Blood Rights

With new strength, he smashed the shackles at his ankles with the steel torch.

It wasn’t until he heard her voice the second time that he realized the extent of the curse.

‘Vampire,’ she screamed at him.

He nearly toppled over he twisted so fast. Was there life in her still? That meant more blood.

A transparent, female image hovered over the girl’s lifeless form, pointing a finger at him. Accusing. ‘You killed me. All I wanted was to find a shard of pottery or a coin and now I’m dead.’ She flew at him, cutting through him like a gust of winter wind. A ghost.

He stumbled to his knees, gutted by the burst of cold after her blood had begun to warm him. The flashlight fell, its light directed at him. He stared at his shriveled forearms. Had his skin decayed that much? He stared harder and the bruises separated into names. Up his arms. Across his belly. Covering his chest.

The mother of three he’d taken in 1811. Her three he’d taken right after. The miller in 1860. The miller’s plump wife. The shipbuilder. The passel of street urchins. The farmer’s son in 1920. The whore in New Orleans not long after that. The midnight raid through a boarding school dorm. The policeman who’d tracked him …

The ghost girl hovered before him. ‘Killing me has activated a curse placed upon you. Blood magic. Black magic.’ She shook her head. ‘Monster,’ she screamed. ‘And now you’re going to pay. For every life you’ve already taken you’ll hear their voices in your head. For every new life you take, you’ll be haunted by their spirit. I am the first of those.’

She pointed at him. ‘I’m going to make your life a living hell. All of us are.’ She howled in rage as she hung over him, her ruined throat weeping bloody tears. ‘Can’t you hear them? The voices of everyone you’ve murdered. So many … ’ She clutched at her head.

Whispers echoed through his brain. The voices of his kills. The souls waking. Crying for vengeance. Screaming for blood. Berating him. Lashing him. A multitude of voices. A multitude of languages. Nagging, punishing, cursing. A fissure of pain threatened to split his head open.

‘Mal.’

That voice. Her voice.

‘Mal, you awake?’

He lunged upward. The shackles wrenched him back. Sweat soaked his clothing. His chest ached. He would kill her again if that would shut her up.

‘Mal, it’s Fi. Snap out of it.’

Light shattered his vision. He blinked and struggled to sit. ‘Where … ’ The voices laughed at him. His body shuddered with exertion. He was in the storage container, not the pit. Fi stood in the open door. Light filtered through her diaphanous form.

‘Go away,’ he snarled. As if she could. The curse had trapped her. Bound her to him. He turned away as much as the chains would allow. Go away, the voices mocked. Weak. Broken. Pitiful—

‘Trust me, I would if I could.’ She drifted closer. ‘Snap out of it. I have blood.’ She stopped and peered at him. ‘You look like hell and your nightmares are wrecking my head. We share that crap, remember?’

He nodded, not trusting his voice.

‘Hurry up,’ she called over her shoulder. Her image wavered.

‘I’m here.’ Doc came in carrying a clear plastic pitcher stained with crimson.

‘Take care of him. I need to go lie down … ’ Her voice trailed off.

‘Will do,’ he answered, but she’d vanished. He kneeled at Mal’s side. ‘Here, drink up.’ He lifted the pitcher to Mal’s lips.

He drank without tasting, gulping it down until there was no more. Familiar warmth flooded his body. He lay back, sated for the first time in many days. Warmth and relief. And worry. That blood had tasted— ‘Where did Fi get human blood?’

Doc set the pitcher aside and went to work unlocking the shackles. ‘You know Fi, she’s sly like that.’

‘Where did she get it?’

‘You know where she got it.’

The leg bands came off first. ‘She can’t do that. I told her after the last time—’

‘You don’t know by now she doesn’t listen to you? Or anyone for that matter.’

Fi had done this two years ago. Slit her wrist and drained blood for him. Problem was her solid form took forever to replenish the fluid. No wonder she’d disappeared so quickly to rest. They’d all be better off if she couldn’t become corporeal. Could real ghosts do that? Fi was the first he’d come across of any variety. He rotated his unlocked arm while Doc undid the other. Felt good to be whole again. But not at Fi’s expense. Their relationship was tenuous enough already. Not that he blamed her. Living with your murderer had to wear on you.

He watched Doc work. ‘You knew she was going to do that.’

‘Don’t lay that on me. You think I wanted her to hurt herself for you? I’m not the one who needed the juice.’ Doc tossed the key at him and hopped to his feet. ‘Unlock yourself.’

Mal grabbed the key. ‘I didn’t mean—’

‘Yeah, you did.’ He prowled toward the door. ‘Thanks for reminding me what a jerk you can be.’

‘Unlike Fi, you stay here of your own choice.’

Doc didn’t look back. ‘I stay here for her.’

Mal unlocked the last shackle and pocketed the key. Doc would cool off, no matter how much Fi’s actions had upset him.

Mal stretched, feeling better than he had in a long while. Human blood did an undead body good. He hiked up his shirt. The wound was gone. Only a fading bruise marked where the comarré’s blade had pierced his skin. The blood would quiet the voices for at least a day, maybe two, and with the hunger under control, she could no longer tempt him. Perfect time for a visit. ns class="adsbygoogle" style="display:block" data-ad-client="ca-pub-7451196230453695" data-ad-slot="9930101810" data-ad-format="auto" data-full-width-responsive="true">