arctic eyes were fixed on her. She had the uncomfortable feeling that he could read her thoughts, unearthing her darkest secrets. He can’t do that, can he?

  “Ambrose is planning a death feast for all the fallen,” Malphas said. “In six hours, after the de
ad are buried. We will honor Miranda there.”

  Miranda wasn’t going to stay underground, but Rosalind wasn’t going to bring that up now. “What’s a death feast?”

  “It’s a ceremony to honor the dead,” Malphas said. “It’s where people tell stories about someone’s life and drape mementos on the yew branches. They offer bread to Nyxobas, and pour libations. It helps to open the gates to the afterworld, and frees the souls from the House of Shades. Miranda’s spirit will have an easier time finding its way to the celestial realm.”

  “We have very little control over what the gods do,” Caine said. “Death is their domain. We just do what we can to placate them.”

  “So it’s mostly just for show.”

  “Not just for show,” Caine said. “It helps people accept death.” For just a moment, he shared a dark look with his brother, his gray eyes piercing in the low light.

  “Something we all need to accept,” Malphas said.

  “Even those of us with very long lives,” Caine said. “We must watch the ones we love grow old and sicken.”

  Rosalind’s fingernails pierced her arms. Maybe. Maybe not. She nodded. “And what do I need to do at this death feast?”

  “You only need to tell stories about her,” Malphas said. “The things you’ll remember the most.”

  She stared at the floor, her chest tight. “I hardly know any, apart from the ones you told me. And the past few weeks, I was only starting to get to know her.” She straightened. “Anyway, we have more pressing concerns than symbolic gestures. First and foremost, we have to deal with the delusional maniac who nearly razed the city.”

  Candlelight wavered over Malphas’s porcelain skin. “It’s all related. We need your power, and your power is no good if your mind is fractured. The death feast will help you heal.”

  Cleo’s aura roiled in her skull. Don’t listen to them. They want you to bury your twin in the whore pit.

  Rosalind heaved a sigh. “Miranda needs her own grave. I don’t want her in the mass grave.” She didn’t want Miranda walking up surrounded by rotting corpses.