Bloodspell (The Cruentus Curse, #1)(43)
"It may have to do with my blood disease. They gave me a lot of experimental drugs ..." Her voice trembled as if it were too much for her to talk about, and it accomplished the goal she wanted—Christian inclined his head as if he were satisfied or willing to let the matter drop, for now. Victoria carefully kept her expression blank so that the intense relief she felt would not be visible, and tried to draw the attention away from herself.
"What does your tattoo mean?" Christian flinched as if the thought of it were painful.
"It's a quote from an English novelist, Baron Lytton, written in the ancient language. It reads, 'What is past is past. There is a future left to all men, who have the virtue to repent and the energy to atone.' It reminds me that there's always hope for redemption."
"Oh." She paused, at a loss for words. "It shimmers."
"Silver dust."
"Isn't silver a bad thing?"
"Painful, but not deadly. It's ... a reminder of what I am." He smoothed away the furrowed concern on her brow.
"I'm sorry."
"Don't be. I hardly feel it anymore."
The silence extended like a web between them, sticky and unavoidable. The signs of his earlier change still marred his features, and despite his calm voice, the tendons corded his arms in rigid lines.
"Christian, you need to ..." Victoria said, trailing off. "And I should go."
The air between them was charged and heavy. She needed space to process what had happened—his attack, her miraculous ability to control the monster inside of him, everything. Most of all, she needed to escape the intensity of his eyes and the questions she knew he still had about her blood.
She touched his face, suddenly unsure and afraid of what the next day would bring. His expression was unfathomable. "I'll call you later."
BACK AT HER apartment, Victoria took a long shower, soothing the aching tension out of her muscles. The walk from Christian's house to her car on campus had been more than six miles but it had done her a world of good. Leto had given her a strange look as she'd never spent the night away from the apartment but she'd pretended not to notice. She kept her mind carefully closed.
The amulet was still warm—it felt like it had been burning from the moment she'd gone to Christian's place. She felt guilty for not listening to what was an obvious warning but all reason went out the window whenever she was around him. She knew he was dangerous, but that didn't make him any less appealing.
Victoria sighed and her eyes fell on the journal lying on the music box. She had little desire to continue reading it. Its ominous contents were hardly what she needed after everything that had happened, but more than ever, she recognized that she needed to learn about her powers and how much she might actually be capable of.
She opened it to the last entry she'd read. The next entry was dated November 1626, eight months after the last.
London, England. The Undead legions have declared war upon the Clans, what remains of them that is. I suspect that it is part of a strategy to shift the balance of power given the decimation of numbers they suffered at my hands. Atrocity upon atrocity committed throughout history has only cemented the hate of their centuries-old feud—victims raped and disemboweled, corpses butchered and left to rot, untold violence cloaked in secrecy in their never-ending silent battle.
War is the inevitable culmination of their enmity. Yet I remain unmoved. I choose no side. I cannot. My blood has no allegiance, only its own, and its price in blood does not differentiate from one creature to another. They are all the same. If the Undead legions were to attack me, they would suffer the same consequences as the Clans, but so far, they have been smart. Valerius was well to take my advice to heart.
Valerius …
The all-too-human pace of my heart doubles. It has been so long since Lancaster. It would be so easy to summon the vampire to me, and he would come, I saw it in his eyes. But all that awaits him once I have given in to my desires is death. The blood will surely exact its price for my weakness, of that I am certain.
Victoria shivered. The sense of cold desolation was almost tangible. The blood was like a parasite that had completely possessed Brigid, who it seemed, had completely lost any will to live or desire to fight for herself and her humanity. Would the same happen to her?
Victoria forced herself to finish. There were only three more entries. The next was five months later, April 1627.
London, England. The Great War continues, providing easy prey for a demon like myself who must pay constant blood homage. My transformation is near its end, although I do not know what I will become after the last of my humanity dies nor do I know the fate of those who will remain behind. But I care not. I will be free of my human consciousness … free of conscience, free of emotion. Free of weak regret. At last.
The next entry was a month later.
London, England. The Vampire Ancient, Valerius, has requested another audience. He must know that death awaits him; he will not escape so easily a second time. The blood will not allow it, and what is left of me is too weak to oppose its demands.
Valerius is as I remembered, and my blood boiled at the girlish fantasies that spun within me. He says that the War is over—they have finally agreed upon a truce, one that will forgive old debts and set the rules for a new peace. I asked him then why he sought an audience, for such trivialities matter not to me.