Blood Hunter (The Vampire's Mage Series Book 3)
Page 27
Water dripped down Rosalind’s skin, and she hugged herself, shivering. “I went after Caine in Boston. Drew seized control of his mind, then tried to burn him.” She stepped from the bath.
“And he lived?” Miranda asked, her voice dull.
As Rosalind stepped from the bath, water splashed onto the floor. “Malphas dragged him back here through the portal. I’m guessing he’s in Ambrose’s White Tower. He should be able to make a fast recovery.” She crossed the room to the wardrobe, trying to ignore the unsettling feeling of the hair raising on the back of her neck.
She should probably ask about the blood on her sister’s hands, but she didn’t want to.
I’ll just pretend everything is normal.
“What’s all the dirt from?” Miranda asked.
Rosalind pulled open Caine’s wardrobe, and pulled out a towel. “Drew tried to bury me in the mass grave.”
“You were luckier than I was, since you made it out alive.”
Rosalind wrapped the towel around herself, trying to ignore the guilt nagging at her mind. “That’s certainly true.”
“Maybe you shouldn’t have brought me back,” Miranda said, her voice breaking.
“Why?”
“There’s something wrong with me.” A tear rolled down her cheek. “I’m empty inside, and I can’t fill the void no matter what I do.”
Rosalind shook her head. “We can fix this. There must be a spell to heal your mind.”
Miranda’s forehead crinkled, as if she was confused, and she pulled up the hem of her gown. Strapped to her thigh was a knife, which she pulled from its sheath.
Rosalind’s heart thudded.
Miranda cocked her head, her eyes filling with tears. “But you can’t fix me.” She hurled the knife at Rosalind, striking her in the chest. Rosalind staggered back, dropping her towel. Pain ripped through her chest, and she stared down at the blade protruding from her body. Blood gushed from the wound.
“Miranda!” she shouted. “Why are you doing this?”
Panic stole her breath.
I need to pull it out.
She reached for the hilt, but Miranda was already kneeling before her, yanking the blade free. She reared back her arm to stab again, but as she did a blur of silvery shadow magic streamed into the room.
Rosalind stared in horror as Caine pulled Miranda off her—then, swift as a phantom wind, snapped her neck with a loud crack.
The one blunt sound ended Miranda’s life for the final time.
The world seemed to fall from beneath Rosalind.
“Caine!” she shouted, tears stinging her eyes.
He leaned down, scooping Rosalind up in his powerful arms and carrying her to his bed. Brow furrowed, he said, “I told you not to bring her back.”
Tears spilled down her cheek. “You killed her.”
Gently, he laid her down on his bed. “I had to,” he said softly. “I need to heal you.”
She shot a glance at Miranda, whose body lay crumpled on the floor. “What was wrong with her?”
Caine’s fingertips traced along the perimeter of the gash on the front of her shoulder, and magic curled from his fingertips. “I once raised someone from the dead. But I soon learned it was a mistake.” His eyes glistened as his hand hovered above her chest. “I regret it, even now. When you raise a body from the dead, there is a price. And the price is that Nyxobas keeps some of their soul in the void.”
“Why didn’t you tell me this?”
His eyes clouded with unspoken grief. “I can’t bring myself to talk about it.”
Deep sorrow pierced Rosalind’s chest. “So part of Miranda is still in the shadow void?” No wonder she’d felt empty.
Caine’s gaze met hers. “Yes, but I can help. It took me years to learn how, but I can travel to the void and free her.”
Caine’s magic soothed her muscles, healing the tears and leaching away the pain. Faintly, Miranda’s voice rang in the back of Rosalind’s skull. Sunlight, the smell of the ocean. Oak trees. Water on skin. The call of a golden-crowned sparrow.
“When I traveled to the shadow void, I saw my own face there. Dead.” A hot tear spilled down her cheek. “Maybe it wasn’t me, after all. Maybe it was a vision of Miranda.”
Caine wiped the tear from her cheek. “We’re going to hold another death feast. You’ll tell Miranda’s story. And when you’re finished, I’ll claim her soul back from Nyxobas.” He leaned in, touching his forehead against hers. Her heart had broken, but Caine’s soothing aura dulled some of the pain. He pulled away from her, glancing at the mud spattering his room, his hand cupped around her neck. “What happened to you?”
“Drew followed me through the portal into Lilinor. He injected me with that iron. Like he did to you.”
“He was waiting for me when I came through.” Caine’s eyes darkened, the candle dimming. “Is he still here?”
She shook her head. “No. He tried to bury me in the whore—in the mass grave. Flung dirt all over me. But I got the iron out.”
Caine traced his thumb over her cheek. “So you did better than I did. I didn’t make it out of there on my own.”
She glanced at Miranda again, and raw grief washed over her.
Caine pulled away from her, covering her in his soft, silver blankets. “Close your eyes,” he said. “I’m going to take Miranda away.”
“I’ve left the remnants of a grave all over your room.” She shivered, then a thought sparked in the back of her mind. “Caine? Why did you say I was lucky, after Miranda died? What was lucky about it?”
He touched her shoulder, and her mind began to calm again. “Get some rest, Rosalind. tomorrow, you need to speak over your sister’s grave, and then we’ll free her soul.”
She wasn’t sure she’d ever sleep again—not after the horror of tonight. But after Caine carried Miranda’s body from the room, fatigue claimed her mind, and she drifted into a deep sleep.
Chapter 44
Rosalind stood, flanked by Caine, and Tammi. Moonlight streamed through the yew, dancing over the black casket deep in the earth. Behind them stood Ambrose, Malphas, and Aurora.
In one hand, Rosalind clutched a fistful of morivivi flowers—in the other, the dried wreath Miranda had woven from bluebells, ivy, and poppies. She turned from the grave, walking to the yew. Her finger shook as she tied the wreath with a shimmering blue ribbon marked with Miranda’s name. Clutching the flowers, she turned back to the open grave.
Caine rested his hand on her back for reassurance, letting his aura wash over her.
She took a deep breath. “When she first died, I didn’t remember our past. She died, and she lived again. And when she did, she told me the stories about us I didn’t remember. How we built ships of wood, and we’d sail them in Athanor Pond. About her meadowlark named Poppet, and the little bird’s viking funeral in a flaming boat.”
As she spoke, the memory suddenly blazed in her mind: the tiny wooden boat, floating out in the dark waters of Athanor Pond; Miranda standing by her side, holding her hand.
“You told me we’d sneak out at night with Malphas, and we’d lay in the dandelion beds watching the shooting stars. For years, you wandered the cities, looking for me. Your own dream stayed constant as the North Star—our own little house, our own family.”
Rosalind closed her eyes, breathing in the scent of muddy earth and the yew’s boughs. She could nearly feel the bluebells in the grass beneath her, when she’d lay next to her sister. She plucked one of the morivivi flowers from the bunch, tossing it in the grave. One for sunlight. One for the ocean. She tossed them in, one by one. One for the oak trees, and for water on skin. One for the call of the golden-crowned sparrow.
She swallowed hard, turning from the grave. Grief pressed hard on her chest as she trod the path through the cemetery. Silently, Caine walked by her side.
She’d laid her sister in the cold earth for the final time, before Miranda had gotten the chance to really live. Drew—and her parents—had robbed Mirand
a of the life she deserved—a family and a home, where Miranda would paint portraits and thread her wildflower wreaths. Where she’d feel the rain on her skin, the warmth of the hearth. Where she could, at last, have lived among people who loved her.
Rosalind’s chest ached.
As they walked up the path, Rosalind lost herself in visions of what might have been. The other life. The one that should have existed, but didn’t…
Making tea. Talking about dates. Drinking too much on the weekends. They’d been so close to that reality that it almost seemed tangible, even now—as if somewhere out there, another Rosalind and Miranda sat on a sofa in a small house in the woods, laughing at each other’s stupid jokes, bickering over who got to shower next.
As the others silently walked inside the fortress, Rosalind stood outside the castle walls, staring up at the night sky. It didn’t seem quite right to leave Miranda in that cold field by herself. Caine remained quietly by her side—silent, but just close enough for the heat from his body to warm hers.
After a while, clouds began to gather on the horizon. Somewhere, below the sharp pang of grief, rage began to simmer.
“Caine?” she said at last.
“Yes?”
“I want to destroy the Brotherhood for what they’ve done to Miranda. And to Cleo, and all the countless others.”
“You will,” he said quietly. “And I’ll be right by your side when you do.”
* * *
We hope you enjoyed Blood Hunter. While you’re waiting for the next book, we think you might enjoy our novel Infernal Magic. It takes place in the same magical universe.
Yours,
Nick & Christine
Also by C.N. Crawford
The Demons of Fire and Night Series
Book 1: Infernal Magic
Book 2: Nocturnal Magic
The Vampire’s Mage Series
Book 1: Magic Hunter
Book 1.1: Shadow Mage
Book 2: Witch Hunter
The Memento Mori Trilogy
Book 1: The Witching Elm
Book 2: A Witch’s Feast
Book 2.1: The Abysmal Sea
Book 3: Witches of the Deep
For Michael and his awesome hair.
Acknowledgments
As always, we’d like to thank our wonderful editor Tammi Labreque; our cover designer Rebecca Frank; and our proofreader Sara Pinnell. We also thank our ARC team, Crawford’s Coven, and Author’s Corner for their inspiration and moral support.
Our beta reader Mike Omer already got the book dedicated him so a further acknowledgment seems excessive. Okay fine, we would like to thank Michael here too for his amazing feedback.
About
C. N. Crawford is not one person but two. We write our novels collaboratively, passing our laptops back and forth to edit each other's words.
Christine (C) grew up in New England and has a lifelong interest in local folklore - with a particular fondness for creepy old cemeteries. Nick (N) spent his childhood reading fantasy and science fiction during Vermont's long winters.
In addition to writing fiction, we love to hear from our readers and can be reached at any of the following links. We always reply to our readers.
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