Page 34 of Will It Hurt?

Jinn

I shouldn’t have tasted her blood, but I couldn’t find it within me to regret it.

Her essence lingered on my tongue, a dark sweetness that held a strange power, and I could feel it wrapping around my thoughts and binding me in ways I never anticipated.

Her blood was old, different. I could feel it—the richness, the depth, the power hidden within every drop.

One lick. That was all it took. And now I was attached in ways I couldn’t explain—in ways I was beginning to fear.

Now I understood why there were safeguards in place against wytches sharing their blood with us.

It was addictive—a word that wasn’t used lightly among the undead.

We were often immune to the effects of alcohol or common drugs.

But wytch blood—curse it all, I felt it slither through every part of me, turning everything a hazy, golden hue.

I should have resisted, walked away before I let myself taste what was never meant for me.

And now it was too late.

At least this tenuous connection would help me trace the little wytch and demand the answers I so desperately needed.

She would be disappointed to know that her invisibility spell did not work in her favor. Every step she took away from me tugged me forward like a leash, and I found myself walking back over the bridge and following the pull of her blood to the crumbling mansion she called home.

The Victorian-style building seemed out of place in this neighborhood. While the rest of the posh houses were a mixture of glass and reclaimed wood, this one still had its old-world charm. It stood like a memory pulled from centuries past—an aged photo that had become blurry at the edges.

The front garden was lined with outdated latticework and sagging wooden beams. A series of uneven steps led up to a heavy wooden door with a brass knocker shaped like a lion's head.

Each window was framed by dark shutters, some slightly askew, others cracked, adding to the sense that the house had long been left without repairs.

A turret stood in the darkness, its pointed roof crowned with a wrought-iron weathervane that groaned in the wind. The tall, narrow windows glistened faintly in the moonlight as though watching, waiting.

Just like I was. The house across the street from hers was undergoing some kind of refurbishment, and it served as adequate shelter as I waited for the wytch to leave her home again.

I dragged in a lungful of chilly air, letting it settle in the depths of my chest. Breathing was an unnecessary chore, but everything smelled of her— every single thing. My fingertips still tingled from the zap I’d received when I’d tried to slink past the wards an hour earlier.

This neutralization service shouldn’t be legal. And even if it was, it should be authorized by the undead’s Night Council rather than a band of wytches who wished for nothing else than to see vampyre numbers dwindle and recharge themselves by absorbing our powers.

Eliminating us one by one was likely a part of their long-term plan. I had no doubt. They were nothing more than sneaky, devious, wily, spell-slinging hags !

And they had crossed a line—one that could never be repaired.

I reached into my pocket and pulled out the small portrait of Belle and I, hand-painted by a member of our nest. It was the only likeness of her I had left. In it, little coils of her red hair fell over her brows and cheeks—a fiery contrast to the pallor of her skin.

She was my first. My child; my prodigy. I hadn’t turned anyone since 1981, and endeavored never to share my curse with others. Belle’s life was a daunting reminder that not everyone was made for immortality.

I’d spent years trying to teach her the full extent of her powers, but control was not in her repertoire. I assumed she would grow out of her fledgling phase, but forty-four years later, she still lost control at the sight of a tiny spit of blood.

Being a monster and being monstrous are different things, I’d once told her. We’re bred to be monsters, but one chooses to be monstrous.

In my heart, I knew what had prompted her decision to contact the High Coven to request her voluntary neutralization, but knowing her motivations and making peace with it were two very different things.

Two weeks ago, Belle had attacked a child—an eight-year-old playing on the swings past sundown near our local church.

The boy had fallen on his knees and cut himself. His cries had alerted his mother, but the smell of blood had called to something a lot more sinister in Belle.

She’d ripped his neck before I could stop her. Tore it clean off like the animal we were feared to be.

But when she came back to herself…

I’d never heard anyone mourn like that, with high wailing cries that tore my heart into paper-thin shreds.

We all make mistakes, I’d said. It’s okay, Belle .

Her scream still resonated in my soul.

How, Jinn?! I can’t give the boy back his life!

She was right, of course. Nothing she did could ever set things right in her conscience again.

I had brought her into our world reluctantly. Part of me still believed it may have been kinder to let her die. At least I could’ve convinced myself that she would be going somewhere better.

Now, her damned soul was probably drifting in limbo, if it wasn’t already being torn apart by the master of hell himself.

Just one day, I thought, curling my hands over a half-finished window frame. What would it take to go one day without thinking about heaven and hell and everything in between?

The claws of the church were buried deep in my stained soul, and there was no wiggling free of it.

I reached into my open collar and touched the platinum chain that lay across my chest. My fingers followed its length and grasped the small cross that dangled at the end.

It was yet another habit I couldn’t break from my days as a human—I’d tried not wearing a cross now and again, but something about its weight made me feel incomplete without it.

It was a common misconception that vampyres could be murdered by the power of the cross. The truth was that it wasn’t the cross we feared, only the silver it was carved from.

There were many silly human surrounding our kind. Garlic, for example. There was no denying that it was exceptionally pungent to the undead nose, but it wouldn’t keep me away if I needed sustenance.

The short of it all was that we were difficult to kill, even if we set our mind to it.

Which is why the neutralizer still had a job .

Failure loomed large, pressing down on me with its suffocating weight.

I had failed in my duty to my child. It was every parent’s responsibility to teach their children how to navigate the world they’d been born into, and the devil knows I’d tried, time and again.

Despite her eagerness to learn, Belle had been inherently unteachable. At the scent of blood, her monster became a savage, lustful being, taking over the sweet soul beneath.

There was no in-between with Belle. No mid-point where she could still access the tiny sliver of reason that still made her human.

I had beat myself up for years, thinking I had blundered her moment of creation—the precious seconds where I’d bled her human body dry and filled her with the blood that ran through my veins. After all, it had been my first attempt at doing anything like it.

The iPhone buzzed in my pocket and I answered it with a huff of irritation.

“Where are you?”

Indira’s voice was clipped and short, but not unwelcome. What did it say about my state of mind that I would welcome the voice a woman who had been so indifferent about Belle’s well-being?

“Up north,” I said, leaning against a wooden window frame that overlooked the wytch’s crumbling mansion. “Why?”

“Did you find her?”

I hesitated, floundering for a response.

“From your silence, I assume you haven’t,” Indira said with impatience rife in her tone.

“On the contrary.” I hated the hard rasp in my voice. “I found her. ”

“Oh.” I wondered at the surprise laced through the single word. “Then you’ll have to bring her home, I suppose.”

The icy windowpane was cool against my forehead as I leaned against it, praying it would hold me up.

“I can’t,” I whispered, watching the snow cloud my vision. “She’s gone.”

Silence met my words.

“She’s been neutralized,” I explained, wishing the words weren’t true.

“So she went through with it,” Indira acknowledged quietly. “I didn’t think she had the balls.”

“You knew?”

I wished to say I was surprised or angry or frustrated, but the truth was… Resignation curled sharply through my blood. Indira had disappointed me too many times for me to waste energy on her.

“You knew,” I said, watching as my reflection grew forlorn in the window. “How could you not tell me?”

I tried to summon the wherewithal to pretend to be hurt.

“She spoke to me in confidence, Jinn.”

“But I’m her creator,” I insisted. “I’m owed the truth.”

“And I’m your mother,” she parlayed quickly. “I’m the mother of this nest and it’s my duty to keep counsel.”

“You knew this would hurt me.”

“I did,” she acknowledged. “But would you rather a fledgling in your nest live an unhappy, never-ending life just so they didn’t need to disappoint someone?”

“You know that’s not the truth,” I hissed into the phone. “Belle was having a hard time adjusting to her darkness.”

I heard the sound of a drink being poured in the background, and I knew without a doubt that it was blood wine—a measured mixture of handmaid blood and a rich-bodied red malbec. Indira often had a glass or two around midnight.

“You see her differently from the rest of the world, Jinn. In your eyes, she’s still the broken little human you found in that wretched junkie-infested playground.

You don’t see the many years she’s spent trying to be the vamp you want her to be and failing miserably.

This incident with the boy only proves she’s not cut out for it. ”

“She’s still a fledgling,” I insisted, the sharp tips of my nails cutting into my palms. The small wounds healed within seconds. “She needs time to grow into herself.”

“She was turned forty-four years ago, my love.” Indira sipped delicately from the crystal. “Time is not what she needs.”

“A fledgling is anyone less than fifty,” I reminded her.

“That’s a generous estimate. I’ve never seen anyone need fifty years to acclimatize to their darkness.”

The judgment in Indira’s tone was rife, and I hesitated before I asked: “Is there a way to get her back?”

Surprise made her next words more shrill than usual.

“What do you mean, Jinn? She’s gone. Neutralized, as you said.”

“Don’t play dumb.” My limited patience was wearing thin. “You know what I’m asking.”

Indira’s sigh was long-suffering. “This is not up for discussion.”

“So it is possible?” I pressed.

“Not if someone doesn’t want to return to the land of the living.”

“But it is possible?” I asked again.

“Jinn.” Indira’s voice sharpened. “You’re going down a dangerous path. ”

“Belle made a mistake, I’ll admit that. But she doesn’t deserve to die for it.”

“She chose to be neutralized, darling.”

“It was a decision born out of guilt and panic!”

“Be that as it may, you need to let the matter rest.”

“How can I? You know more than anyone else what Belle meant to me.”

“I’m going to say something that you may construe as hurtful, but it’s for your own good,” Indira said. “Belle chose her death—it was a decision that had nothing to do with you. Bringing her back won’t change that.”

“You’re wrong.” I heard a sharp crack in my ear and realized I’d shattered the glass on the back of my phone. “I know my child. This was a spur-of-the-moment mistake.”

“Fine. If that’s what you want to believe.”

“Tell me how to bring her back, Indira.”

Nothing but silence met my question.

“ Please, ” I whispered.

The line went dead with a double click. When I dialed her number again, the call was sent straight to voicemail.

Curse it all.

I slipped the cracked phone back into my pocket.

If I’d had a few more moments with Belle, if she had simply consulted me before running away, I could’ve convinced her to stay by my side. Because without her, who was I?

A loner. A failure.

For the first time in over forty years, I was well and truly alone.