Bloodspell (The Cruentus Curse, #1)(20)
Victoria continued to read, the next entry again a year later in 1617.
London, England. I have found Marcus. But perhaps as Lancaster intended, he is in the safest place he can be in King James’ court. I don’t believe Lancaster ever betrayed me to King James, but I can hear their frightened thoughts easily. My stillborn Elizabeth and now Lancaster’s death were pieces of a simple puzzle, and James is ruthless in his pursuit against witchcraft. Confessed or proven, the penalty under his rule is death. I can sense he knows the truth of what I am.
There were only a few entries left in the thin journal, the next written almost nine years later, in March of 1626. The script was hurried, obviously written in great haste. But as with all of Brigid's entries, Victoria knew she wrote only because it had meant something to her or had some significance in her life. Victoria quickly calculated her ancestor's age. Brigid would have been thirty-seven years old.
Newcastle, England. My power is boundless now, taking its price in blood, running in my veins unbidden and overflowing. All manner of night creatures serve my desires, even the dark fey who serve none. I am the queen of darkness, the harbinger of death.
The Witch Clans seek an alliance, for they fear me. The Warlocks compete for my favor for they desire dominion above all else. As a high witch, if I choose to take a consort, he will rule at my side. But I have no interest in ruling the Clans or the Warlocks, nor do I wish to control the Wolf-beasts, the Fey or the Undead or any matter of dark creature. I have made that abundantly clear. The only thing my blood knows is death, and I crave it like the Undead crave the essence of human life. I am a slave to it, forever serving, forever bound.
Valerius, a Vampire Ancient, sought an audience today. The threat of war is looming and they question my intent. The answer is simple—do not rise against me to take what isn’t yours to take. The look of pity in his eyes as I struggled with the demands of the blood almost made me kill him. The Reii, the Ancient Undead, are powerful … he would be so delicious. And the blood was so thirsty, so demanding, clamoring for him. But for some reason, I resisted. Perhaps it was because I saw a little of my own Lancaster in him. Perhaps it was that very look of pity that saved him, that sorrowful understanding in those penetrating eyes.
Somehow he knew. I banished my desire, even though to flaunt the forbidden would have been so entertaining—a witch queen and a vampire consort. It would unmake laws, defy legions, unhinge everything. But there is no time. The attack is imminent. I let him go. Four others died in his stead, no sacrifice was too great, and the blood was so hungry … always wanting more.
As sure as I can foresee tomorrow’s events, it will be a bloodbath. The Clans will attack, and united with the Warlocks, they will be strong, but still no match. The payment in blood will be consummate and my power will revel in the inevitable sacrifice. My eyes bleed black from the blood that oppresses me—its possession of me is nearly complete.
Victoria's throat was dry. The journal felt heavy in her hands, like a stone pulling her down into uncharted, treacherous waters. She could feel the blood churning within her, recognizing itself in the journal, and she couldn't suppress the surge of fear that made the tendons in her neck ache—the fear that inside, maybe she was just like Brigid.
Blood always won.
VICTORIA DRESSED SLOWLY. She had just been for a five-mile run on the ring road around the town. The exercise had been exactly what she'd needed after finishing the journal the night before. She hadn't slept a wink. It had been overwhelming—the casual mention of witches and fey and vampires, not to mention so much death and bloodshed. She'd felt even more like Alice thrust down an ever-deepening rabbit hole. The magnitude of her birthright and the shadowy path of her future hung like twin nooses around her neck.
Who was she, really?
She shook her head and tried to pull herself together for her date with Christian. Apart from seeing him for those brief seconds driving past each other yesterday en route to the lake, she hadn't seen him all week. She should have felt relieved but instead, she'd felt strangely depressed. The ringing of the telephone made her jump.
"Hello?"
"Tori, it's Christian," he said without preamble. "I realize I didn't mention where we were going." His velvety voice was husky, and Victoria's throat tightened in automatic response. "I was wondering about that," she said.
"The Portland Museum of Art has an exhibit that I've been looking forward to seeing, and I was thinking we could get dinner afterward, if you'd like?"
Victoria's heart lurched. Portland? An hour's drive each way with him in a car alone! Impossible. She didn't even want to think about him sitting in such close proximity! She needed to give her hands something to do, find something for her mind to focus on; she already knew how distracted she became whenever he was around. There was no way she could sit in the passenger seat of his car for an hour!
"Portland?" she asked. "Can't we go somewhere local? Like the Dog?" Somewhere local and safe.
"I already have the tickets," he interjected smoothly. "Trust me, it's a beautiful exhibit, you'll enjoy it."
As her stomach began a slow free-fall, inspiration struck. "Christian, would you mind terribly if I drove? I ... I ... get ... carsick on long drives," she said. She could hear the silence on the phone and knew instantly that he would probably see right through her. She didn't care. If she were driving, she'd have to pay attention to the road, not to him.