Page 8 of Bitten & Burned

Three

THE ROAD TO HALEMONT

Caer Voss, Sol, Verdune

I woke to the soft press of lips against mine and the faintest brush of fingers at my temple.

Blinking, I found Vael leaning over me, his hair tousled, his expression smug.

“Oh…” I yawned, stretching in the chair. “How long was I out?”

“You were asleep when I rose at seven. It’s nearly time to leave.”

I bolted upright. “Time to—? Vael, I haven’t—”

Normally, I needed half the morning to ease the ache in my thigh before moving; the curse pulled on me worse in the dawn hours.

He held up a hand, all calm patience. “I’ve done it. Fed Fig, gathered his things, and pulled out your bag. All you need to do is choose your clothes.”

“You… did all that?” I rubbed my eyes, trying to shake the sleep-haze.

His mouth curved. “Only for you, Rowena.”

From the corner, Fig let out an enthusiastic trill and wound himself between my ankles, tail flicking as if he knew an adventure was coming.

“I think he’s ready,” I said, bending to scratch behind his ears.

Vael offered me a hand up. “Then we’re all ready. The carriage will be here shortly.”

Fig meowed in his carrier beside me on the carriage seat.

Vael looked up from the book he was reading. “Is he alright? Should we take him out?”

“He’s fine, Vael,” I laughed. “If we take him out, he’s going to think he never has to be in the carrier again.”

“Maybe he doesn’t. He could just get in my coat with me.”

“You spoil him.”

“Well, you won’t let me spoil you, so it’s the best I can get.”

I peeked down at Fig curled up in the carrier. His tabby fur caught the stray moonlight and gleamed bright like a streak of bronze. Some commented on it whenever they met him for the first time—how he glowed, but for a phoeline, Fig was actually considered to be rather dull.

They weren’t especially common animals, or people would be more likely to realize how dull Fig’s coat truly was. But, compared to a regular house cat, I suppose he did glow rather brightly.

Fig shifted in his carrier, tail thumping once against the side. I bent to scratch behind his ears through the bars.

Vael glanced up from his book. “Give him here.”

I sighed. “There’s no hope for him, is there? You’re going to spoil him rotten.”

“Undoubtedly.” Vael opened the carrier, and Fig bounded straight into his lap, curling there like he belonged. Vael stroked him with one long, unhurried hand, and I found myself smiling.

My mother had chosen him because no one else would. The golden phoeline kittens, the fiery orange, even the blue-gray ones—gone in a heartbeat. But the dull little runt with the soot-colored tabby coat? Shivering and wide-eyed? She’d worried no one would want him. So she brought him home.

And twenty years later, he was still with me. Still bright enough for me.

I reached over, my fingers brushing his short fur, catching just a glint of bronze as we passed a streetlamp. Phoelines could live a century or more, burning out and clawing their way back from the ashes nine times over. Fig was only on his second life. Practically a kitten.

I’d lost him once, to old age, a few years back. Even knowing how phoelines burst into flames upon the end of their life, only to regenerate from the ash and soot, it hadn’t been an experience I’d relished.

“Don’t you leave me any time soon, you hear?” I murmured to Fig, scratching his ears while he purred happily on Vael’s lap. He trilled in response, as if he understood me.

My mother had seen his potential when no one else did. Now he was warm and alive—

—but she wasn’t.

I missed her. Lately, more than ever. Pain had a way of making me wish for her hands, her voice, her ability to make the world feel bearable. Without her, all I had left was my father.

That thought sat heavily.

The Marlowes were old blood—silversmiths since the First Stone War. In that war, stones weren’t just adornments; they were weapons, conduits for aether strong enough to fracture wards. Families like mine still carried the weight of that craft in our bloodlines.

My father, Ambrose Marlowe, was a master silversmith. My mother, Marlena, had been able to coax secrets into gemstones so deep the stones seemed to hum with them. People still whispered her name when they saw mine.

And then came the inevitable puzzled look.

But you’re not a jewelcrafter? Or a silversmith?

No. I chased stories in ruins instead of cutting stones or twisting silver. And maybe that hurt more people than I liked to admit—my father most of all. After my mother died, we quickly learned we didn’t know how to be a family without her to bridge the space between us.

I’d gotten accepted to study at the Arcanum of Caer Voss at the tender age of seventeen, and I had barely gone home to visit since.

I hadn’t seen my father in months. I’d told him about my injury in only the barest terms. Left out the amulet Dr. Drummond made me—gods, he’d have had a fit.

Amulets were my family’s art, after all—my father forged silver as if it breathed, and my mother had cut gems so their veins aligned with lunar tides.

To admit I wore another man’s work would’ve been like betraying both.

So it was just that: another nail in the coffin of my relationship with my father. Easier to keep my distance than try to explain how far I’d drifted…and how much I still sort of wished he’d pull me back.

“Would a florin buy me a glimpse inside that mind of yours, Witchling?” Vael’s warm voice pulled me back.

I blinked, realizing my hand was still in Fig’s fur. “Just thinking.”

“Two florins if you tell me where you went just now.”

I gave him a rueful smile, taking a deep breath to ground myself before speaking. “I was just thinking about my parents… my mother. And my father.”

Vael’s expression softened slightly, his voice evened as he lowered it. “Ambrose?”

I nodded, tracing a finger along Fig’s ear as he curled up in Vael’s lap. “I haven’t seen him since all of this happened. I sent word by the Arcane Missive Guild, and all he sent in reply was a bouquet of psalknots and his condolences.

“Perhaps he’s still thinking about what else to say?” Vael offered.

I laughed derisively. “For six months? No, I prefer to live my life free of delusion. He likely doesn’t wish to speak with or see me. And I have no wish to reach out again, not after I let someone else make the amulet.”

Vael made a noise in the back of his throat, half sympathetic, half amused. He shifted slightly closer, as much as he could with Fig still curled in his lap.

“Rowena,” he began, his voice dripping soft and slow like velvet, “You’re his only child. And I may be terribly biased, but I think you’re a delightful person. I can only imagine the love he has for you—even though you drive him mad.”

I struggled to hold back a smile. Vael always knew what to say. Some would say that was because of his gift, but I liked to think I know Vael better than some.

He smiled then, sly and warm. “Besides, children are supposed to drive their fathers mad. It’s part of the arrangement.”

I laughed. “You’re certainly optimistic.”

“I prefer to think of it as realistic. Love has a way of surviving our most inconvenient disappointments. He tilted his head, catching my gaze. “When you’re ready, we’ll go to him. Together.”

I reached for him, running my fingertips along his jawline before leaning up to brush my lips against his. “I’ll think about it.”

“That’s all I ask,” he replied, kissing me once more. Fig meowed, and he sat back, laughing as Fig put his paws on his chest to rub against his chin. “Someone’s jealous, it seems.”

“He isn’t partial to sharing,” I said with a laugh.

“Neither am I,” Vael said, leaning over to kiss me once more, much to Fig’s chagrin. The poor thing couldn’t decide which of us to snuggle with.

Vael’s comment stirred something within me. Something about my conversation with Silas that day.

The blood bonding ritual.

I glanced over at Vael. He was currently rubbing his nose against Fig’s fur and cooing at him. It brought a smile to my face. A warm feeling I didn’t wish to name.

“You’re staring,” Vael murmured.

“You’re adorable,” I replied.

“No, you’re thinking,” he countered.

“No, I’m fairly certain you’re adorable,” I teased.

“Rowena, how can I help you if you won’t share it with me?”

“Fine,” I acquiesced. “Have you ever heard of vampire blood bonding rituals?”

He froze for a long moment. Long enough that I began to worry if I’d broken him or something by bringing up the subject.

“I’ll take that as a ‘yes’ and drop it. Heard loud and clear.”

“No, no…” Vael turned and reached for my hand. “I just… had no idea you were thinking about that.”

“I wasn’t. Not until today,” I said. “If I’m being honest, it’s because it’s something Silas mentioned in passing. I told him we haven’t been together long enough to consider it.”

“Haven’t we?” Vael asked. “Come to think of it, we’re practically living with one another as it is… It’s the logical next step.”

“What is it, though?” I asked. “Besides the obvious that I already know.”

“Well, it’s where I share my blood with you, not enough to turn you, but enough to bind you to me. The blood isn’t even important; as a witch, I’m sure you know, magic is mostly intent. The rest is just tools and conduits.”

“Right.”

“Well, that’s the case here. The blood is the tool.

The conduit through which you cast the binding magic.

It ties your life to mine. I’ll be able to feel you, and you, me.

I’ll know your emotions, know when you’re in pain, and most importantly…

so long as I don’t come close to draining you, I’ll be able to take more blood from you.

More of the cursed blood. Which would help you immensely with your pain levels. ”

“Right, but I don’t want to do this just for pain management,” I said. “Plus… isn’t it just vampirism-lite? Like a trial period before you would ideally turn me fully?”

“Do you wish to be turned fully?” Vael asked.

“No,” I replied. “I wish to remain the way I am.”