Bloodspell (9 page)

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.

"Sure, no problem. I'll be at your place in a half hour." Victoria swore she could hear him laughing under his breath.

It was still unseasonably warm, so she chose a simple sundress embroidered with pink flowers and tiny green vines. She toyed with a braided green necklace, and then tossed it aside before opening the music box to the tinny sounds of
Moonlight Sonata.
Her fingers brushed over the red velvet case and she felt the amulet's magnetic pull. She hadn't worn it since that day she'd started reading the journal. She held it in her fingers, watching the light dance off its facets. She remembered Leto's words.

You are who you are.

Everything she'd read in the journal had terrified her. Despite her underlying apprehension, with a deep breath, Victoria fastened the clasp and felt the amulet drop to rest against her chest. There was no doubt in her mind—she felt complete.

The buzzer rang, and she tucked the diamond into the bodice of her dress, giving herself a cursory look in the bathroom mirror. Her hair fell in soft waves past her shoulders and with the exception of some gloss and mascara, her face was bare. Victoria frowned. She looked like she was thirteen but it was too late to go for a more sophisticated look. Christian Devereux was a courtesy date, nothing more. She slipped on some ballet flats and made her way downstairs.

Christian stood leaning against her car across the street, looking boyishly casual in his dark blue Diesel jeans and a fitted black T-shirt. She forced herself to not stare at him as she unlocked the car doors. Once again, she felt her heart flip-flop as she realized he was staring at her. Its pace tripled. Did all girls react this foolishly to him? His smile was warm as he opened her door, and then let himself in on the other side. It was ridiculous how flustered he made her feel. He wasn't even her type! The amulet flared but her skin was already so warm, she barely even felt it.

"So carsickness, was it?" A hint of a smile curved his lips, and Victoria swallowed guiltily as she started driving.

"Yes, it's very bad," she said, proud of the conviction in her voice.

"I thought that usually happens in the back seat?"

"Um, yes, usually, but mine is ... unusual." Her mouth twitched. She refused to look at him and could feel her ears burning hot.

"So tell me something about yourself, Tori. You are quite the mysterious one."

She shot a sideways glance at him to see if he was joking. His body was angled as far away from her as possible against the door but he was watching her expectantly. His eyes were twinkling with amusement so she relaxed.

"You mean apart from knocking people over just by thinking about it?" she said.

"We could start with that if you want." His voice was amused but there was an edge to it.

"Well, I've never actually done that before ... I mean as in meaning to do it. You know, not to hurt you, but to do it." Her words were halting and flustered. "I mean something like it happened before but I think it was instinctive. Sorry, what I mean is that I wasn't thinking about doing it at the time." She glanced at him, embarrassed.

But Christian just nodded, his expression carefully neutral. Victoria peeked at him again. He was staring at her thoughtfully, his lower lip between his teeth. He had that look in his eyes again, the one that made her feel like a fly caught in a spider's web.

She looked away and kept driving with her eyes on the road. It was a straightforward trip on I-95 to Portland and after a while, they made easy small talk to pass the time. She told him about her childhood in New York, and how she had ended up in Millinocket with Holly after the accident. For some reason, she even told him about her time at St. Xavier's, which she hadn't really talked about with anyone, and glossed over the bits she felt didn't really need explaining.

"You were protecting yourself, that's all," he said, after she'd told him what had happened with Brett. "He got off lucky." His lips had thinned, and if Victoria didn't know better, she'd guess that her story had made him angry on her behalf. His odd reaction made her feel flustered and warm again. The rest of the drive passed quickly and before long, they were at the museum.

They walked leisurely through the exhibit—Landscapes from the Age of Impressionism—enjoying the featured
en plein air
easel paintings of Monet, Boudin, and Childe Hassam. Christian explained that the tradition of working outdoors with changing light conditions, typical of the Impressionism Movement, meant that colors, textures, shadows and shapes changed from moment to moment, creating subtle differences in the end result of the works. He knew a lot about the artists and of the period in general, and his anecdotes about each of the various paintings made the experience an enlightening and memorable one for Victoria.

"I love Monet. He is one of my favorite painters ... sometimes I imagine myself escaping into his landscapes." She said it so quietly that it was almost a whisper, but Christian still heard her as they finished up the exhibit.

"He was very talented, and was happiest at his home in Giverny. Some of his best work came from painting his own gardens, like
Water Lilies,
" he said. His voice was nostalgic.

"You almost sound like you knew him," Victoria said.

"You could say that my family knew his," he said, ushering her out to the street. "Why don't we walk? There are a couple of good restaurants just around the corner. It's not far. Are you cold?"

The night air had cooled considerably and Christian moved closer to her, putting his arm lightly on her shoulders. His body was not that much warmer than hers but she could feel the heat flood her body at his touch. She didn't have to look at him to know that he was smiling at her as the color bloomed across her shoulders. The scent of gardenias permeated the air. Victoria felt incredibly self-conscious, and she pulled her hair around her shoulders in a protective shroud.

"By the way, I forgot to tell you that you look very ... nice," she heard him say.

"Thank you," she said. Victoria was absurdly flattered by the compliment, and then scolded herself in the same breath for feeling anything at all.

"I am really happy that you decided to come here with me."

"Did I really have a choice?" she asked with a dry look. He had the grace to look sheepish.

"No, I guess not," he agreed.

"I came to Portland once with my Aunt Holly for my birthday, years ago."

"So when is your birthday?"

"Was. Back in May."

"Well, happy belated. So let me guess, seventeen? Eighteen? You hu ... kids look older and older these days."

"Seventeen," she replied automatically, and then stared at him. "Us, kids? Come on, you're hardly that much older than I am!"

"I am wise beyond my years," he quipped. "Here we are."

The Italian restaurant was small and cozy, and they could see the water from their table. Victoria studied Christian openly as he enjoyed the view. His skin was youthful and his body toned, but something about his eyes did make him seem older, more mature. His pale compelling face was like a Botticelli painting, and his ridiculously long lashes lent a certain innocence to his face, which was in severe contrast with the danger she sensed lurking beneath the surface whenever she was with him. Victoria had to admit she was very curious about Christian Devereux. He seemed to have so many secrets hidden behind those enigmatic eyes.

She took the plunge. "So Christian, what's your story?"