I rush to his bedside, drawn with an urge I’ve not felt since the night of the Blood Moon. He was the one that elixir was pulling me to that night. I had sensed him…perhaps in the same way the Succumbed vampir in Hunter’s Hamlet had sensed me in my home despite the salt that lined the doorjamb.
I table the revelation as I take up Ruvan’s clammy hand, wrapping it with my fingers. His eyes are mostly closed, but his lids flutter, as if he’s afflicted by nightmares. Callos is seated next to me on the bed, Quinn on the other side.
“Why is it so bad?” I ask. I want them to have a reason other than me and my dagger. “He was fine mere hours ago.” He even had my blood, I think but don’t say.
“It’s the Fallen’s bite,” Callos says solemnly. “It’s eating him away. Honestly, it’s a testament to his strength that he hasn’t given in yet. But it’s too much… He’ll continue to fade like this until the man he is dies. After that, when his eyes open next, it will be as one of the monsters you saw in the old castle.”
“I gave him my blood to stave it off,” I say. Callos looks surprised, but seems to believe me. “He was fine after.”
“Even if he was…his connection with the curse was deepened greatly with that bite. The curse is increasing its hold on him faster than the rest of us now and every day will become worse than the last,” Quinn says gravely.
“Can I give him more blood?” I ask, my grip tightening on Ruvan. He hardly even moves when I touch him or speak. He’s somewhere else, far away. Somewhere none of us can get to. His magic has never been so thin and frail and it causes panic to rise in me.
“Fresh blood will help, for a time. More than preserved blood will,” Callos admits.
“Then take it.” I thrust out my arm.
“It’s not a permanent fix.” Callos turns to face me, rather than Ruvan. He looks up at me over the frames of his spectacles.
“The only permanent fix is breaking the curse, I know,” I say softly. “But we have to try; we have to do something to stave off the curse for now. We can’t leave him like this.” I won’t allow him to become one of those monsters.
He sighs. “I can’t guarantee how long the strength you give him will last. It might become a futile effort after a time.”
I know how fleeting it was from last night. But now I’ll give him as much as he needs.
“We could supplement with the blood we collected on the night of the Blood Moon,” Quinn suggests.
Callos shakes his head. “The blood of the bloodsworn will be better. It’s fresher, not merely preserved through ritual and vial. Plus, we need to save the blood from the night of the hunt for the next group that awakens.”
The way he says it makes me think this “next group” will be coming soon. Though I don’t dare ask why. I suspect I don’t want the answer.
“I’m happy to give it.” A chill rips through me at the sentiment. Was I just speaking? Or was it the bloodsworn magic taking over my mind? Help him survive, a voice in me screams, see this through. But where is that voice coming from and can I trust it?
“Very well, we’ll do it now. I’ll perform a ritual to strengthen and fortify the blood. Hopefully give it some extra impact.” Callos stands. “Wait here.”
He departs, leaving Quinn and me in silence at Ruvan’s bedside. We’re both left staring at the frail form of the lord of the vampir. To think, I once feared this man… Now he looks like nothing more than a sickly, monstrous grandfather.
I bite back laughter that burns like tears. I’m torn apart in ways I never wanted. Never asked for. I need a forge that burns as hot as he does and a hammer as swift and sure as everything I knew in Hunter’s Hamlet to put me back together. I need both…and can only ever have one. And I know what I must choose when all this is over.
I’m not meant for the world of the vampir.
But perhaps I can help him while I’m here and we’ll see this through to its end. Not just for the bloodsworn magic that’s pushing me. But for all our sakes.
“Are you sure?” Quinn whispers, as if he can read my thoughts.
I catch him glancing at me from the corners of his eyes. “I am.”
“You’re keeping the vampir lord alive.”
“I know, and I wouldn’t have it any other way,” I say resolutely.
Callos returns with a golden chalice. The sequences of the moon have been etched around its lip along with swirls and symbols that mean nothing to me. No one bothers explaining what’s happening. So I’m left to watching and assuming.
One by one, they approach the chalice and utter the words, “Blood of the covenant.” They take an obsidian dagger, no longer than Callos’s palm, and pierce their flesh, each in a different location. Winny rolls up her sleeve and slices down by her elbow; Lavenzia pulls back her hair, slicing just behind her ear; Ventos cuts beneath his kneecap; Callos’s slice is by his knee; Quinn half unbuttons his shirt to dig the dagger point into his left breast.
Every cut is shallow. No more than a few drops of blood are added to the chalice, carried on a divot in the fuller of the obsidian dagger. Every slice is made over the symbol of a diamond with a long slender teardrop underneath, two stylized wings arcing around either side.
Ruvan’s mark.