Page 3 of Accidental Blood Lust
Okay, so maybe becoming a vampire to keep my man wasn’t the wisest choice, but it’s not like I can undo it. If I could, I would.
Dragging my hand through my hair, I open my photo app and swipe through pictures of Jareth until my eyes sting, and I decide it’s time to stop torturing myself and go to sleep. Well, try to go to sleep. That hasn’t been going well either since my change.
My mood sours even more. Nothing has been right since I did this. I can’t eat, can’t sleep, can’t fuck, and I lost my boyfriend.
I curl up on the couch and squeeze my eyes shut, desperately hoping for something good to happen soon.
I need a damn break.
TWO
JARETH
I glare at the faint outline of the full moon still lingering in the pink morning sky. Doesn’t it know better than to taunt me by now? Not that I can actuallydoanything about it except glare over the rim of my teacup and grumble useless curses to myself. But even celestial bodies should have the common decency to read the room a little.
It’s petty as fuck, but I try to not even do rituals or spellcasting that involve the moon if I can help it.
I sigh, sending a ripple across the surface of my lavender tea. It’s not the moon itself I have a beef with, but it’s so much easier to be salty with a giant rock in the sky than to blame the fates for fucking me over, or Roman for being so damn fixated on the idea of a fated mate, or Lochlan for being the world’s biggest idiot. I guess I could blame myself for falling in love twice in my life so far and picking wrong both times.
My heart aches and I scowl a little harder. Not at the moon this time, but distantly into the forest, at nothing in particular. I sip my tea and absently trace my fingers along the raised edges of the scar that stretches from the bridge of my nose to my chin. I made peace with it years ago, but touching it is a reflex, like reaching up to brush my hair out of my face even when I alreadyhave it tied back or leaving my door unlocked on full-moon nights, even though I know Roman won’t come.
Leaves rustle somewhere unseen and a twig snaps. I tense instinctively and stop stroking my scar to reach for my pocket, reassuring myself that I have a sachet there for protection, just like I always do. It’s nothing fancy, but it creates a puff of colorful smoke and an illusion, which is a great diversion in a pinch. I watch the tree line for a minute or two, and then I laugh at myself. It was probably a deer or a rabbit. I’ve lived in these woods for thirty years now, and only once has there ever been anything scary lurking out there in the trees. Besides, it’s past dawn; any monsters with any sense have slunk back into their hidey holes to wait for dark again by now.
I pull my hand out of my pocket, take another sip of my tea, and decide my garden could use a bit of weeding this morning. Most mages are happy enough to buy the herbs and roots they need, but in my opinion, that misses the point entirely. Mage magic comes from energy, and I think tending the plants yourself, sharing energy and nurturing them while they’re growing, makes for much stronger magic when the time comes to use them.
I set my tea down on my windowsill and pull on my gardening gloves, turning my back to the fading moon and taking a deep breath to draw the energy of the forest into my lungs and the cells of my body. The subtle tingle of magic that dances along the surface of my skin is better than ten cups of coffee, and it’s almost enough to make up for the other disappointments in my life. Sure, I was abandoned by my parents at a young age, left unaware of my mage lineage until I was nearly an adult, almost murdered in the woods as a teenager, and ultimately left brokenhearted by the two men I’ve loved, but at least I’m here. I survived all those things and I’m stronger for them.
I slowly let the breath out, lingering for a moment on thoughts of how the plants all around me will breathe in the carbon dioxide I’m releasing and will give me more fresh oxygen in return. It’s a cycle that works the same way magic works, the same way all energy works. It’s the natural symbiosis of the universe, and it’s beautiful.
I open my eyes again and kneel in the dirt. A breeze ruffles my hair, and I listen to the sounds of the forest while I work, carefully rooting out the weeds and checking each of my plants for any signs of disease or general displeasure. Curiously, there aren’t any birds singing this morning. That can’t be right. I listen a little harder and manage to catch the faint coo of a morning dove, but it doesn’t sound close. Maybe a mile away? That rustling comes again, and the hair on the back of my neck rises. There’s only one reason birds in the forest go silent, and it’s when a predator is near.
I gather my magic from the deep well inside me and pull it close to the surface. The faint purple glow of it pulses just beneath my skin and sparks briefly on my fingertips as I tug off my gloves and get to my feet. My heart pounds, but I stand still and tall just in case whoever or whatever is out there in the trees is watching me, looking for signs of vulnerability or fear. The smart thing to do is to go inside, put a spell on my door so no one will be able to get in, and wait for the danger to pass. Except something keeps me rooted in place, some instinct I can’t put my finger on.
I swing my leg over the fence that surrounds my garden and I take a few steps towards the trees, listening hard, keeping my eyes moving, alert for any signs of movement, even a ripple in the air that gives away a glamour.
“Jare.” I hear a quiet rasp, and my pulse spikes with an entirely different kind of fear.
“Fuck,” I mutter.
I let my magic simmer, but no other part of me relaxes. I don’t have any shoes on, but that doesn’t stop me from running the short distance from my cottage to the tree line, then straight into the woods.
“Loch?” I call out. “Where are you? Give me a hint so I can find you.”
“Thorny bush,” he croaks.
I veer to the left, heading for where the wild rose bushes grow. Something sharp pierces the bottom of my foot and I bite back a yelp, only stopping long enough to yank it out and keep going. What the fuck is he doing out here? How long has he been out here? He sounds bad. He sounds weak. I squint at the shafts of sunlight coming through the trees and run even faster.
“Loch?” I call again. There’s no answer this time. “Loch?”
Fuck.
Fuck.
Fuck.
The rose bushes come into view, but I don’t see him. Are there other thorny bushes? I rack my brain, trying to think of every damn bush in a one-mile radius. But it has to be the roses. One of them rustles and I scramble forward, falling to my hands and knees so I can peer into the heavy brush around the bushes.
“Loch,” I gasp again.
