Page 31 of Bewitched by the Fruit Bat King (The Bewitching Hour #3)
Signs of Change
Kane
F or the third consecutive night, I woke from dreams of blood.
Not the sanitized, clinical blood packs we kept stored at medical facilities for emergencies.
No, these dreams featured hot, pulsing arterial blood drawn directly from a struggling human.
The kind of primitive feast my kind had abandoned centuries ago when we evolved away from such barbarism.
This isn’t good. The curse can’t be affecting me. I can’t let it.
I sat up in bed, heart pounding, mouth uncomfortably dry. The silk sheets felt wrong against my hypersensitive skin. Everything felt wrong lately.
The past week had been a desperate juggling act.
By day, I managed the growing crisis at Kane Industries—reassuring clients, containing the worst of the turning cases, and fighting off the board's attempt to invoke Article 17.
They'd backed down temporarily after I'd presented a comprehensive containment plan, but their confidence was clearly shaken.
By night, I researched furiously, diving into the most ancient records of both the Drake and Florence bloodlines, seeking any solution that any of my ancestors might have overlooked. Any alternative to breaking the mate bond with Willow.
I hadn't seen her since that night. Our bond hummed constantly with longing and confusion, occasionally spiking with what I recognized as hurt.
She'd called several times, left messages I couldn't bring myself to answer.
What could I possibly say? That our connection was causing a supernatural crisis?
That my ancestors had apparently made a habit of abandoning her ancestors?
That I was beginning to turn as well?
I crossed to my bathroom, flipping on the light and examining my reflection.
The changes were subtle but unmistakable.
My canines were sharper, the points visible even when I wasn't intentionally extending them.
The whites of my eyes showed the faintest red tinge at the corners.
My skin was paler than usual, with a slight gray undertone that reminded me uncomfortably of corpses.
Worst of all was the hunger. A constant, gnawing emptiness that fruit no longer satisfied. I'd gone through my usual morning selection of dragon fruit, mango, and blackberries with mechanical indifference yesterday, the once-delicious flavors tasting like ash in my mouth.
"You look terrible," I told my reflection.
The face in the mirror didn't disagree.
My phone chimed with Atlas's distinctive tone—the AI's way of indicating urgent news that couldn't wait for morning. I retrieved it from the nightstand, noting it was barely 4 AM.
"What is it?"
"Blood supply reports from the Atlanta facility, sir," Atlas replied. "Reserves have dropped below critical levels. Dr. Chen has implemented rationing protocols, but at current consumption rates, supplies will be exhausted within 72 hours."
I closed my eyes, processing this latest disaster. "Casualties?"
"None yet. But three security personnel were injured restraining a turned executive who attempted to leave quarantine. Their condition is stable."
"Transfer additional supplies from the West Coast storage facility," I ordered.
"The West Coast coven has frozen all blood transfers pending resolution of our... situation." Atlas managed to convey disapproval despite his neutral tone. "They cite potential contamination concerns."
Translation: They were using the crisis to exert leverage, watching to see how I would handle the spreading transformation before committing to any assistance. Cold, strategic, and exactly what I would do in their position.
"What about the European reserves?"
"The flight would take 18 hours at minimum. Given the deterioration rate—"
"I know the math," I snapped, then immediately regretted the outburst. Loss of emotional control was another symptom of the change. "Redirect all non-critical fruit bat personnel to blood production facilities. Triple shifts, maximum output."
"Yes, sir. There's one more thing." Atlas hesitated, which was unusual for the AI. "The surveillance system picked up unusual activity at your private greenhouse last night."
My greenhouse—the sanctuary I'd built at the top of the Kane Industries tower, filled with the rarest fruit-bearing plants from around the world. It was my refuge, the place I went when I needed to reconnect with the essence of what my people had become.
"What kind of activity?"
"You, sir. Or rather, someone using your access codes and matching your biometric signature. Except you were in your bedroom at the time, according to home security logs."
A chill ran down my spine. "Show me the footage."
My phone screen filled with the greenhouse security feed.
The timestamp showed 2:37 AM—while I'd been lost in blood dreams. The figure moving among my precious plants was unmistakably me, down to the distinctive way I held my shoulders when stressed.
But there was something wrong with the movements—jerky, predatory, more animal than vampire.
I watched in horror as my doppelg?nger approached my prized bleeding heart vine, a rare specimen that produced fruit only once every decade.
With deliberate malice, the figure ripped the vine from its carefully maintained trellis, crushing the delicate fruits in one hand and letting the juice drip down its chin in a grotesque mockery of blood drinking.
"End playback," I ordered, my voice strangled.
The screen went dark, but the image remained burned in my mind. A manifestation of the darker nature emerging within me, or something more sinister? Either way, it was a warning I couldn't ignore.
I dressed quickly, selecting a charcoal suit that would hide any evidence of the changes my body was undergoing. The mate bond hummed steadily in my chest as I moved about my penthouse, a constant reminder of both the cause and the potential solution to my predicament.
Breaking the bond with Willow would likely stop the transformations. It would also likely kill us both, if the historical records were accurate. Michael had only survived through "magical intervention"—the nature of which remained frustratingly vague in all documentation.
There was one person who might know more, someone who had been around during the original transition and who maintained the kind of knowledge the Drake family archives deliberately obscured.
I hadn't visited Elspeth in nearly fifty years.
Unlike Morana, the high priestess of Haven's Cross who concerned herself with current supernatural politics, Elspeth was a recluse—an ancient witch who had withdrawn from coven affairs centuries ago to focus on preserving forbidden knowledge.
She preferred her isolation deep in the mountains, and I generally preferred not owing her favors.
But desperate times called for desperate allies.
"Atlas, cancel my meetings for today. Tell Margaret I'm pursuing a specialist consultant regarding the transformation cases."
"Of course, sir. Should I arrange transportation?"
I hesitated. A driver would report my movements back to the board—they'd made sure to place their people close to me after the Article 17 confrontation. But my transformation is making me unpredictable.
"No. I'll drive myself."
"Sir," Atlas said, his tone conveying concern, "given your recent symptoms, is that advisable?"
"Probably not," I conceded, retrieving my car keys from their drawer. "But then, nothing about this situation is advisable."
The drive to Elspeth's would take several hours—her home lay deep in the forested mountains, deliberately distant from both vampire and human civilization. I'd need to leave immediately to arrive before she began her daily communion with the spirits, after which she refused all visitors.
But first, I needed to check my greenhouse.
The executive elevator whisked me to the rooftop in seconds, its mirrored interior reflecting my increasingly haggard appearance.
The greenhouse occupied the entire roof of the Kane Industries tower, a marvel of botanical engineering with climate-controlled zones for tropical, desert, and temperate fruit-bearing plants.
I pressed my palm to the biometric scanner, bracing myself for what I might find inside.
The door slid open, releasing the familiar humid air scented with ripe fruit and rich soil. At first glance, everything appeared normal—the careful organization maintained, the automated watering systems functioning, the rare specimens thriving under specialized lighting.
But as I moved deeper into the greenhouse, evidence of disturbance became apparent.
The bleeding heart vine hung in tatters, its shredded remains draped over the trellis like a macabre decoration.
Nearby, my collection of rare dragon fruits showed bite marks—not the neat cuts I would make when harvesting, but savage tears through the flesh, as if something had been seeking the juice inside but found it disappointing.
Several plants had been uprooted entirely, their containers shattered on the floor, soil scattered across the polished walkways. The destruction was targeted, focused on the plants with red fruits or those whose names evoked blood—bloodroot, bleeding heart, blood orange, and dragon's blood tree.
Most disturbing of all was a message scrawled in fruit juice across the glass wall separating the tropical and desert zones:
WHAT YOU HAVE BECOME IS WHAT YOU ALWAYS WERE.
I approached the wall slowly, reaching out to touch the sticky residue. The handwriting was unmistakably mine—the same precise, slightly angular script I'd used for centuries. Yet I had no memory of writing it, no recollection of entering the greenhouse at all last night.
This wasn't just symptoms of transformation. This was something darker, more insidious. A splinter personality emerging from the depths of my psyche, activated by the curse but fueled by something that had always lived within me.