Total pages in book: 70
Estimated words: 66196 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 331(@200wpm)___ 265(@250wpm)___ 221(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 66196 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 331(@200wpm)___ 265(@250wpm)___ 221(@300wpm)
What if I lose her?
And then the boy’s lashes flutter and he takes a deep, gasping breath. His mother, who is kneeling across from Sylvanna, gives a cry.
“Jacobin!” she exclaims and gathers him to her for a hug.
“Easy now, Hannah—let the boy breathe!” the peasant father, who’s been watching from the door, cautions her.
The mother loosens her grip though she still holds the boy in her arms.
“What happened, my boy? What did you see?” his father asks him.
The boy blinks, still looking stunned as though nearly dying is akin to a blow to the head.
“I was lost in a dark land but I saw a light…a lady all made of white light,” he says slowly. “She was calling to me—calling my name and telling me to come home.” His gaze lands on Sylvanna and his eyes widen. “Her! I saw her!” He points at my Mistress.
Sylvanna, for her part, has not yet come out of the magical trance she went into to bring the boy back. Her eyes are still rolled up, and is it my imagination or is her breathing more shallow and rapid?
“Mistress?” I can’t stop myself anymore, I take her by the shoulders and shake her. “Mistress—Sylvanna—come back to me!”
She gives a choked gasp and her eyes are suddenly back to normal…though not quite. They look sunken in their sockets and she sags, falling forward like a marionette with its strings cut.
“Mistress!” I pull her into my lap. “What do you need? Come back to me! Wake up!” I demand.
To my surprise, the peasant who came to get us steps forward.
“Begging your pardon, Sir Knight, but what she needs is blood,” he says to me. “All the High Borns of the Night Court need it.”
I look down at Sylvanna, lying in the crook of my arm, and see that her fangs do look much longer and sharper than usual. It makes me wonder why she’s never taken a drink from me. She calls me her “Blood-servant” yet she’s never had a single drop of my blood.
“Sylvanna—Mistress!” I pat her cheek with my free hand. “Are you thirsty? Do you need blood?”
“Thirsty,” she whispers faintly and she feels so frail in my arms. I hold out my wrist without hesitation and the peasant who came for us does the same.
“Drain me dry if you wish, my Lady,” he says. “You can have every drop with my thanks.”
“Don’t bother—I’ll serve her needs,” I tell him. I bring my wrist to her mouth, offering the blue bracelet of veins just beneath my skin.
But to my surprise, Sylvanna pushes my wrist away and reaches for the peasant instead. She sinks her long fangs into his arm and begins to drink, sucking and swallowing.
He grimaces in pain but doesn’t try to get away—clearly he’s ready to trade his life for his son’s, just as he said when he first came to the tower. But Sylvanna doesn’t drain him. In fact, she only takes a few mouthfuls of blood before color starts to return to her cheeks. She licks his wrist—perhaps to seal the wound—and pushes his hand gently but firmly away.
“Thank you, that’s enough,” she says. Then she looks up at me. “Come, Paladin—we must go.”
Slowly I gather her things, putting the heavy book, which has closed itself again, into the satchel. I’m fucking relieved she’s all right but I’m also stunned by her actions…stunned and angry. She pushed me aside and took blood from another male instead! Why would she do such a thing? Why drink from another right in front of me?
I didn’t know I could feel so betrayed—so enraged. I feel the Holy Fire building and tamp it down grimly. I guess it’s her choice who to drink from—but the blood that saved her life belonged to a stranger. Why would she drink from him when I was there to serve her?
I don’t know and I’m too angry to ask.
20
Sylvanna
I’m still weak, even after I drink. There’s nothing magical at all in the peasant blood I imbibed. Ideally I would quench my thirst from another magic user, but of course I couldn’t drink from Alaric—it would bind him to me too tightly.
I cannot say that, of course and he doesn’t ask. In fact, he barely speaks at all, though I can tell by the set of his jaw he’s upset about something. We leave the cottage together, with me leaning heavily on his arm. I’m still weak from walking so close to the Shadowlands. The boy’s soul had one foot over the boundary and I had to pull him back by sheer will alone.
It wasn’t easy. I feel like I’ve been wandering in the blackest midnight for days, though I know it was only a few minutes I was gone. I don’t remember when I’ve felt so tired and weak.