Page 48 of Bitten & Burned

“Father?” I said softly.

He turned.

Green eyes that matched my own flashed in recognition. “Rowena,” he said, setting the glass down on the mantle and stepping towards me.

His gaze moved over me—not unkind, but appraising. The same way he looked at a silver clasp or a half-set gem. Measuring. Searching for flaws or cracks that might dull the shine.

Not really. But it always felt that way to me.

He smiled, then, in that small, thoughtful way he always had. “I’ve missed you.”

I smiled back. “I missed you, too.”

He held out his arms, and I walked into them. Into his familiar scent of sweet tobacco and peppermints. His warm embrace hadn’t changed since I was small. He tightened it slightly before letting me go again, and looking at me once more. He crouched slightly to acknowledge Fig.

“And you, sir, pleased to see you again,” he dipped his head, and Fig batted at it. He smiled and scratched behind his ears before looking back at me again.

“That wound still bothering you? Your… Mr. Vexley said it hasn’t gotten better?”

The sigil throbbed at his words, sharp as though it wanted to answer for me.

“I have, but perhaps it’s better to wait until everyone is here before we speak more,” I said.

“Quite, Mr. Vexley said there are five residents of Halemont besides yourself?”

“I’m a temporary resident,” I explained. “Because of the wound, it’s easier if I don’t travel.”

“That explains the lack of visits from you in the past few months, at least,” my father said.

I swallowed thickly. “Yes, well, I suppose I should introduce you to my companions.” I turned toward Anton. “This is Anton Mercier...”

Anton stepped forward with a languid sort of grace, unhurried and entirely at ease. He gave a slight, elegant bow.

“Mr. Marlowe,” he said smoothly. “Your reputation precedes you. It’s a pleasure. Your daughter is… extraordinary.”

My father’s brow lifted. “Is she?”

Anton smiled, unapologetic. “Undeniably.”

There was a pause. The kind where two men assess one another, not with fists or fangs, but posture and poise.

Then my father said, “Mercier. Any relation to the winemakers in the Euraline?”

“Not in a very long time, sir.”

My father looked amused. And he looked between me and Anton for a long moment. Too long. I hurried along to introduce Quil.

“This is Quil Ashborne.”

Quil stepped forward—not too close, just enough to be proper—and offered a slight bow that had been polished on borrowed time. Much more refined than Anton’s had been.

“Mr. Marlowe,” he said, voice lower and smoother than usual. “It’s an honor to meet the man responsible for Rowena’s finer qualities. She speaks of you often.”

I blinked. Where the hell had he been keeping that?

My father gave a short nod, visibly surprised. “Ashborne. Western Pines, if I’m not mistaken. The… hunters, are they not?”

“Indeed, but we’re not close anymore, sir.”

“Well, perhaps that’s for the best. I seldom hear good news about them anymore.”

“Neither do I,” Quil replied, glancing at me, his eyes level.

Oh, I was definitely going to bring this up later. There was something unmistakably enticing about him right now. And he was an ass for doing it in front of my father.

Before I could say another word, however, footsteps approached from behind us.

I turned to see Vael approaching with Cassian and Dmitri in tow.

Cassian looked stately, dressed in much more finery than I’d ever seen him in, and Dmitri was clean-shaven and sharply dressed as well—less shadow, more storm held barely at bay.

“Apologies for our tardiness,” Vael said softly.

My father turned towards them, eyes narrowing in quick succession. Calculating. Curious. Always measuring.

“This is Cassian Hale,” I said.

“Hale,” my father repeated. “Halemont?”

Cassian gave a respectful nod. “The very same. Though I confess the house sees more of Rowena than of me, these days.”

My father gave a small huff—either amusement or disapproval. Maybe both.

“And this is Dmitri Volkov.”

Dmitri’s nod was barely perceptible. “Sir.”

“Volkov,” my father said, eyes narrowing. “That’s an old name.”

“Older than most,” Dmitri replied.

A pause stretched between them, thick with observation.

And then, to me:

“All of them vampires like Mr. Vexley, or—?”

Vael choked. “I beg your pardon—”

“You didn’t think I knew?” my father said, not even glancing at him. “Please, Vael. I’ve been a wardmaker longer than you’ve been alive. You think I can’t feel a glamour when it’s pressed up against my wards?”

Vael made a frustrated sound that might’ve been an ancient curse.

My father turned back to me. “So? Are they?”

I met his gaze. “Yes.”

He nodded once, then sipped his brandy. Completely unruffled.

“Well,” he said, “I suppose that answers my next question—who is taking care of you while you convalesce?”

Behind me, someone coughed. The bond fluttered ragged, a ripple of nervous energy from all of them at once. Fig meowed and struggled in my arms, so I set him down. He ran to go bat at the fringe on the bottom of a chair.

I resisted the urge to bury my face in my hands. “Can we… focus on the actual reason you came?”

“Yes, the wound. You say it’s gotten worse? And you’ve seen healers, to no avail?”

The mark burned hot under my skirts, answering the accusation for me.

“Indeed,” I continued. “My old cursework professor has even been attempting to help me. He charmed an amulet to help mitigate the pain.”

Dad’s face tightened slightly. “Your old cursework professor? Drummond?”

“The same, yes.”

“Alright… may I?” He gestured to me, clearly indicating that he wished to see the amulet.

“Of course.” I slipped it off my neck and into his open palm.

He peered at it before lifting it in his hands to test the weight. “What did he tell you about it?”

“It’s bloodstone. And silver. It absorbs some of the toxin the curse leeches into my bloodstream.”

He made a soft huff of indignation. “No, it doesn’t.”

“What?”

“It does nothing of the sort.”

“Bloodstone does indeed absorb certain curses when dispersed in the bloodstream.”

“Indeed, but what you are wearing right now isn’t bloodstone. You’d know that if--” He paused, swallowed, and continued. “If you had paid attention.”

“Not if I paid attention; if I’d taken over the business.”

“Yes, well, water under the bridge,” he said. “You didn’t, and now we’re here.”

“If it’s not bloodstone, then what is it?” I asked.

“I’d have to take a closer look to tell.

Your mother would have known by sight, but…

” He trailed off before continuing again.

“But, from what I know about the color and the weight… It’s dyed selenite.

Common to the western edge of Verdune, near the quartz mines.

They chemically alter lots of it there for decor and fashion purposes.

They have it in abundance, and it’s cheaper than importing other stones. ”

“If it’s a chemically altered selenite… then what is it doing?” I asked, voice low.

“That,” he said, pulling a fineglass from his breast pocket, “is what I aim to find out.”

He brought it up to his eye, lens clicking into place as he adjusted the angle to catch the light. I could feel the others shift behind me—Quil and Vael especially.

He didn’t speak for a long moment.

Then:

“There’s a sigil etched into the back of the setting.”

My stomach dropped. “A sigil?”

He nodded, already reaching into his satchel for paper.

“I can’t do a precise rubbing, it’s too fine, but I’ll do a rough sketch…

” He began to crudely sketch a sigil onto the paper.

The more he drew, the more my stomach sank.

When he’d finished, he set the amulet down and held up the drawing. “Does this mean anything to you?”

It was the same one that had been burned into my thigh.

And—the same one Quil had branded into his back.

Behind me, I heard Anton swear softly under his breath.

I swallowed and nodded. I glanced back at Quil. He looked even paler than usual, if that was possible.

I reached for the hem of my skirt, pulling it up enough to reveal the wound. The sigil seared in protest, hot and raw under my father’s gaze. I pressed my lips together as my father looked at it.

“Gods, Rowena… you said it was bad, but you didn’t say it was this bad…”

“There’s more,” I said softly, nodding to Quil, who turned and pulled up the back of his shirt, revealing the same sigil branded into his back.

My father was silent for a long moment. “Well then…”

“What is —”

“That amulet isn’t warding against the injury. It’s keeping it active. That’s some kind of magical brand or tracking. Reverse-engineered blood magic. Probably used on what the Ashbornes wanted to track.” He turned to Quil. “I assume you don’t recognize the magic, or I wouldn’t be here.”

Quil shook his head. “I thought it bore a resemblance to what we used to use on…” He trailed off, scratching his head. “Livestock.”

My father nodded. “That makes sense. So if they ran off, or were taken, you could track them?”

Quil nodded.

“Question is, why is it on Rowena?”

That was indeed the question.

Silence fell again. Thick, unyielding, and heavy as stone.

“I didn’t know,” I whispered. “Not until I saw it on Quil. I thought it was just a wound. Just a… side effect.”

“It’s not,” Ambrose said grimly. “It’s a signature. One meant to mark you as property. Or prey.”

The air shifted.

Dmitri’s voice broke the silence next. Low. Steady. “So whoever gave her that amulet wanted it active. Constant.”

“Or—” Vael said slowly, eyes narrowed. “—wanted to be able to track her.”

A sick chill rolled through me.

My father lifted the amulet again, inspecting the chain this time. “You said your professor gave this to you?”

I nodded.

“Well then.” He looked up at me, expression unreadable. “Either he’s a fool—or he knew exactly what he was doing.”