Page 38 of Bitten Vampire (The Bitten Chronicles #2)

Chapter Thirty-Seven

Valdarr wants us to move again, saying the safe house has been compromised after Dayna and Lander’s visit, and the run-in with Jay’s mother. There’s no telling who might talk. It simply isn’t worth the risk.

He rearranges the meeting with the shifters for tonight. It’s easier for him to go alone while the rest of the clan packs up and secures the new location. Besides, he doesn’t really need my help, and I’m still a little shaken from the revelation about House, Dayna’s magic and the failed blood test.

And honestly, I’m peopled out. I don’t want to meet the shifters or stay on guard; I just want to curl up and let the world pass me by.

When everyone is ready to move, we load the van. Baylor, half-asleep, leans against my leg as we drive .

The next safe house is the townhouse I escaped after the border station, the one with the lion-headed brass knocker and the spiky window boxes.

The house now has even more upgraded security. Each of us must give a drop of blood to the warded threshold, just to get inside.

What is it about vampires and blood?

Baylor and I settle in Valdarr’s modern office. The rest of the townhouse features silk wallpaper, expensive furniture, and honey-gold parquet flooring—none of which is designed for paws, and he keeps skidding about. The office is simpler by comparison, and it boasts a thick grey carpet.

I try again to find House, using my usual phone-scrolling trick. I know I must eventually practise without the phone, yet the mindless music and endless reels help me drop in.

The vision almost takes me, then lightning strikes behind my eyes. A blinding headache flattens me. Perhaps the magic doesn’t recognise her—she isn’t human. I switch focus to Ralph, who’s in the next room, and my nose starts to bleed.

Head tipped back, tissue pressed to my face while vampire healing does its work, I reach an unwelcome conclusion: I can manage only so many visions before the well runs dry. I’m tapped out.

Or perhaps I can only have a vision when the person is in immediate danger. I don’t know, I’m winging it at this point.

The power might recharge in a few days, or it might not return at all. With my skull throbbing as though it might split open and ooze all over the floor, I’m in no mood to test the limit.

The Vampirical Council hearing looms. If I cannot navigate it with foresight, we will be in a pickle.

When the bleeding stops, I bin the tissue, sigh, and decide to read.

One of the books, the red one, tingles in my hands; I seize it at once. Relief washes over me when I find in the index that there is a chapter on recharging magical objects.

I leaf through, searching for mention of sentient artefacts, and find exactly what I need: when such an object expends all its magic, it enters a restorative slumber, sometimes for years. This proves our theory that Beryl must have exhausted herself.

Perhaps House’s magic once replenished her; deprived of that, she has slept.

The book explains that a simple rune-circle can deliver a modest magical boost, enough to wake a slumbering object, though it will be sluggish at first.

It’s better than nothing.

I want to try to revive Beryl. I double-check the runes; the text states plainly that the caster need not be magical. I can’t manage the proper ritual chants, but the book insists that, so long as the runes are correct, the circle should still work.

Ralph is pottering about, so I show him the diagrams. I don’t mention it’s for Beryl—only that I have a magical object that needs re-charging. He helps me locate a circle and redraw new symbols.

James wanders in, surveys our handiwork, and tuts.

He vanishes, then returns in a shell suit straight from the late ’80 s.

I bite my tongue. He flicks his boy-band fringe, snatches the chalk from Ralph, and sighs in theatrical despair before grudgingly re-drawing a fresh rune circle, every line drawn with perfect symmetry.

“Why are you helping us?” I ask.

“Because you’re making a mess,” he says. “If you’re going to do something, do it properly or don’t bother.”

When we finish, we stand around the circle, admiring it.

“Well, then,” James says. “Where’s this magical object?”

“Er… in my bag.” I have Beryl tucked safely away.

“Aren’t you going to fetch it?”

“No.”

“God, you’re so cagey. Everything you do is cagey.”

“Unfortunately, James, that’s just me, and you haven’t exactly earned my trust.”

“I haven’t done anything untrustworthy,” he huffs.

“Mm-hmm.”

Ralph grins.

I place the bag gently in the centre. Beryl rests hidden inside. A faint buzz creeps up my arms at once. I step back. The circle begins to draw magic in.

“Feel that?” I ask, waving a hand through the shimmering air.

“No,” Ralph answers.

James merely arches an eyebrow. “Must be one of your weird things.” He departs to wash his hands.

“Thanks for your help, James,” I call after him. “Thanks, Ralph.”

“I did have an ulterior motive: can I take Baylor for a walk? ”

At the word walk , Baylor opens one eye and his tail thumps.

“What do you think, Baylor?”

He springs up, stretches, then performs a dizzying wall-of-death circuit around the room—white and grey fur drifting in his wake. We laugh, and I hand Ralph the lead.

Once they have left, I place Beryl directly on the floor inside the circle in case the bag was muting the magic. I cover her with a handy scarf from my bag. I tidy the chalk and sit nearby with a book, though my knee bounces.

I’m worried about Valdarr. I know he can look after himself. He didn’t fare too well with the Council, did he? whispers my nasty inner voice.

“Shut up, Doris,” I mutter. “He will be fine.”

James re-enters, tablet under his arm. He selects a volume from a shelf and begins leafing through the text. After half an hour, he makes a low sound.

“What?”

He marks a page and puts the book down, eyes gleaming. “I know what you are.”

“Pardon?”

“That detour with the car,” he says. “Pushing my liege clear of that knife. The way you kissed him, like you expected him to die. It all fits.”

“James, perhaps you shouldn’t?—”

“Oh, I should. It’s been driving me mad.” He leans closer, voice a whisper. “I know what you are.”

I fold my arms. “Go on, then. Enlighten me.”

He points, certain. “You’re an oracle.”

I point at myself. “Me? An oracle? Is that even real?”

“Yes, I believe so.” James taps at his tablet with practised fingers. “Here, look—though I want that back.” He hands it to me as though it were priceless.

I feel oddly privileged to be trusted with it. I scan the screen.

Oracle: a person or thing believed to offer wise or prophetic insights, often inspired by deities.

“Deities? That doesn’t sound right.”

“Nor does wise ,” he mutters, snatching the tablet to scroll further before handing it back. “What about precognition? You can see future events, can’t you?”

“Yes.”

He grins. I realise I’ve answered all his questions by saying one word. I groan and wipe my hand across my face. I’m no good at this cloak-and-dagger shit.

“Do we have any books on this?”

“Possibly,” James murmurs, his eyes almost glazing over as if already mentally cataloguing.

“How did you come to that conclusion? An oracle?”

“It’s the only thing that fits.” He puffs out his chest, pleased with himself.

“James, you are like Sherlock Holmes.”

He beams. “Who knew?”

“You worked it out because I knew about Simone and everything else?”

He nods. “It all clicked. I’m right, aren’t I?”

I sigh. “Yes, but it’s a secret.”

“Understood. If my liege doesn’t want it known, I won’t breathe a word. But I can help.” He leans forward, eyes bright. “So, what’s it like?”

“Horrible,” I admit.

“Oh.” He looks disappointed .

“If it were, say, predicting lottery numbers, it might be fun. But it’s not. I relived our Council visit—and everything after—so many times. I watched people die, over and over.”

“So, how does it work? If you relived the Hall of Silence, that means the power takes direction, and it’s not just random. How does that happen? Do you think of a person?”

I pause to check in with myself—to listen to my gut—and realise that sharing this with him doesn’t bother me. Nothing inside me screams Don’t . My throat isn’t tight; there is no hint of danger or wrongness. Everything feels… easy. Whatever power lives in me trusts James.

Had you told me a few days ago that I’d feel this way, I would have said you were mad. But I shadowed him in that vision for a long time—watching, waiting for him to slip—and he never did.

James may not like me much, but it isn’t out of cruelty—there’s no malice in him. He will always put the clan first, and because he’s so blunt, so black-and-white, I know there’s no hidden agenda. He simply calls things as he sees them.

“Yes. I focus on someone, and it drags me into a future event—usually something dangerous.”

“Who have you followed?”

“Other than Valdarr? Simone. And you.”

“Me?” His eyebrows shoot up. “Really?”

“Yes.”

“How far did you see?”

“Up to our arrival at the last safe house. ”

He falls quiet, then asks, “How are you feeling? Overwhelmed? Frightened?”

“It’s a lot,” I confess.

“I bet. But if you’re doing what’s best for the clan, for my liege, I’m with you. I’ll help however I can.”

“Thanks, James.”

“But if you hurt him, if you break his heart, I’ll use that stake you like to wave about and stab you in yours.”

He stares at me, unblinking.

“Bugger,” I mutter. I’d thought he was nice; clearly, I was wrong. “I won’t break his heart,” I say. “He’s far more likely to break mine. Have you seen him? The man’s a walking, talking vampire god. And then there’s me?—”

“The oracle,” he interrupts.

“No. I’m not an oracle.”

He arches a brow. “If it looks like an oracle, walks like an oracle, talks like an oracle…”

“It’s just a psychic gift—premonitions. I’m closer to a seer, if we need a label.”

“Yet you can trace people, find them. That’s a bit more than an average psychic gift, isn’t it?”

I don’t answer.

“I like the title, clan oracle,” he grumbles, burying himself in his book.