All I saw was a vampire.
My hair was white. I’d known that; I’d seen wisps in my periphery. But it was an entirely other thing to be confronted with my head of raven-hued hair shocked to the same sterile white of all vampires. Even my eyebrows were white, as all vampires’ were. The white of my hair was only a shade lighter than my skin. I’d never had a proper tan, but my cold pallor now reflected the fact that there was no blood of my own pumping through my veins.
I frantically searched my reflection for something familiar.
My hand traced over my bare abdomen. There was just the slightest indent where the skin was raised. The vampire healing had knit the knife wound before it could truly scar.
I yanked my hair to the side and twisted so I could see my back. Finally, some relief. The scars I’d gotten at the Monastery—still there: a crisscross pattern from where I’d been flayed.
Something, no matter how terrible, hadn’t changed.
I grazed the ridges with my fingertips. Gods, they’d hurt at the time. Forweeksafter. Raphael had waited for me to heal, bandaged me, not pressed after the first time I’d refused his blood.
Then, he’d given me a choice.
The anger bubbled up again, and finally I confronted the part of my reflection I’d avoided.
The eyes.
How many times had I seen the red eyes of a vampire and thought,Monster? How many times had their bloodred gaze frozen me? The unnatural shade—even in the Witch Kingdom, where disguise magic could turn eyes from green to lavender, blue to yellow, none had ever used red, even as a mockery, no matter the fashion.
Fury surged in me, sudden, violent. My fist slammed into the mirror with half a thought, my reflection splintering, shattering. Sharp pain sliced the back of my hand, then faded.
The glass fell to the floor, and in each piece my reflection stared back.
Vampiric.
Monstrous.
I left the washroom.
I tugged on a pair of trousers and a tunic. It even felt different on my skin. The fabric, which I’d considered decadently soft as a human, was now scratchy.
Thea had agreed to join me here for breakfast, as we often had in the past. Sometimes, we’d taken it in her room, but for the most part of my time in Damerel, I’d spent as little time as possible away from the safety of my locked door. Something I’d need to change if my plans were to succeed.
She wouldn’t arrive for a while longer, so I decided to see if I could make any more progress on the Black Grimoire. I tested my skin against the cover again. My fingertips burned oncontact, the same way they had with cursed copper, but I moved quickly and pushed the book open so I could study it.
This is my birthright.
When I’d translated before, I’d started mostly from the beginning, establishing the premise of the grimoire. The spells would be farther in. I scanned the open page. After weeks of studying Old Runyk, it was easier, though still challenging, to decipher with reference texts. This one called for several ingredients to make a potion that countered… something. Perhaps the thrall? I wasn’t certain what the last few symbols meant. The other side of the page offered something more malicious—boils and melting skin.
Even though it burned, I ran my fingers over the text. The ability to wield that power, to make the vampires afraid of me instead of the other way around? It was a sweet, seductive whisper in my chest. The blisters brewing on my skin barely registered compared to that.
But the meaning on the page and the ability to access its power were two separate things. Unlike other witches, I hadn’t trained in my magic as a child. Had never felt an inkling of the power I was now counting on to help me right the balance.
If I’d been stronger, could I have stopped the vampire that killed Mother?
A knock on the door jolted me from that thought. I wrapped the book in the tunic from yesterday, slipped the book back into its hiding place, and let Thea in.
She greeted me with a broad smile. “Good gloaming,” she chirped, and made her way into my room like she had a dozen times before.
Perched in her hands was an overfull tray of breakfast pastries. I could smell the sugar on them, the fresh notes of berries, but the appeal was gone.
She set them on the low table by the settee. “How are you feeling?”
Hungry. My eyes grazed her neck, and I swallowed sharply, a feeling of loathing rising in me.She’s your friend, not a meal!
“I’m unhappy.” I took a seat a distance from her and curled my knees up to my chest, wrapping my arms around them. It was less for self-soothing and more to restrain myself from doing something I would forever regret. “But I’m trying to make peace with my new abilities.” My abilities as a necromancer, more specifically. It was getting easier to skirt the truth.
