“Don’t keep me in suspense,” I say dryly. I think I know what he’s going to suggest, anyway.
“Give her a little of your magical healing elixir. A few drops mixed in with a glass of wine. She’ll be fully recovered within a day.”
“Are you sure it won’t have any adverse effects?”
“I told you before, it isn’t possible. Even if one were to ingest copious amounts of your blood, they won’t turn. There isn’t a single report in the literature of a human being turned into a vampire by another vampire. Transformation only occurs by divine magic, and even then, one has to have reached a state of clinical death.”
“If you turn out to be wrong…” I glower at Ciel.
“I’m never wrong,” he says haughtily, pushing his glasses up on the bridge of his nose. The light of the winter sun streams through the windows, reflecting the blue sky outside in his glasses, obscuring his eyes.
Wan winter light…
It occurs to me that Ciel’s space gets a lot of natural light during the day.
And said natural light isn’t affecting me the way it usually does.
I raise my hand, feeling the skin of my cheek.
It isn’t peeling, or blistering. It isn’t painful.
I’m walking around in daylight like it’s nothing at all.
Is this her doing?
It would be a shame. For her to turn into a creature like me… that would be a tragedy. But years and years of seeing Ciel’s work on the battlefields and beyond reassures me that I can trust his judgement.
He doesn’t order any kind of treatment without giving it the most careful consideration. In the time it takes to blink, he’s considered a hundred probabilities and narrowed them down to one.
“Fine,” I growl, stalking across to the treatment table. “Give me a knife and a glass.”
“Just a few drops will do. I’ll dilute it with wine. She could probably do with a drink after all this.”
Ciel offers me a scalpel. I make a small longitudinal incision along my wrist, close to my radial artery.
My blood gushes down, as red as hers, but nowhere near as sacred.
To my own senses, it smells bitter.
It flows into the glass, thick crimson pooling in crystal, and there isn’t a single thing about it that makes it seem special. My blood isn’t overflowing with arcane magic or shimmering with a mystical glow.
It’s just blood.
As quickly as I make the cut, it disappears, the raw edges sealing together to form perfectly intact skin. Of course, my scars are still there; a handful of nicks and cuts that have long since healed, marks I’ve earned during training and battle.
A reminder that I once was human.
I glance at Ciel. “You got anything of a decent vintage in that wine rack of yours? I want her to taste something pleasant, at least.”
Ciel looks down his nose at me. “It will have to be a red, of course. Perhaps a merlot from the Tusganes Valley.” He walks across to a heavy wooden cabinet and retrieves a bottle. “I cellared this when we first arrived. Was saving it for a celebration, but I haven’t had anything to celebrate, so this will have to do. A friend of mine owns the vineyard where this was made. This was one of their best vintages. A dry year, producing exceptional grapes.” He retrieves another two long-stemmed glasses. “Will you drink with us, Corvan?”
I shake my head. Although I can still appreciate the taste and aroma of food and wine, the sensory pleasure I get from blood is far, far greater. Anything else pales in comparison, and even then, all blood pales in comparison to hers.
It’s like being offered candlelight when you’ve just discovered the sun.
Ciel pops the cork. The rich, pleasant smell of wine permeates the air, overcoming the sharp antiseptic.
I hand him the scalpel. “You wouldn’t happen to have some myrnim on you, by any chance?”
Ciel regards me as if I’m one of his hard-headed patients; the type to ignore pains and concerns and good medical advice for far too long.
Most soldiers are like that.
“If I could ban that stupid leaf from the ranks, I would. You know how it damages the lungs. In the interests of public health, I wish you’d see where I’m coming from, Your Highness.”
More than once, Ciel has attempted to convince me to ban myrnim smoking amongst the ranks. But the only time I strictly forbid it is when the distinctive smell might give away our position.
I shrug. “Soldiers need an outlet. What’s the point of telling them something might kill them many years from now when they stare death in the face every single day? So, you got some, or no?”
“I do. For medicinal purposes only. You’re just lucky you’re not susceptible to its effects anymore.”
“Papers?”
“You’ll just have to use blotting paper.” He points toward a pair of steel-framed glass doors, which lead out onto a narrow balcony overlooking the inner courtyard. “If you’re going to smoke, do it outside. I won’t have your filthy habit harming my patient.”
He retrieves a case of blotting papers from a high shelf and throws them to me. I snatch them out of the air, my reflexes lightning-swift. This is followed by a small jar of dried myrnim.
I quickly roll myself a cigarette, my movements swift and practised. After all, I’ve done the same action hundreds, if not thousands of times.
Ciel’s right. It’s a filthy habit, and I’ve always tried to keep my smoking to a minimum, only reaching for the myrnim when I was particularly stressed.
Making decisions that could send hundreds of men to their deaths, for example.
A soldier needs an outlet.
And I need a distraction.
Because underneath the antiseptic and the wine and the faint smell of smoke from the hearth, her scent is there, and I dare not look at her right now, because my arousal is still there, and I didn’t expect this at all.
My betrothed.
What am I going to do with this bright, lovely creature?
I walk across to the hearth and bend down, putting my cigarette close to the embers.
It catches alight and starts to smolder, filling the room with a familiar aroma that comforts me. Thanks to my enhanced senses, it’s a hundred times more potent. There are layers to this herb that I hadn’t appreciated before.
It’s the smell of childhood; of sitting in my father’s private study, and I’m perched on his knee as he sits in his big winged leather armchair, reading to me.
From an early age, he would educate me, reading maps and atlases and books about exotic lands across the Istrivan Sea. He taught me to speak Vikurian and Rhodenic.
At the time, my father was everything; a gilded hero, larger than life.
But Valdon Duthriss doesn’t do anything without a reason, and it was only much later that I realized everything was part of his plan.
To create me in his image.
“Fine,” I grumble, glancing over my shoulder, shooting Ciel a dark look. “I’ll go outside. And when I come back, you can explain why the sunlight doesn’t seem to bother me anymore.”
Ciel glares. “I can’t explain everything, you know.”
I open the creaking door and step out onto the cold stone balcony. The winter wind whips at my hair. I cup my cigarette and put it to my lips, taking a long, slow drag.