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

by C. N. Crawford

  She tried to suck in another breath, watching as Drew pulled a syringe filled with dark liquid from his coat pocket. A single thought struck her, like a bullet to the brain: There’s iron in blood. Not a lot—not enough to extinguish magic. But maybe it was enough for Drew to control someone if the iron had been charmed.

  Drew gripped her wrist, ready to inject.

  Her pulse raced. She couldn’t let him do this, or she’d have no chance of getting Caine out of here. Maybe I’ll have better luck with Druloch. Come on, Cleo.

  Green magic simmered over her skin.

  As Drew lifted her sleeve, a rope of vines shot from her wrist, wrapping around Drew’s neck. He clutched at his throat, and the magic crushing her chest lifted from her.

  She glanced at Caine. To her horror, flames already curled around his feet.

  A Hunter pointed a gun to her head. “Stop the spells!” he shouted.

  Not a chance.

  Her gaze flicked to the river, and she let Dagon’s power ripple through her body, vibrating through her bones. The river churned, then roared as an enormous wave crested over the bridge, knocking the Hunters off balance. Black smoke curled into the air as water doused the flames.

  So much for keeping my magic hidden.

  She shadow ran to Caine. Using the strength of the mountain goddess, she tore the iron chains from his body. Already, the Hunters were mustering again, and Drew was breaking free from his chokehold.

  She let vernal magic simmer in her body, then unleashed it on the bridge. In the next moment, vines sprouted from the bridge, weaving around the Hunters and Drew. A blur of shadow moved through them, and she heaved a sigh of relief. Malphas.

  He stopped just before her, catching his breath.

  “Use the river as a portal!” she shouted. “Take Caine to Ambrose, and tell Ambrose to drain his blood.”

  Malphas was already dragging Caine across the bridge. “You want him to what?”

  “Just trust me! Drain his blood. He’ll recover.”

  She watched as Malphas leapt over the side of the bridge, with Caine in his arms.

  This was it: her chance to kill Drew, while he was completely within her control. She turned to her cousin, watching the tendrils of colored magic whirl from his body. She lifted her hand, and Emerazel’s fire sparked from the tips of her fingers.

  Deep in her chest, Cleo’s aura thrilled at her power. Roast these bastards alive.

  But just as the golden magic roared through her blood, Drew broke free from the plants’ constraints. Moving on the wind, he leapt for her, punching her in the head with a loud crack.

  Dizzy, she staggered to the edge of the bridge.

  The portal is still open. It must be.

  From behind, Drew gripped her hair, but she pulled away from him. As fast as she could, she climbed over the edge of the bridge, and leapt into the churning dark waters below.

  As she plunged below the chilly surface, she felt a powerful hand grasp her leg, and her stomach sank.

  Chapter 42

  Rosalind swam below the water’s surface, trying to free herself from Drew’s iron grip. Shadow magic whirled around them.

  The shield wouldn’t let Drew into the city.

  Unless—if Drew was clinging to her body, would the shield let him through?

  She didn’t want to find out.

  Frantically, she tried kicking her way free of him, but he climbed higher up her body, wrapping his arms around hers. And even as she squirmed and writhed in his arms, she only kicked herself further toward the surface, until pale moonlight began to pierce the murky water.

  It wasn’t until they’d reached the air that she was able to gain enough leverage to wiggle one of her arms free—but by then, Drew had already breached the shield. She hammered his face hard with a volley of punches, until he dropped his grip on her.

  I’m gonna have to fight him on land.

  She grasped for a rocky ledge, pulling herself out into the cool night air, and launched over the fountain’s edge—the same one they’d used to leave Lilinor. She landed hard on the cobblestones and yanked an iron knife from her belt, widening her stance.

  I’m ready for you, cousin.

  In the next moment, Drew burst from the fountain. Before his feet could even land on the pavement, she hurled the knife at his chest. His green eyes opened wide in shock, and he staggered back.

  But it only took him a fraction of a second to rip the knife from his chest. He lunged for her, his movements too fast for an ordinary human to track. But with Nyxobas’s power flooding her body, she saw him coming. She kicked him in the face, cracking his nose with her foot. Immediately, she dodged back. As he swung for her, she ducked, bringing up her fist into his groin.

  She rose, letting the power of seven gods soar in her body.

  I can take you, Cousin.

  While he hunched over, in pain, she kicked him hard in the gut. He grunted, clutching his stomach.

  But when he raised his green eyes to her, a chill rippled over her. There was no longer anything human in his gaze, just the senseless wrath of insane gods.

  She pulled another knife from her belt, ready to throw. But with a tremendous roar, Drew leapt for her, knocking her back onto the pavement. The full weight of his body pressed on her, and he gripped her hair. Screaming like a wild beast, he smashed her head into the pavement—once, twice, three times.

  Pain ripped through her skull, so sharp she thought she’d die. Dizziness surged over her, and she struggled to push him off.

  Drew tightened his fingers around her throat, squeezing hard. Blood ran from his lip. Through gritted teeth, he said, “My wife. I know how to make you behave. I know how to make you serve me.”

  He pressed on her throat harder, threatening to crush her windpipe. How many seconds did she have before he crushed the life out of her? She needed to muster her magic—her strength. Borgerith. She envisioned the copper magic welling in her belly.

  But just as she was starting to build her strength, Drew reached into his pocket. She stared in horror as he pulled out another syringe.

  “I know you can be a sweet wife, when I tame you.” He stabbed the needle into her chest. “I need to punish you, and break your will. Then you’ll be my little toy.”

  He depressed the plunger, and panic ripped her mind apart.

  But there’s iron in blood.

  And Borgerith controls magnetism…

  As soon as Drew pulled the syringe from her skin, she focused on letting Borgerith’s copper magic whirl around her chest, trying to draw the iron from her own blood, through that tiny hole in her skin. But even as she tried to focus, her thoughts began to move slowly, as ice seemed to encase her mind.

  What was she trying to do?

  Drew unclenched his grip on her neck, leaning down to stare into her face. Gently, Drew stroked the side of her face, then he leaned in closer to lick her cheek.

  Somewhere, beneath the ice of her mind, she recoiled.

  “Do you know,” he purred, “I feel very close to you. I think I even understand some of your worst fears. I can see them in your dark eyes. We’ve got rid of Miranda, haven’t we? But it wasn’t enough. I have something even better in mind for you.”

  He gripped her hair, cracking her head against the stone once again.

  * * *

  She woke, flat on her back, in the bottom of a grave, staring up at the starry sky.

  No—not quite the bottom of a grave. She couldn’t quite clarify her thoughts, but she had a vague sense of lying on top of soft, rotten limbs. A mass grave.

  The thought moved slowly under her mind’s frozen surface, like an ice floe.

  As a powerful stench registered, another thought simmered dimly under the ice: I’m in the whore pit.

  Horror stole her breath, but she couldn’t quite remember what she needed to do, or why she was here. She didn’t seem to be able to control her own body.

  A man leaned over the grave’s edge. The moon formed a silv
er halo around his head. His green eyes pierced the dark, beautiful and intense. And yet, the sight of his face curdled her stomach.

  “Comfortable, are you?” He frowned. “Is this what they call the whore pit? I’ll wager they buried your sister here.” He narrowed his eyes. “Now which rotten body is she? Do you suppose you’re on top of her?”

  The words sent a cold shiver up Rosalind’s spine. There was something she needed to do—some way she could get out of this, but she couldn’t formulate a clear thought. Not with all this ice encasing her mind.

  The man shrugged. She thought his name might be Drew.

  Suddenly, his face contorted with rage. “Fitting, isn’t it, for my wife? The whore pit. After what you did with Caine.” His face turned red, and panic gripped Rosalind’s chest.

  “When I break your mind,” he continued, “you’ll serve me eagerly, or I’ll rip your bones from your body. Do you understand, little whore?” Spittle flew from his mouth.

  Would anyone hear him yell?

  She stared up at the night sky as Drew began flinging earth on top of her. Her chest tightened. Desperately, she tried to pick out clear thoughts, but they slid under the surface or her mind. Somewhere, under the glacier, she formed a thought about the bodies beneath her, slick and rotting. About the stench turning her stomach.

  Thump. A clump of dirt hit her in the face, and she gasped.

  Another thought bubbled to the surface. The one about how she wouldn’t be able to breathe with all that dirt covering her. How she’d die down here in the whore pit. There was something she needed to do to break free...

  Thump. The earth felt heavy from the recent rain—more mud than dirt.

  She glanced to her right, vaguely registering a woman’s half-rotten arm.

  A long time ago, someone had told her it would end this way. Buried in the whore pit.

  Thump. Particles of dirt slipped into her mouth, trickling down her throat. As the earth rained down, her body began to shake, that one phrase burning clearer under the ice. Buried in the whore pit.

  Drew hurled another shovelful of dirt onto her face, and she gagged at the mud trickling down her throat.

  This wasn’t how it was supposed to end.

  Sunlight, the smell of the ocean. Oak trees. Water on skin. The call of a golden-crowned sparrow.

  She moved her head back, just an inch, and gasped for air. Within a few minutes, inches of dirt covered her body, until she couldn’t see, could hardly breathe. And yet, under the dirt and the ice, rage began to simmer, burning away the ice.

  Now, Miranda’s words began to ring in her mind, clear as a bell. Sometimes, what’s buried doesn’t stay underground.

  Before the glaciers had gripped her mind, she’d been trying to free herself. She’d had some kind of plan. Get the iron out of your blood.

  Her body wasn’t quite moving like it should, but her mind was clearing. Maybe Borgerith’s magic had worked just enough to clear some of that charmed iron from her blood. Under a thickening layer of earth, she focused on the coppery magic in her body, letting it churn within her ribs. Then she imagined the copper magic drawing out that black liquid in her chest—a magnetic pull through that tiny hole in her skin.

  Slowly, Borgerith’s magic leached the iron from her blood, and she began to grow dizzy. Still, even as she grew lightheaded, she was able to move her muscles purposefully once more—curling her toes and fingers.

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

  She let the magic flow through her muscles, charging her body with power and the speed of Nyxobas. A hot thrill rippled thorough her as the gods-magic began to blaze through her body. I’m going to tear your bones from your body, Drew.

  In the next moment, she burst from the grave, dripping with fetid dirt. She leapt over the pit’s edge, wind rushing over her skin.

  And as her feet hit the ground, her gaze landed on Drew.

  She was back from the dead, here to wreak a vengeance of her own.

  This time she was moving with the speed of a god, her gaze locked on her prey. She must have looked like a true angel of death, because Drew backed away from her, his eyes wide.

  But she wasn’t letting him get away.

  She rushed for him, slamming her fist into the side of his head, reveling in the crack of bone. She hit him again and again, and his head snapped back. Full of Nyxobas’s icy power, she kicked him hard him the gut, and when he bent over, she hammered the back of his skull with her elbow.

  He fell to the ground. Quick as a storm wind, she was on top of him, raining down blows onto his face, trying to smash his bones. In the distance, she heard the cry of a valkyrie, and the storm god’s fury filled her body. Go in for the kill.

  She gripped his throat tight, squeezing hard. It would only take a few seconds—

  Water magic burst from Drew’s body, and in the next second a small pond filled the space around them.

  She tightened her grip on his throat. Fine with me. I’ll drown you in a ditch.

  But as the water began to rise higher, shadow magic whirled on its surface.

  He’s creating a portal.

  The bottom seemed to drop out of the earth beneath her, and in a rush of murky water, she lost her grip on Drew.

  Holding her breath, she swam for the surface, her fingertips finding purchase in a muddy ledge. She pulled herself out, her heart racing, and backed away from the portal.

  She let out a roar. She’d been so damn close to killing him. But she couldn’t go after him now. Not now, when she had no clue where that portal went—she’d made that mistake once before, and learned her lesson.

  Still, she’d come for him soon enough.

  Nausea gripped her gut, and she fell to her hands and knees in the mud, vomiting.

  After another minute of catching her breath, she rose and stared at the small pond, still whirling with shadow magic. She wanted to make damn sure Drew wasn’t coming back in anytime soon. With the last of her energy, she let shadow magic flow through her fingertips, sealing up the muddy gateway. When she’d finished, the ground had sealed over again—a slick of mud covered with a silver sheen.

  She turned to walk back to the fortress, her entire body shaking.

  As she walked along the path, a spray of purple-headed flowers caught her eye. Their long, thin petals pierced the air like fireworks, surrounded by green leaves. She reached for one, but as soon as she touched one of the leaves, the plant seemed to fold into itself, shrinking away from her.

  Rosalind didn’t know the name of this plant, but Cleo did.

  Morivivi.

  I died. I lived.

  She plucked two blossoms from the plant—one for her, and one for Miranda.

  These are for our new crowns—the ones we deserve.

  Chapter 43

  With shaking legs, stepped into the candlelit hall on Caine’s floor. Filthy mud covered her body, and she looked like a swamp monster.

  She crossed through the hall toward Caine’s room. She didn’t particularly want him to see her caked in mud and puke, but he had a bath in his room. Plus, she wanted to see how he was doing after Ambrose drained his blood.

  Raw fatigue burned through her body as she walked the corridor, and each step felt like agony. It was a good thing she hadn’t followed Drew through the portal, because she was pretty sure she didn’t have a single drop of magic left in her body right now.

  Drew had nearly killed her out there. Nearly suffocated her in the whore pit.

  Mass grave, she mentally corrected herself. No need to insult the dead.

  Her sodden feet left muddy tracks over the stones. At last, her gaze landed on the portrait of Lord Byron.

  The door stood partially ajar—just the way she’d left it—and she pushed it open the rest of the way. Empty. No one lay on his silver sheets, and a single candle flickered in a sconce.

  She dropped her two morivivi flowers on a wood table, then crossed to the bath.

  Exhaling with reli
ef, she turned on the hot water. As the steam rose from the bath, she pulled off her filthy clothes, dropping them onto Caine’s floor. She’d clean all this up later, once she’d washed herself.

  As she stepped into the bath, the warm water soothed her aching muscles. She submerged herself in the water up to her waist, and the caked dirt and blood lifted from her body, muddying the water. She pulled the soap from the edge of the tub, rubbing it over her skin, breathing in the soothing scent of lavender.

  She still had to find a way to work things out with Caine. She couldn’t tell him Miranda had slept with Ambrose.

  Then again, maybe there was no point in correcting him. It wasn’t as if anything could happen between her and Caine again. For one thing, he’d told her he didn’t really care. And for another, he’d never be able to know about Miranda.

  She rinsed her hair under the faucet, clearing the mud from it, watching it swirl into the water. She was basically bathing in mud at this point.

  She uncorked the drain, letting the filthy water swirl down, then rinsed her limbs again under the faucet. She grabbed a cloth from the side of the bath, scrubbing at her skin until it looked raw.

  Bending down once more, she rinsed her face again under the tap, scrubbing off all the muck with a ferocity that would wake the dead. As she washed her face, it occurred to her that she hadn’t brought anything to change into, but she’d just have to borrow a long shirt from Caine.

  With the last of the muck rinsed from her skin, she straightened, and her heart skipped a beat.

  While she’d been washing herself, Miranda had crept into the room. She now stood by Caine’s bed. As if on a ghostly breeze, her torn and blood-stained nightgown billowed around her. Her knuckles were bleeding, her fingernails chewed down to the bone.

  The look in her sister’s eyes unnerved Rosalind, and she shivered. “What are you doing here, Miranda?”

  Miranda cocked her head. “Where did you go?”