Oscar, one of her other patients, had been behaving himself quite well, staying out of the way. Now he decided he wanted to check out their new guest and get in on the action. He hopped down from the bookshelf, knocking over a figurine of a porcupine and slunk closer.
“Leave him be,” she whisper-shouted the demand. She didn’t want to let go of Julius even long enough to push Oscar away. If Julius rolled onto his back, he could choke on his saliva.
Oscar stuck out his face and sniffed Julius’ hand. Despite the shaking, the ocelot head-butted him in the chest and began to purr.
With her luck, her mate would be deathly allergic to cats. “Go away, you silly thing.” She waved him off. Oscar swatted her hand.
When Julius stilled, she rolled him onto his back. His skin had taken on an ashen tone. She adjusted the pillow and wiped the saliva from the corner of his mouth with her thumb. What had happened? Could it be stress? Was his body having difficulty adjusting to not being possessed? She had no idea.
“When you don’t know where to start, always begin with the aura.” She tucked her legs under her, shut her eyes, and grounded her energy. “Okay, Gaia, help me out here.” When she opened her eyes, she focused on the colors of his aura—muddy greens, browns, and dark blues. He wasn’t well. All daemons had darker colors than humans, but most still had a full spectrum of clear colors. She set to work sweeping her hands through his energy field, removing the muddiness and replacing it with fresh energy. Slowly, his colors showed signs of revitalization. They brightened. Cleared.
“What in the hell are you doing?”
She jumped, staring at her mate. His speech wasn’t slurred. That was good.
“Nothing.”
“You were making a breeze while doing nothing.”
He moaned. Touched his stomach, his arm, and his face, as if taking inventory.
“How do you feel?”
“Weird. Sore. How did I end up—?” His mouth snapped shut. The colors of his aura dimmed. He didn’t trust her. Somehow, she needed to change that.
“You had a seizure.”
He sat up, clutching his head. “I don’t have seiz— I’m a bloody vampire.”
Most of the time, his accent was so slight, so Americanized, she didn’t notice it. Right now, the Brit in him came through loud and clear.
“I know. Still, you had one.”
“Maybe you should stay out of my head before you really screw something up.”
Was that it? Had she caused this with her truth spell? Her mother had used it on her many times before she’d been old enough to fight back. There had never been any adverse effects . . . at least not physical ones.
“I didn’t want to cast over you, but I do need to know if any of your enemies are nearby.” She got to her feet, leaned down and took his hand. “Come on, the couch is right here. You’ll be more comfortable.”
While he did allow her to help him up, he kept himself as far from her as he could, turning his face and body away.
By trying to force the truth out of him, she’d taken twenty steps backward. Before he hadn’t been sure about her, now he didn’t trust her at all. He sat on the couch, but didn’t lean back. His feet remained flat on the floor. His knuckles whitened from his grip on the armrest.
Poor male, he’d been in a state of hyper-awareness since he’d come downstairs. She was still trying to decide if it was due to the situation—waking blind in an unfamiliar place—or if there was a deeper-seated issue. She was beginning to believe it was the latter. His muscles hadn’t relaxed since she’d first seen him—he was ready to bolt. He was having tremors—at first she’d thought he was cold after being cocooned in her bed, but his hands still shook. Combined with the hyperawareness it could be linked to an anxiety disorder or PTSD, either of which would be understandable under the circumstances.
The thing that bothered her were the voices. Auditory hallucinations could indicate a major psychosis—a total break from reality. The seizure was a wild card. It didn’t fit with any of his other symptoms.
She moved some books out of the way and sat on the coffee table across from him. “I promise, I’m going to do my best to make sure you heal. I need you to be honest with me, though, because if I don’t know what I’m doing, if I have to guess at what’s wrong . . . .” She sighed. “Can you be honest with me, Jules?”
He gave her the slightest of nods.
Progress. Not much—he still refused to turn his head toward her, but he was communicating. Her gaze dropped to his leg where one of his hands traced his scars. He ran his nail over the seam of each once before moving on to the next. Then he stopped. His hand hovered for a moment and started over near his knee. She sighed. He may have some obsessive-compulsive issues as well . . . or he could be trying to have a sense of control over something . . . anything.
“Now let’s see if we can figure out what happened. What’s the last thing you remember?”
Even though he couldn’t see, he kept his face averted as if he feared a full-on attack. “You accused me of shock-and-awe tactics.”
She smiled. “Okay. That’s not too bad.” Sometimes after a seizure, patients would report missing hours or days’ worth of memories. “You’re missing a few minutes.” She reached over to pat his knee.
“Don’t.”
Her hand froze millimeters from his skin. It was a testament to his hyperawareness that he could do that without seeing. She straightened. Baby steps.
His hand went back to his knee, restarting his efforts to trace each scar. That bothered her. Had he been dressed and his eyes not maimed, he would look the epitome of strength. Young—he’d been in his mid-twenties maybe when transformed—handsome, fit. She nodded. Yes, if the scars had been buried beneath his clothing, the sole clue to any trauma would be the slight tremor in his hands.
“So after that you told me about the voice, I asked how long you’d been hearing it and if you’d heard it while possessed by the Watcher—”
He seized again. Thank Gaia he’d been sitting. His whole frame went as rigid as a two-by-four and he shook himself right off the couch.
The whole room spun for a second. “I think I know what this is.” She pushed the coffee table out of her way, knelt next to him and got him rolled onto his side again with a pillow under his head to support his neck.
She needed her Grimoire to confirm her suspicions. Preferably before he came to his senses and decided to ash her.
“It’s almost over, baby.” She rubbed her hand over his chest, trying to soothe him. Kissed his shoulder. Why, she couldn’t say. He was out of it—couldn’t hear or feel her—but she needed the contact and she hoped, even if on an energetic level, he’d know she was here for him.
Oscar appeared out of nowhere, sitting on the warm spot Julius vacated. He reached one paw out and batted her mate’s hair. “Leave him be.”
This seizure lasted longer than the other. That was worrisome, but could also support her theory. She leaned down, pressed her face to his, and whispered, “You’re going to be okay. This won’t happen again. I won’t let it.”
When his body stilled, she eased him onto his back and wiped the drool from his mouth. He’d be mortified if he knew and she couldn’t allow that. He had enough to deal with.
Now for the book. She stood, stepped over Julius, around a stack of books, and over a laundry basket. She needed to tidy up; he would never be able to navigate her living room. The rest of the house was tidy, but she always kept the living room and dining room a mess—Mother hadn’t liked the mess, which meant she hadn’t visited often.
She grabbed her Grimoire off its stand. The book was larger than most. She’d wanted long pages so she’d have space to diagram human anatomy and list out stones, oils, and potions that would benefit ailments to specific body parts. Always ambitious, when she’d made the Grimoire at thirteen, she’d decided on 14x11”-sized paper. She flipped the book toward the middle—where she had a section on curses and how to reverse them.
/> There. Memoria damndum. The memory curse. She’d drawn a red line down the outside of the page which indicated it wasn’t a curable curse. Darn.
Her gaze shifted to check on Julius before reading her notes.
Patients can experience blackouts, seizures, or narcolepsy. The following behaviors are known to induce symptoms: Using words similar to those the curser wants the victim to forget, trying to force their memories to return, seeing photographs of the event or person, hearing words, smells, or sounds related to the event or person. Trying to heal the mind may cause permanent memory loss. Memory curses are short-lived—no more than 5 to 7 days. Rest and relaxation aid recovery.
She snorted. If the last hour was any indication, her mate didn’t know how to relax.
“Five days would be okay.” They’d be cutting it close. That would leave them two days to find a way to keep him from a death sentence. “But if this lasts seven, we’re in big trouble.”
Lilith and Trina had agreed to help if she could prove he was sane and on their side.
Gaia, who was she kidding. He heard voices. If Lilith and Trina found out, they’d be convinced he was insane. In all honesty, it wouldn’t take much. If he continued to behave as he was now—
Something rammed against her and dragged her to the floor. Julius. The book flew out of her hands. He controlled her fall but she ended up flat on her back, her mate’s weight pressing down on her.
“What the hell are you doing to me?”
His mouth curled into that familiar sneer; she should be terrified. But lines creased his forehead, his skin was pale, sweaty, and his whole body trembled. This wasn’t good for him. He might reopen his wounds.
“Do you have a fever?” She put her hand to his forehead.
“Vampires don’t get fevers. Answer my question.” He shifted his weight, pinning her arms to the ground.
Now what? If he passed out on top of her, she’d have a heck of a time getting up. On the other hand, he wasn’t well, not in mind or body—he could hurt her if he continued to see her as a threat.
“It’s not me, it’s a curse. Every time I say Wa—” Shoot! She needed to watch what she said or he’d have another one. “Words associated with the memories you’ve been cursed to forget . . . you have a seizure.”
“Why? What could I know that’s worth all the trouble? Why not kill me?”
A darn good question. Why hadn’t the Watcher killed him? After the coven finished the exorcism, the Watcher had picked him up. She’d stood on the ground staring, while Julius had shot straight up in the air in the grasp of the invisible being. Maybe the Watcher had planned to kill him . . . and she’d saved him when she’d spell-traveled him here right out of the Watcher’s hand.
Watchers could see and hear everything everywhere, but none of them could’ve known she’d planned to help Julius. She’d spoken about her plan with Lilith and Trina. It had been the only time she’d spoken his name out loud and Trina was a Shadow—the Watchers couldn’t see her or anything around her.
So maybe the Watcher had intended to kill him but didn’t plan on her interference.
She eased one of her wrists from his grasp and stroked her hand over his cheek. Oscar always settled with a little affection; perhaps her mate would, too. “Memory spells aren’t permanent.”
The sneer left his face. “You can fix this?”
“You’ll remember everything within the week, but if I try to force it, you may lose those memories forever.”
He brought his face closer to hers, his jaw ticking out his irritation. “Tell me what happened. If we start filling in the blanks—”
“You’ll seize. The seizures seem to be getting worse, that second one lasted longer than the first and if I say anything to remind you of what happened, you’ll seize again.”
“So where does that leave me?” He swallowed.
“It leaves you safe. Here. With me. Everything’s going to be fine. We know what we’re dealing with now. The shield will protect us while you heal.”
His whole body jerked. He turned his head to the side. “What about the voice? How does that fit in?”
A shiver stole through her. The curse was bad news. If he was psychotic on top of everything else . . . . “You still hear it? What’s it saying?”
“It wants me to submit.”
“To what?”
He wet his lips. “Don’t know.”
The voice could indicate some form of schizophrenia. Maybe. After sharing his body with the Watcher for so long . . . hearing the Watcher’s voice in his mind for three centuries . . . . “This is the same voice you heard before?” She eased her other wrist out of his grip and stroked his face. “Talk to me, Jules. I would never hurt you. I want to help.”
“Same voice. Different message.”
His breathing slowed, deepened. Her breasts tightened against his chest, his thighs snuggled between hers, and now that he wasn’t yelling or scowling she was having difficulty keeping her mind focused on the conversation. “Do you feel the urge to follow the voice’s command?”
He shook his head. “It’s weaker today.”
“Or maybe you’re stronger.” He’d slept for almost ten hours.
“What if . . .?”
“What if, what?”
He shook his head. “I don’t even know what you look like.”
The change in subject took her off guard. What did that have to do with anything?”
Leaning his weight on one elbow, he trailed his fingers over her face. “Young.” He traced her eyebrow. Her cheekbone. His hand wandered to her hair and got tangled in the mess of curls. “What color is your hair, little witch?”
Gaia, that’s what he called the women in the coven when he’d been possessed. She wet her lips. “Brassy red.”
His lips curved. He traced her jaw line to her chin, and upward to her mouth. “Who are you?”
“Katherine Seraphim O’Hickey. You can call me Kat.”
“You’re still on about that?” He sat up and sagged against the foot of the couch. “You’re not my mate. It’s not possible, sweetheart.”
She didn’t know what reaction she’d been expecting, but it wasn’t the absolute denial she got. And she was starting to hate “sweetheart”; the sarcasm behind the word made it anything but an endearment. She sat up and crossed her legs, arranging her skirt to keep her legs covered. “Why?” How much did he remember?
“You’re a vampire.” He shook his head. “My mate would never allow such a fate to befall her.”
Unable to look into his eyes when he spoke, her gaze fixed on his mouth. His full lips curved into a mocking half-smile and she had the urge to kiss that particular look off his face. She focused on their conversation, instead. “How much do you remember?”
His head tipped to the side and he shrugged. “I remember her.”
“You were mated. Why wouldn’t she agree to transformation?”
She wasn’t thrilled with her new daemon status, but it wasn’t all that horrible.
“Katherine the Great earned her name after her death because of her outstanding talent as a witch. We may have been mated”—he shrugged—“but she loved her Magic more than me.”
She frowned. “I don’t understand. What did her Magic have to do with transformation?”
His brows snapped together. “How long have you been a vampire?”
“A few days.”
“You’re on your own?” His jaw flexed. “No originator to explain how things work? What you’ve lost?”
“I wasn’t meant to survive the attack.” The first flutters of concern made their presence known and she stomped them out. If she needed to worry about anything, the others would have warned her. “Explain it to me.”
“Your Magic will drain away. Your talent, whatever it is, will take its place.”
She laughed, the tension in her shoulders easing. “She was wrong, that’s an old wives’ tale.”
“No, I knew others—witches who went through the
transformation and lost their Magic. That’s why relationships were forbidden for the coven. They were never quite the same after. Some would retain a little Magic, enough to protect them when they were in danger, but not much more.”
“That’s not true.” She rolled her eyes. The coven’s high-priestess, Lilith and her best friend, Trina, were both vampire and witch. “I know two other witches who have been turned and they retained their Magic.”
“They’re the exception, then, not the rule.” His head tipped. “I hope you’re right, for your sake. We’ll know within the week.”
“What else do you remember about her?”
“That’s none of your business.” He leaned forward, getting right in her face. “If you even think of using that damn spell on me again, you’ll regret it.”
Gaia, he wasn’t anything like what she’d expected. Almost every word was growled or snarled or cussed. There wasn’t much sign that he liked her, much less that he was grateful she’d rescued him. Maybe everyone else had been right. Maybe the Watcher who possessed him for so long had crushed whatever goodness he’d once had.
He sat back, stretched one arm out over the seat of the couch and drummed his fingers on the cushion.
Oscar zeroed in on Julius’ fingers, ears back, his little butt wriggling. A disaster in the making. Her mind flashed back to her childhood when Mother had brought her a kitten.
Look, Katherine, I brought you a present.
“No!” She lifted to her knees and lunged.
Oscar pounced.
“What the—” He jerked back, his big hand closing in around the kitten.
Oh, no. “It’s a kitten.” She tried to snatch Oscar out of his hand. “Give him to me. Give him—”
He turned so she couldn’t reach him.
Really, for me? Katherine had danced around Mother and the little ball of fur she held. Mother held it out of reach.
“Please, he’s a baby.”
His head jerked back—if she didn’t know better, she’d think he stared straight at her—and his lips pressed into a thin line. He dragged himself up, Oscar still imprisoned in one of his big hands.
I heard you’ve gotten your Magic. Mother had frowned. You’ve come into your talent and you’ve been hiding it.
The Knight: The Original's Trilogy - Book 3 Page 5
