Blood Heir (Blood Heir Trilogy #1)(40)

He’d been careless; he’d almost died. Perhaps prison had made him slower, softer. He couldn’t afford that again, because next time, the witch might not be there to help him.

He was cold and drenched and injured, and he would have willingly handed over half the goldleaves in his possession for a soft bed, a warm fire, and a good bottle of Bregonian brandy right then. But he needed to move—quickly. There was no telling whether the mercenaries had allies close by.

Groaning, he pushed himself to his feet.

The witch lay motionless by the trunk of a tree, but it wasn’t her he looked at. Ramson paused at the body of the first mercenary. The man’s mouth was open, his face frozen in a silent scream, his skin oddly colorless, as though the blood had been drained from it.



And it had, Ramson realized with sickening dread. The rainwater pooling around the body bled into crimson, the color seeping into the mud.

He’d heard a tale once: a terrible haunting that had occurred ten years back with an Affinite. The bodies, twisted like a grotesque piece of artwork. The looks of terror on the victims’ faces. The lack of puncture wounds. And the blood, all the blood…

They’d called her the Blood Witch of Salskoff—a story a decade old, at this point, the culprit having vanished to never be seen again. Some had taken it as a sign that Affinites were growing more powerful, that darker powers graced these monsters sculpted by the hands of demons.

Ramson had thought it all a pile of waffles. But that hadn’t stopped him from keeping his eye out for the powerful Affinite who had become that myth.

He’d simply never thought she’d come looking for him.

A cough snatched his attention. He hurried to the witch. Blood dripped from her nose. She was shivering, but she was conscious.

“Are you all right?” He touched a finger to her cheek; her skin was colder than ice. For the second time since they’d met, he examined her, running his gaze over her elegant cheekbones, the heart-shaped face and sharp chin that rendered her beautiful yet feral in appearance. She was young, too young, to be the Blood Witch of Salskoff—yet as he reached forward and tipped her face up, he caught the fading red hue of her eyes.

Something stirred in his memory again—she looked faintly familiar, like a portrait he’d come across many years ago that had left a single, deep impression. But that was impossible.



Ramson let his hand drop. “How did you find me?”

“The Gray Bear’s Keep. The bartender.”

“He told you?” She nodded. Ramson cursed. “We have to move. He’ll send men after us. Can you stand?”

She tilted her head in a motion that might have been a nod or a shake. “I took a horse.” Her voice was barely a whisper, and she nodded toward the trees behind her. “That way.”

The mercenaries’ horses had fled, which left them with a single steed—the one Ana had stolen. With a resigned sigh, he straightened and went in search of the horse.

Finding the beast was hell itself, with the rain-turned-sleet reducing his vision, and his boots squelching through mud with every step. When he did see its pale outline, he almost laughed.

“A valkryf?” he asked when he led the horse back. “Igor must be cursing the Deities that you took the most valuable living creature in his tavern.” The witch was curled against the tree in the same position as he’d left her. When she didn’t respond, he dropped the reins and knelt by her, lifting her chin and forcing her face toward his. “Witch?” he breathed. “Ana?”

Her eyelashes fluttered. Ramson cursed. She was going to pass out again—and that would make it hugely inconvenient for him to hoist her onto the horse. “Ana,” he said urgently, shaking her shoulder. “I need you to stay awake for a little while longer. Can you do that?”

Her head dipped in the faintest of nods.

He stood and suddenly realized what was wrong. The absence of curious ocean-colored eyes. “Where’s May?”



Ana’s face had been drawn and tired previously, but a steely spark had shown in her eyes. At the mention of May, though, whatever remaining resolve in her seemed to dissolve. Ana’s face crumpled, and such raw sorrow and vulnerability crossed her features that Ramson looked away. It felt as though he was gazing at something intensely private.

A sob gurgled from her throat. “They took her.” Her shoulders drooped and she wrapped her shaking arms around herself. “The Whitecloaks. I couldn’t…I couldn’t—”

“We’ll get her back.” He grasped the first comforting phrase that came to mind, and it was the first that wasn’t intentionally a lie. “But right now, we need to move. Can you stand?”

She stirred weakly. Blood continued to drip from her nose.

Ignoring the shaking in his own limbs, Ramson bent down, wrapped an arm around her waist, and hoisted her to her feet.

They staggered unevenly to Ana’s horse. It stood silently in the downpour with the quintessential patience of a valkryf.

Grunting, Ramson heaved the witch—Ana—onto the saddle. Keeping his hand on her back to steady her, he swung himself up behind her. As he took the reins in his hands, he felt a renewed sense of power surge through him despite the battered state of his body. He was alive, with a powerful Affinite beside him, riding a valkryf to shelter. Things had improved significantly since his kidnapping.