Page 42 of Liar Witch

“Stay.”

I freeze, turning back with shock. “Rysen?”

“Stay.” It seems difficult for him to talk past his fangs, but he’s trying.

I wait to see if he’ll speak again.

Silence.

Disappointment fills me. One word is still an improvement over no words, but I’m too impatient for small victories. I want my growly vampire back.

“I’ll come back,” I promise, as I fade back into the spirit plane.

I do. Night after night.

I suspect that Val knows what I’m doing, but he doesn’t mention it. A lot of my visits are interrupted by Kier or one of the others coming to check on Rysen, forcing me to jump back into the spirit realm.

Then the new moon comes.

I wake, groggy and cursing the lack of magic. Then freeze as the ripping pain in my abdomen makes itself known.

Shit. Just what I need. Being magicless and stuck on my period once again.

That’s when the roar starts.

Long, loud and part howl.

Rysen’s nose accurately sensing the start of my own biological hell.

His next roar makes the whole ship shake.

“Shut up! Ugh,” I yell, searching the drawer beside me to see if there are any more of those fae dust sweets the twins had last time in there.

No such luck.

I flop back into the covers and groan. If I just hide in my sheets, then I won’t have to face the inevitable.

The whole ship lurches, the motion sending me flying out of the bed and onto the floor.

Inky purple glyphs spread across the wooden planks beneath me and my eyes go wide as I notice that most of them are concentrated on my door which is slowly vanishing from existence.

Val would only be getting rid of my door if there was a risk that Rysen might break through it.

Rysen is loose.

No.

No. No. No.

I don’t want to deal with a rampaging vampire right now. I want to curl into a ball and cry and curse men while drinking too much wine.

I draw a little power from Opal and channel it into a prayer for cleansing. Maybe if the scent dissipates, it will calm Rysen down again. I pull myself against the bed, wincing as I try to force my body into a standing position.

I end up hunched over, which puts me level with the red stain on my sheets.

Fucking period. Always kicking me when I need to be able to function. The Queen’s brand of torture was easier to suffer than this.

The only thing that could make this worse is if Elsie were here sprouting nonsense about pain being the price of the blessing of fertility again.