Pretty When She Kills (Pretty When She Dies #2)(62)

The intimacy of feeding always enthralled her. It made her feel painfully dead and wholly alive at the same time as she felt the fresh blood rushing through her veins returning life to a body that should be long dead. Arms wrapped around people who didn’t even know her name, she fed from their throats in an almost sacred act of rebirth. Of all the new aspects of her life, this was the one thing she loved most. Feeding was exquisite and fulfilling. It calmed the hunger and restored her sanity.

The blood she consumed was transformed by her nature, not only renewing her body, but her power. She could feel her necromantic nature slithering through her like silken batwings, expanding and contracting. Its icy tendrils flexed and coiled inside of her, craving to touch the dead and commune with them.

Her vampire nature summoned her to drink the blood of humans, but her necromancer nature beckoned to her to raise the dead. She wanted to walk among them, feel them touching her, drawing life from her, loving her as she restored them.

This was the blessing and the curse that The Summoner had inflicted upon her. It angered her that her nightmare tainted her usual pleasure in her new nature. She loved being a vampire and had grown to embrace her necromancer power. Yet, Bianca’s words now haunted her.

When she was done, she’d drunkenly returned to the apartment she shared with Cian. He was gone, feeding somewhere in the building. The space felt empty without him. She felt empty without him. She didn’t care what Bianca had whispered in her dream. Amaliya was her own person. She made her own decisions and she chose to be with Cian.

Almost feeling feverishly delirious, Amaliya took refuge in the shower. The water flowing over her helped her subdue the call of the graveyards. The warm water formed a barrier over her skin, calming the need to call the dead.

“Something’s wrong,” Amaliya whispered.

Ever since she had consumed the witch’s spell, she could feel it inside of her, twisted into her own magic. It felt intrusive, but it was now a part of her. Just like Samantha was trapped by magic she didn’t understand, so was she. They were tangled in the web of magicks neither one of them fully understood. Even though Jeff and Cian were trying to help them, in reality no one really had any idea of what was truly happening to them. The Summoner had been no ordinary vampire and in the end, he had created three beings of unusual and unknown powers. Maybe Bianca was right in that context. They could never truly be free of The Summoner because it was his power that was infused into their very essence.

Resting her forehead against the cool tiles, she sighed. In a very short time she would be facing Rachon and her people. Though Amaliya believed in her powers, she was afraid of the unknown. Would Bianca obey Rachon? Would she be stronger than Amaliya? A piece of Amaliya was terrified to rescue Bianca. What if the girl looked to Amaliya to guide her? In her dream Bianca had been reaching for her. What did that mean? Amaliya didn’t even know what she was doing half of the time. How was she supposed to help another necro-vamp?

The warm water sluiced over her long black hair, flattening it to her flesh. Running a hand down over her arm, Amaliya caressed the scar that was once a tattooed rosary. She had fallen so far from grace. Was there any salvation for her and Cian? What would she find beyond the veil of death?

A gust of cold air and the sound of the shower door popping open announced Cian’s arrival. She could smell fresh blood on his breath and his familiar scent. Remaining under the stream of water, she was reluctant to acknowledge his presence. Wallowing in her fears and anxieties, she found it difficult to let him into her thoughts.

The presence of the master vampire made her skin tingle. The shower was quite large and his body didn’t touch hers as his hand reached past her to make the water hotter. Closing her eyes, her fingers continued to stroke the roughened scar at the center of her tattoo. What would her mother think of her? What would she tell her if she were still alive?

“Don’t be afraid,” Cian said, as if answering her question.

She opened her eyes and shifted her stance so she could see him. His hair was longer and his cheeks and chin scruffy. The heavy fringe of his lashes made his hazel eyes even more beautiful.

“Aren’t you?” she asked. Though she loved him, he was still a mystery at times. There was a hardness to him that lurked under his pretty smile and calm demeanor.

With a slight shrug, he said, “What’s the point?”

Amaliya twisted around so she could rest her back against the wall, just on the other side of the water spray. “Uh, we might die.”

“We already did die.”

“True,” Amaliya conceded. “You were afraid of The Summoner.”

“Because he would do much worse than kill us,” Cian reminded her. “Honestly, death in comparison to the things he could have done to us would have been a welcome relief.”

“Are you afraid of what’s on the other side?”

Cian picked up a loofah and some soap, his brown hair darkened by the water. “Of course. Who isn’t?”

Frowning, Amaliya rested her hand over her scar. “I don’t want to die. I want to live, you know.” The conversation she had with The Summoner in her dream reared its head and she shuddered. “I don’t want to deal with all this bullshit. I just want to live our lives without this crap from the others.”

The soap trailed over Cian’s lean, muscular form as he bathed. He drew closer to her so he could peer into her eyes. “I did that for almost three decades. It can be rather boring.”