Ilona Andrews - Magic Bites

Crest pressed the strip against my stomach. It adhered and a soothing coolness spread through my injured muscles, slowly transforming into warmth that suffused my stomach, drowning out pain.

“Better,” I murmured. Crest bandaged my waist. After putting in a long day at work this seemingly normal guy would come all this way just to see me. Why? What would it be like to crawl home after a hard day and instead of licking my wounds in solitude in a dark and empty house, find him? On the couch, maybe. Reading a book. Maybe he would put it down and say, “I’m glad you’ve made it. Would you like some coffee?”

His hand grazed the tattoo on my shoulder. “Why a raven?”

“To honor my father.”

The fingers continued to gently slide across my skin. “The writing under it, is that Cyrillic?

“Yes.”

“What does it say?”

“ Dar Vorona. Gift of the Raven. I’m my father’s gift.”

“To whom?”

“That, my dear doctor, is a story for another time.”

“The raven is holding a bloody sword,” Crest said thoughtfully.

“I never said it was a nice gift.”

He finished the bandage and was examining it critically. “You know those things are unreliable.” His voice held just a touch of reproach.

“Eleven out of twelve work fine. I’d say that’s better chances than getting an orgasm with a blind date and women still try.”

He blinked and laughed softly. “I never know what you’ll say next.”

“I don’t either.”

He rose and put his arms around me. So warm. I resisted the impulse to lean back against him. “Are you hungry?”

“Ravenous,” I murmured.

“The food’s probably cold by now.”

“I don’t care.”

He kissed my neck. The kiss sent tingling warmth down into my fingertips. I turned and he kissed me again, on the mouth. I was so tired . . . I wanted to melt against him and let him hold me. “You’re trying to take advantage of an injured naked woman.”

“I know,” he whispered in my ear, drawing me closer. “How awful.”

Please don’t let go. What am I thinking? Am I this desperate? I took a deep breath and pushed away from him gently. “I have to finish my work. I don’t think you want to watch me.”

“Do it after,” he whispered and kissed me again. Somehow instead of breaking free, I pressed against him. I wanted nothing more than to stay wrapped up in him like this, smelling his scent, feeling his lips on mine . . . And then the vampire’s head would lose the last of its magic and Derek and I would’ve bled for nothing. Poor Derek. “No,” I said, my face a grimace. “By then it’ll be too late.”

“Work first. I see.”

“Tonight. Not always.”

“I’ll watch,” he said.

“You don’t want to, trust me.”

“It’s part of what you do. I want to know.”

Why? I shrugged and went to the bedroom to find some clothes. He didn’t follow me.

IN THE KITCHEN I SET A LARGE SILVER TRAY IN THE middle of the table. Supported by four legs, it rose above the surface of the table about three inches. Greg had kept an excellent supply of herbs in his apartment. Having combined them in the right proportions, I spread the aromatic mixture on the platter so it covered the metal completely. Crest sat on the chair in a corner and watched me.

I pulled the strings of the bag, took the head out, and placed the monstrosity onto the powder, balancing it on the stump of the neck.

“What the hell is that?”

“A vampire,” I said.

“I’ve seen pictures. They don’t look like that.”

“It’s very old. My guess is, at least a couple of centuries. Undeath brings certain anatomical changes. Some are immediate and some are slow. The older the undead, the more apparent those changes become. A vamp’s never finished. It’s an abomination in progress.” The fact that vampires weren’t suppose to have existed two hundred years ago when the tech was in full swing bothered me a great deal. My experience and education offered no explanation for this monster’s existence, and so I put it aside, filing it for future reference.

I brought out a shallow glass pan, the kind used for baking lasagna, put it in front of the platter and slightly under, and dumped two quarts of glycerin into it. The clear viscous liquid filled the pan and settled.

I took one of my throwing daggers from my sheath. Crest grinned at the black blade.

“Fancy.”

“Yeah.”

This wasn’t going to be pleasant and it wasn’t the kind of magic I did often. Something in me rebelled at it, something born of my father’s instruction and my own view of the world and where I stood in it.

The head rested on the herbs. In half an hour it would be useless.

I pricked my finger with the point of the dagger. A drop of bright blood swelled on the skin. Power pulsed in it and I touched the blood to the herbs. The bloodmagic inundated them, acting like a catalyst, fusing, shaping, molding the natural force of the dried plants. It surged upward, through the stump of the neck, spreading through the capillaries in the face, engulfing the brain, saturating the dead flesh. I guided it, helped it along, until the entire head sat suffused with magic. My finger touched the thick skin of the vamp’s forehead, leaving a bloody smudge and sending a shock of power through the undead flesh.

“Wake!”

The dead eyes snapped open. The horrid mouth opened and closed soundlessly, contorting with impossible elasticity.

Crest fell off his chair.

The vamp’s eyes stared wide at me, unblinking.

“Where is your master? Show me your master.”

Dark magic boiled from the head, drowning the room. It swelled, vicious and furious, like an enraged animal ready to strike. In the corner Crest drew a sharp, loud breath.

A tremor rippled through the head. The eyeballs bulged from their sockets. The black tongue, long and flat, hung from between the reptilian lips and the sickle teeth bit into it, drawing no blood. Impaled on the teeth, the tongue jerked obscenely. I pushed harder, bringing the weight of my power upon the resilient necromagic.

“Show me your master!”

Red drowned the whites of the vampire’s eyes. Two thick streaks of dark blood poured from what had once been tear ducts. The streams carved their path down the face and into the herbs, mixing with a torrent of blood from the stump of the neck. The foul flood swept the dried herbs, falling into the glycerin and spreading in uneven angry stain upon its surface. The blood darkened until it was almost black, and in it I saw a distorted but unmistakable image of a gutted skyscraper with a round Coca-Cola logo half-buried in rubble.

Unicorn Lane. Always Unicorn Lane.

The head jerked. The bones of the skull cracked like a broken nutshell. The flesh peeled off the vamp’s face, curving in long slabs to the herbs. The exposed jellied mass of the brain glared through the fractured skull. The stench of putrescence filled the kitchen. I threw a plastic trash bag over the head and inverted the tray, sending the head and the herbs into the bag. I tied the bag and set it into the corner. The blood in the glycerin had clotted into an ugly rotting mass. I dumped it down the drain.

Crest rubbed his face.

“I did warn you.”

He nodded.

I washed my hands and my arms up to the elbow with fresh-smelling soap and went into the living room, pausing on the way to check on Derek. He was sleeping like a baby. I sat on the couch, leaned back, and closed my eyes. This was the point when most men ran for cover.

I sat and rested. The desire for intimacy had passed and my longing now appeared unreal, ethereal like a half-forgotten dream.

I heard Crest walk into the room. He sat next to me.