Over the next week, I make good on my promise to Sister Cyprilis and return to the Chained Sisters every evening, without fail. Part of my concern stems from the dream I had.
I give Cy a small sampling of my blood each night, with Iron Sister Keffa and my mother watching over us. And each night, the nightmare returns. It becomes more vivid and horrible. One night I’m reclined with my legs spread, a disgusting man pumping into me, and I realize my legs are not my own. I see a dagger sticking out the back of the man’s neck with every thrust of his hips.
The next night, I’m locked away in a cell. Four shadows prowl the peripheries, their faces just out of sight. They laugh and throw wicked barbs at me, calling me a whore and breeding sow. They say I’ll never see my children again, unless I make them happy.
I tell my mother of these dreams one night.
Jinneth frowns. “I was worried about this.”
“About what, Mother?”
“About Cyprilis attaching her thoughts to you the more she sups from you, Sephania.”
We sit in a quiet room of the Chained Sisters’ abode. Skartovius is with me this evening, as Vallan continues to search for the vampires on Cy’s list and Garroway finishes up business in Nuhav.
We decided to tell Skar what we were doing and, as expected, he threw a fit. But the nobleblood quickly tamped his tantrum and said he would be joining me to the Chained Sisters from here on out, until we learned the outcome of my bloodletting.He’s too curious to be angry.
“I had this happen before,” I tell Jinneth. “When my blood was used to aid an enemy”—Dimmon—“and he began to call me his mistress, despite being turned by another vampire.”
Jinneth pulls at her chin, deep in thought. “Yes, it is quite troubling. I don’t want you to push yourself too far, my dear.”
“Push too far?”
“Don’t you see? This isn’t sustainable. I understand you wish to save everyone, Sephania, but at what cost? You’re starting to fuse Cyprilis’ horrid thoughts with your own. Can you imagine if five other threads invaded? Ten? Twenty?”
I understand what she’s saying. Still, I won’t let her talk me out of my calling. “Then we need to figure a way to make it more sustainable. I won’t stop trying to help these people, Mother.” I quirk my brow. “Isn’t that why the Chained Sisters first came about? To help people?”
She opens her mouth to speak, stalling when she sees the determined glint in my eye. Creases line my forehead, my lips set in a severe frown.
Slowly, Jinneth smiles at me. She lets out a soft sigh. “I miss it, sometimes.”
“Miss what?”
“Miss having the fire inside me that you do now, my dear.”
My mother is correct about one thing: Using my Loreblood to save anyone else could lead to catastrophe. A week after my final bloodletting with Cyprilis, I can hear her more noisily than ever in my head. It’s a steady stream of half-mad thoughts pulsing in and out of my ears.
If I try to use my Loreblood to save another person, I’m worried I’ll go mad myself from their interwoven memories and thoughts colliding with mine.
That evening, Vallan tells me he is close to tracking down the members of the bloodsucker quartet that kept Cyprilis a sex slave for years, after the human breeders.
“When I do, I will tell you,” he explains, knowing I’ll want revenge more than anyone. “We won’t act so careless with this lot like we did with the humans. They are a different breed, silverblood.”
“Understood.” I’m willing to let Vallan take the reins on this one. My thirst for blood has somewhat abated over the past fortnight as I prepare for my “meeting” settled by Skartovius, and as I lose my mind to the constant barrage of a vampiress’ addled thoughts in my head.
I tell Vallan I want to meet the silversmith in Nuhav.
“Vanison Shirin is a notoriously difficult man to get hold of. He’s slippery.”
“Are you saying you can’t do it?” I challenge.
His eyes glitter a bloody hue.
Three hours later, we’re in the deepest reaches of Nuhav, behind a broken-down tenement, underground, walking into the damp, dark corridors of Vanison Shirin’s workshop.
The cave-like room is a mess—compact, tables stacked high with papers, scrolls, and drawings. A place that would be easy toabandon at a moment’s notice. The man who rises from his seat behind one messy table is tall, with long dark hair and slight gray at his temples. He’s a handsome man, and the top few buttons of his tunic are undone, showing a forest of chest hair.
The man reminds me more of a rake than a smith. He shoots Vallan a small smirk, showing none of the fear most men do when they lay eyes on the hulking bloodsucker. “Lord Stellos, a pleasure. Do you have something for me?”
