Page 94 of Shattered Stars

“This is it. Good luck. I’m sure I’ll see you around.”

And then she’s gone, scuttling across the yard, jumping at every new explosion.

I pause, looking at the sign nailed above the door.

This is it. If I enter through this door, there’ll be no going back. I’ll be committed. There’ll be no way home, no way back to the academy, no way back to her.

The ground shakes under my feet, the door handle rattling in my palm with the force of another explosion. The ache in my gut is stronger than ever and I am surprised I have the strength to remain on my feet.

I grip the handle tighter, blowing through my teeth. Fate doesn’t want this. The beast sure as hell doesn’t want this. But I do. I can be useful here. Back there I’m only a danger to her.

I swing the door open and march through. At the desk that awaits me beyond, I click my heels together and salute just like that little soldier had done. Only I’m bigger, stronger, more of a soldier than any of them will ever be.

“Can I help you?” a man with spectacles asks me from the other side of the desk.

“Spencer Moreau reporting for duty,” I say.

34

Renzo

I lie on the bunk,her knife in my pocket, the vial of her blood in my hand. I twirl the little thing in my fingers and lift it to the light of the setting sun streaming through the window. It hits the glass and plunges the room into a dark scarlet.

It’s fucking beautiful.

Blood mesmerizes and captivates me like nothing else can. All those rivers of it flowing right beneath the surface of the skin. Just waiting to be released. Blue and green and purple little streams hidden under the veil of flesh, only revealing its true vivid nature when that veil, that flesh, is peeled back.

I like the way it moves. Sometimes trickling and oozing to the surface, sometimes squirting in great violent fountains, sometimes pouring out like a waterfall. So red. So very red, staining everything it touches. Impossible to remove, to wash away. Once you’ve soaked your hands in blood, you’re forever marked.

I hum in satisfaction, peering at the blood in the vial. There’s magic in her blood. I can hear it humming to me in return, can feel its energy, its intensity.

Just how it felt in my mouth, on my tongue, on my lips. I lick them now, sure I can still taste her there.

Fuck, that was so good. Best fucking thing I’ve done in my life. Better than the maiming and the torturing and the murdering. And those are a few of my favorite things.

I grip the vial more tightly in my hand and bring it to my mouth now, kissing the warm glass and inhaling, catching the scent of her, my blood humming too and that hook in my belly.

Should have lied to my little rabbit. Should have told her I needed six, seven, eight drops of blood. Some for the potion, some for me. Then I’d wear this fucking vial of her blood around my neck, resting against my fucking heart.

Instead, I have to waste the precious stuff.

I frown.

I don’t want to. I want to keep it. She gave it to me. It’s mine.

But if I don’t go ahead with the plan, then all of her pretty blood could be spilled, lost forever.

It seems unfair. I’ve never had anything of my own. Even as a kid, even now. It’s never bothered me before. I’m not like those other dudes who collect things and people. What I’ve done has always driven me, not what I fucking own.

But now look at me. I have a knife you’d have to pry from my stone-cold hands and a vial of a little rabbit’s blood. I want to add more to my collection. The little rabbit herself. I want a little collar to place around her neck so I can tether her to my side. Or maybe I want that collar around my own neck and the lead in her hand.

I chuckle and swing my feet to the ground with a thump. I’m even more fucked up than I realized. Ain’t that a surprise.

The heart of the man I killed rests in a basin by the sink of this cabin. It smells rank – nothing like her blood – and it’s too fucking big to be hers. But a little magic, a little potion brewing.

I stretch my arms above my head, tilting my head from side to side and listening to the vertebrae crack.

The light’s fading quickly now, the sun no longer reaching the window, and the inside of this cabin falls darker and darker. I snap my fingers and a lantern hanging on the wall flames to life. Then I slip my feet into my boots and stalk towards the sink, sliding my hand into the bowl and squeezing my fingers around the heart.