“Everyone believed that the eighth vampire line was destroyed when Shamhat died. It was centuries before Ruadan let a few know that Shamhat lived . . . but barely.”
I heard what Drake said, but I was fascinated by Ruadan’s actions. Now Ruadan slit his wrist and pressed it against the lips of the man he hoped to save.
For a moment the blood merely seeped into Amahté’s open mouth. Then, somehow, he revived and began to drink.
Minutes passed, but it felt like years before Ruadan finally pulled his wrist away.
When Amahté’s body started to convulse, I yelped and jumped back. What happened to him was a terrible thing to watch. His eyes rolled back in his head and his arms and legs went wild. The symbols went bright white and Amahté screamed.
He went still. The symbols burned into his skin. The blackened marks faded slowly, until they couldn’t be seen anymore.
“Some vampires can lose their souls,” said Drake quietly. “They become droch fola. They are vicious. They have no conscience, and do not conform to the rules created by the Ancients.”
“Like the one you killed in the Sudan. And Karn is a droch fola.”
“Yes. And so are most of his minions. They tire of staying in the shadows, of keeping parakind hidden.”
“Not to mention that they think they’re the top of the food chain.”
Drake nodded. “Exactly.”
We returned our attention to Ruadan. He had finished his gruesome work. Blood splattered the man on the ground, staining his white clothes. Ruadan had fared no better—his own clothing was soiled with his victim’s blood.
Ruadan picked up the priest and carried him away.
The scene faded, just like a movie getting ready to switch scenes, and we found ourselves at the end of the hallway, facing another stone door with its familiar circular hole.
“I won’t let you do that again,” said Drake. He moved in front of me, his expression stubborn. “Step away, Moira.”
His tone rankled me. I got that he was a he-man type, or he-werewolf type, but I was strong, capable, and already bleeding for our cause. I stepped into his space, jutted my chin out defiantly, and said, “Or what, wolf boy?”
“That’s wolf man,” he corrected. “And I will put you over my shoulder and carry you the rest of the way. With your mouth bandaged shut.” He patted the pocket with its stash of Band-Aids. “I can better survive being the blood key.”
“Blood key” was a good way to describe my current role in this situation. “You can’t,” I said. “It requires my blood.”
“I know,” he said, his gaze narrowed, “but I don’t have to like it.”
“Just for the record, I don’t like it, either. I have to do it, Drake. So just let me stick my poor, abused hand into the creepy hole, and move on to the next phase of Rescue the Ancient Vampires, okay?”
His lips thinned, and he crossed his arms. For a moment I thought he wouldn’t move, and we’d be stuck staring daggers at each other—at least until one of us thought of some way to outwit the other. But then Drake begrudgingly moved aside. I have to admit, I was surprised he’d given in so easily. I hadn’t expected him to be reasonable.
No need to have two injured hands, right? So I took off the T-shirt bandage, handed the bloodied cloth to Drake, inhaled deeply, and stuck my hand into yet another hole.
Something cold and metallic slithered over my entire hand. For the first time, fear chilled me. The sacrifices required were getting more profound. I wonder how many more doorways were left, and how much more blood I would have to give to the Ancients, and their pyramid, before I breathed my last.
My entire hand started to burn, and the pain sizzled up my arm. I couldn’t stop my scream, or my instinct to pull my hand out. But it was too late.
• • •
I was floating again, this time in a room that felt . . . strange. It was a living room, but felt almost like I was on a movie set rather than in an actual space where people lived. And maybe that was the real issue . . . I don’t think these were people.
Unlike the previous visions, in this one I wasn’t slipping into someone else’s skin. Instead I was like a ghost, floating among the people in the room.
A woman stood in the doorway.
She was otherworldly: pale-skinned, with bow-shaped lips as red as candy and green eyes as soft as moss. She wore a ribbed green T-shirt, tight black pants, thick-soled black boots, and on her waist was a weapons belt. On one side was a Glock and three cartridges, and on the other a series of small silver daggers. Her raven hair hung in ringlets down her back, like those of a medieval princess. “Beautiful” wasn’t a decent enough word to describe her. The only visible flaw I could see was the jagged pearlescent scar that wrapped around her throat like an ugly necklace.