“It requires money and connections, but yes.”
“Oh. I don’t have those.”
He looked down at me. “Yes, you do.”
“Connections, maybe.” I nudged his shoulder. He was pretty much the most powerful connection one could have in Guild City, albeit an unorthodox one. “But money? No.”
“I do.”
“You’d have used it for me?” Surprise surged inside me.
A perplexed look flickered in his eyes. “I don’t see how that is a question. Of course I would have.”
Our bond might be broken in a short while, magically torn asunder, but how could I not fall for a guy like this? He always had my back.
“But it was a last resort,” he said. “It’s a careful balance to be outside of a guild, and always more dangerous. You’re safer as a true member. That was always the goal.”
“And now I am.” I had my ragtag guild—tiny, but fierce.
Grey stopped in front of a dark red door. It was ornately carved with roses and vines. The thorns looked deadly sharp and dripped a dark red liquid that drew my gaze. “Is that blood?”
“The blood of everyone who has requested services. Including ours.” He raised a hand and pierced his thumb on a thorn that wasn’t dripping. Dark blood welled, and he removed his hand. The gleaming droplet hung suspended, not falling.
I did the same, wincing slightly at the little pinch of pain. When I removed my hand, my blood hung immobile as well. Magic swirled around the door, a dark mist that traveled up the front of the three-story building. It was Tudor, like the rest, but the wooden beams surrounded red plaster instead of the usual grayish white, giving the place an ominous feel.
A moment later, a tiny hatch in the main door opened. It was about waist level, and a withered hand appeared, holding a golden goblet. Black liquid swirled within, and ornate golden rings decorated the fingers on the hand. Dark red talons tipped each withered finger, and I flashed Grey a startled look.
“What?” I mouthed.
“You are worthy.” The creaky voice intoned from behind the door, cutting off any response he might have given. “Now make your offering.”
Grey raised his thumb to his mouth and pierced with a fang, then held his hand over the cup. The wound bled freely, and he allowed a thin stream to drip into the cup.
When he finished, I raised my hand, assuming I had to go, too.
He shook his head, and I lowered my hand.
“Her, too,” the voice said.
“It is unnecessary,” he said. “I have made the offering.”
“Two wish for services, two will make the offering.” The voice was firm despite its obvious age and the weakness of the speaker. The withered hand trembled as it held the glass.
“It’s fine.” I raised my hand and drew my own small knife, cutting my finger, feeling the pain pinch as the blood welled. I let it pour over the cup, dripping into the dark liquid. Only a few drops had fallen when Grey gripped my arm and withdrew it. “That’s enough.”
I pressed my thumb to the cut, staunching the flow.
The hand withdrew, and the little door slammed shut. A few moments passed, and I looked up at Grey, catching sight of something unidentifiable in his eyes. “What?”
“Would that I could heal you.” There was a slight wistfulness to his voice.
How the hell was I supposed to not fall for a guy like this?
Impossible.
“You’ll be better soon enough, your healing abilities returned.” I stared at the closed door, waiting. “What’s happening?”
“I’m not sure you want to know.”
“I do.”
Before he could answer, the main door creaked open, revealing a stunningly beautiful woman. Brilliant red hair fell down her back, and blinding green eyes glittered with life. She wore a black robe trimmed in what looked like diamonds, and it swayed around her as if blown by an impossible wind that no one else could feel.
I blinked, surprised.
Where had the crone gone? There was no way she was the same person who had stuck the goblet out of the tiny hatch.
And yet, she was holding it. Her fingers were tipped with scarlet nails and the same golden rings glinted on her fingers. Even her lips were gleaming a vibrant red. At first, I’d taken it to be lipstick.
But no, it was blood.
My blood.
This woman had drunk our blood and grown young again.
Wow.
And yuck.
“Devil.” Her voice hummed seductively low, nothing like the voice that had filtered through the door. “So pleased to see you again.”
“Cyrenthia.” His voice was devoid of emotion. “May we enter?”
“But of course. I have everything prepared, as you requested. We just need to call upon my colleague, and we’ll be ready to start.”
“Colleague?” he asked.
“Mordaca of Darklane. This requires powerful magic.” Her gaze turned to me. “This is the one?”
“I’m Carrow Burton.” I inclined my head in greeting, not extending my hand.
“Hmm.” Her lips pursed, and it was clear she wasn’t impressed.
I suppressed a scowl. We needed her. And maybe she was being miserable because she had a thing for Grey. Why wouldn’t she?
“Come.” She turned and strode down the short, empty hall, entering a room at the back.
We followed, stepping into a surprisingly modern space. The walls had been plastered smooth and decorated with dark glass mirrors. They shimmered with an eerie light, appearing full of smoke. My reflection was dimmed, just a shadow of myself, and I drew my gaze away, not liking the hollow feeling that rose in my chest when I looked into them.
The furniture was low and sleek, dark leather and extremely uncomfortable looking. A huge table was covered in all manner of cauldrons, tiny metal tools, and vials of ingredients. Shelves of similar items lined one wall, and a black marble fireplace flickered with bright orange fire.
“Just a moment.” Cyrenthia walked toward one of the mirrors and knocked, shouting, “Mordaca! Come on, I need you.”
A voice grumbled from the other side. “Your timing is foul, Cyrenthia.”
Cyrenthia grinned widely, as if the words pleased her. She glanced back over her shoulder. “Mordaca keeps late hours.”
A moment later, the shadowy image of a woman appeared in the mirror. She stepped through, one bare leg appearing first through the glass. A black stiletto heel landed gracefully on the ground, and the rest of the woman followed.
She wore a deeply cut black dress that revealed miles of cleavage. It was cut high on her leg, falling in waves behind her. A pound of black eye makeup swept out from her eyes, looking like a mask that Cordelia would envy. Her hair was piled high on her head in a bouffant, and her entire aesthetic looked a hell of a lot like Elvira, Mistress of the Dark.
I looked between her and Cyrenthia. They were like two sides of the same crazy coin. What the hell were they going to do to us?
3
Grey
Cyrenthia and Mordaca turned toward us, the two blood sorceresses grinning widely. It was an eerie effect, blood lust gleaming in their eyes.
“Thank you for transferring the money so quickly,” Mordaca said. “Shall we get started?”