Page 27 of Twice Bitten

There was a pause. “Are you alright, Alex?”

“I’m fine. Just having an off day, I guess.” Shaking my head, I pulled out the brew in question to check the expiration date.

Good for a year. Weird. “Huh. Maybe it turned before its time.”

“Or you should call someone to examine you.”

“I’m fine. Something going bad before its expiration date happens all the time.”

Edmund grunted. “Maybe you should go lie down.”

Not a bad idea, but I had stuff to do. “Let me check the apothecary orders first. Plus, I need to get these bandages off.” I eyedthe fridge, suddenly ravenous. “Steak sounds good for tonight, doesn’t it?” I rubbed my stomach.

“You don’t eat steak.” Edmund sniffed. “As a matter of fact, neither do I.”

I scoffed. “Of course I do. Not often, but there are few things better than a nice, rare steak with a glass of red wine.”

What the hell was I talking about? Rare steak? I gagged every time I saw someone eating something that bled all over their plate. While I did occasionally eat steak, it wasn’t more than a couple of times a year. Most hedge and green witches didn’t eat red meat.

But I had a craving I couldn’t shake. “I’m going to set up a grocery delivery order,” I mumbled, hurrying to the bedroom to place one in time for the day’s cut-off.

When I closed the door behind me, I went straight to the bathroom and peered at my eyes in the mirror. I still felt off. Combined with the craving for a bloody steak, I realized I might need to call Gertrude, after all.

My eyes looked normal, still a little bruised underneath, but otherwise no issues. My teeth: normal. No claws sprouted from my fingertips. I shook the thought away. That was impossible and not worth even thinking about.

Vampires and wolves couldn’t turn witches. The fact had been demonstrated repeatedly. There had never been a single report of a witch turning, even when the vampire or wolf made an effort. Something in our blood wasn’t compatible.

So that couldn’t be it. Maybe losing so much blood had made me temporarily anemic. I’d get a good steak tonight and should feel better tomorrow. I hoped.

Sighing, I shifted to the side so I could see the bandages in the mirror. Ever so slowly, I unwrapped my arm, wincing as the tape pulled away from my skin. When that was done, I wet a washcloth with warm water and gently wiped away what was left of the poultice. Expecting to see a horrificscar or other deformity, I squinted when the skin appeared smooth and unmarred.

I stared at my bare arm for a long moment before shaking my head and turning the faucet on. A quick rinse washed the rest of the herbs away and revealed totally clear skin.

My arm looked like I’d never been attacked.

“What the hell?” I whispered. Witches were above average healers. Not as fast as a vampire or shifter, but well above a human’s capabilities. Nevertheless, at minimum, I should have a wicked scar—something to denote the seriousness of what I’d gone through.

I reached for a towel and wiped all the water away. Still nothing.

Except…I hopped up on the edge of the sink and moved my arm closer to the mirror. At the back of my elbow, where my implant rested, a faint red glow pulsed, a fine line of pain beginning to run around the edges.

That could not be good. Mom never fully explained the implant’s purpose beyond a vague warning about my power levels, nor had she told me what might happen if it were damaged. Could that explain my odd steak craving or the headaches I’d been having?

I rummaged around in the cabinet and pulled out a blue bandage, carefully securing it across the pulsing light. I’d have to wear dark clothing until I secured an appointment to have it looked at, but that should keep Edmund from asking questions. He had no idea what I carried under my skin, and I had no plans to tell him. Mom was clear from the start: share no information about your implant. If they don’t know, they won’t ask questions. Maybe one day, I would trust Edmund enough, but he and I weren’t exactly friends yet.

Could one ever be friends with a disembodied entity? Regardless, we definitely weren’t at the sharing traumatic personal stories part of our relationship either.

Once I’d cleaned up all the arm bandages, I took care of the ones on my leg sustained during my frantic run through city streets, once again revealing smooth and unblemished skin. If I could market this strange new healing ability, I’d be a rich woman. I took a closer look in the mirror, turning my leg to and fro.

Not even a tiny scar. Looking at me now, no one would guess I had been at death’s door less than forty-eight hours ago.

I dressed in a pair of brown Ponte pants, a pullover boat-neck cream sweater, and pulled on a pair of leather flats. A quick twist of my hair, some tinted sunscreen, and a few swipes of blush and mascara, and I was ready for a day of doing absolutely nothing.

I ordered groceries, including a massive pack of steaks and a bottle of nice red wine, checked the apothecary emails, and settled into a streaming television marathon.

In a different world, I would be feeling great, but that faint, burning pulse around my elbow sent a shiver of foreboding down my spine.

ELEVEN