Bad Blood

At last, she rose and donned one of the red robes, then made her way back out to the room where Atticus and Mal waited. “I’m ready.”

“So am I. Let’s begin.” Atticus held his hand toward the table. Mal sat at the end like she’d asked.

She walked to the side of the table. “Mal, close your eyes until I’m in place, please.”

Without hesitation, he shut them.

She dropped her robe and positioned herself on the table facedown, moving the red silk drape to cover her lower half. “You can open them now.”

He did, looking directly into hers since they were now eye to eye. Shards of silver played in his gaze. She reached her hands out and offered him a tiny smile. “I’ve done this many times before. There’s nothing to be worried about.”

“I’m not worried.” He took her hands. “Squeeze as hard as you need to.”

“I will. Feel free to pull away if it gets to be too much.”

He gazed a little more deeply into her eyes, his as earnestly silver as a newly minted coin. “Never.”

Atticus laid his hands on her back. “I’m going to sand down these scars now.”

“Okay,” she whispered. In truth, that part scared her a little. She had no idea what to expect.

A moment passed and nothing happened.

“Are you going to begin your breathing?” he asked.

“Yes, of course.” The pain would start immediately, then. She lowered her head into the concave space in the table, closed her eyes, and recalled the breathing techniques comarré were taught from their very earliest days. She focused on the rhythmic inhale and exhale, the depths of her breath, the way it moved through her body. She imagined pure light cocooning her, protecting her from what was to come, the way the light would absorb the pain and transform it into something beautiful. The practice quickly swept her into a meditative state. This was nothing new. Her body understood what to expect, her mind knew how to shelter her from it.

Vaguely, she was aware of him placing some sort of nozzle against her back. A soft hum filled the space. Then the pain came. Her mind worked quickly to compartmentalize the scouring heat of what Atticus was doing to her, shutting her into a safer, brighter place in her head. One where a welcome fog bathed her in control and acceptance.

Time lost significance until the hum stopped. The sudden silence seemed louder than the sanding machine had been. Blood scent weighted the air.

Atticus touched her right shoulder. “I’m going to clean the area now.”

She answered with a small nod, then raised her head to look at Malkolm. His eyes were still silver, and there was a tension around them that hadn’t been there before. She suddenly realized his hands were shaking in hers.

“It’s okay,” she whispered.

He swallowed, nodded shortly, but said nothing.

Atticus wiped her back down with a warm damp cloth, and she rested her face into the table again. The tang of molten gold took over as the blood scent faded. The next pain she felt would be the signumist’s needle.

She concentrated on her breathing again. Atticus wheeled his tray closer. He smoothed his hands along her spine where her scars had been. “The skin is perfect. We may proceed.”

She gave him another small nod and took a deep cleansing breath. The comarré chosen for breeding liked to talk about how the pain of receiving signum was nothing compared to birthing. She firmly believed those comarré lied. She’d not been in this position in fifteen years, but the memory of that white-hot metal sinking into her skin was as sharp as the needle’s tip.

Without meaning to, she tensed.

Atticus pressed his hand to her shoulder. “Relax, comarré. Breathe. You have taken the needle many times in your life, yes?”

“Yes,” she whispered, her voice muted by the fabric draping the table.

“Pain fuels the journey of life.”

She almost smiled. Every signumist she’d ever known used that quote. “I am ready.”

His rolling stool creaked as he sat. “And so I begin.”

Having taken the first watch, Doc paced back and forth in front of the guesthouse. Nothing about the decision to keep the vampire here felt good, but he couldn’t deny her information had sounded right on. When Creek returned, Doc would ask him what he could find out through the KM to verify Daciana’s intel. He stroked the sides of his goatee.

If she wasn’t telling the truth, Doc might try to use his new fire power on her. Vampires hated fire. He snorted softly. Maybe his new power wasn’t such a curse after all.

He spun at the almost noiseless footsteps padding up behind him.

“Hey.” Fi held out a can of cola. “I thought you might be thirsty.”

He took it. “Thanks.” Condensation wet his hand from the ice-cold can. He popped the top and took a sip. “You’re not supposed to be outside.”

She shrugged. “Yeah, but if there’s trouble, I can get ghosty and that’s about as safe as you can get.”

“True.” He wanted to hug her up against him, but until he had really good control of the fire, that wasn’t happening. He took a few steps back and leaned against one of the columns framing the front porch.

“You all right?” Her expression told him she knew something was up. She usually did. How, he wasn’t sure, but Fi had a way of knowing when something in his world was off.

“I’m cool.”

Her mouth bunched to one side the way it often did when she was less than happy with him. He hated that look. He drank his soda to keep from having to say anything else.