“Ivory is a witch, too?” I asked.
“She was intended as a spirit elemental,” Paloma said, “which means she would’ve been pure when she was chosen. Something must have happened, maybe around the time she was turned. Many of her powers are obsolete now. But because she was one of the original witches chosen by the Universe, there was no discovery for her to make. She’s always known. There was no place for me in her life to act as a mentor.”
The room slowly came back into focus: Paloma, with her heavily beaded earrings; Charles, in his jeans and black t-shirt; me, clueless as ever.
“Okay,” I said quietly. “I think I understand.”
“Yes,” Paloma said. “But now we must take action to protect you from her—” Her worried gaze flickered to mine. “—though I fear you won’t like what needs to be done.”
***
PALOMA INSISTED I eat first, get my energy up, before we talk. Now a bowl of jasmine rice, barely touched, sat on the table.
She had the answers all right, but I sure as hell didn’t like them. She wanted me to erase Ivory’s memories. I hadn’t been bothered by the idea of Charles or Adrian wiping them, but now the whole idea suddenly seemed like stealing—like a complete abandonment of my faith.
Like a mistake I’d made once before and desperately didn’t want to repeat.
I shook my head. “It’s black magic.”
And by that, I meant the bad kind. Not the kind most Wiccans knew as the yin to the yang of White Magic. This kind of magic wouldn’t bring balance. No, this kind of magic was the kind sometimes referred to as Hostile Magic.
“There’s no other way,” Paloma said. “Only a spirit elemental can extract memories from the Cruor. Your gift will help you. Think this over if you must, but this is what needs to be done. If you don’t erase her memories of you, she may seek out you or Charles again. I’m sorry.”
She stroked her hand up and down my back before leaving me alone in the room.
I rested my head in my hands, staring unseeingly at the wooden floor beneath my feet. I’d expected Charles to do the dirty work. My heart sank at the thought: I’d been treating him like his humanity was less valuable than my own. What did that say about me?
Should I follow my faith or my heart? My intentions were pure, which counted for something, right? Killing Ivory would be far worse than stealing her memories, and the only other option wasn’t an option at all—we couldn’t walk away. If I didn’t do as Paloma suggested, Ivory would find us and attack again. There’d be no hiding from someone who knew me so well.
The sound of a chair dragging against the kitchen’s linoleum floor ripped me from my introspection. Charles entered the room and sat beside me on the couch. He was silent at first. Then: “Do you need anything?”
“You wouldn’t like it.”
He swiveled his head toward me, his gaze blank and the whites of his eyes road-mapped with red. “This isn’t about me.”
“My shoulder is killing me. Wouldn’t your blood…?”
His mouth sagged, more of a slacking of his features than a frown, but he gave a resolute nod. When Adrian had given me his blood all those months ago, it’d only been because neither Charles nor Ivory had been ready to tell me about their own true natures. If I was going to have a bond with anyone, though, I wanted that person to be Charles. Waiting for Adrian to arrive and assist us was simply not an option, and I sensed the side effect of experiencing someone’s memories would feel somehow less invasive with Charles than it had with Adrian.
Charles swept hair from my face and grazed my forehead with his lips. He pulled away and tore into his wrist to make a fresh wound from which blood flowed freely. He held his wrist to my mouth, and my stomach churned as the first drops rolled onto my tongue, but I sucked from the wound anyway, drinking until my stomach settled. Charles’ blood wasn’t cold like Adrian’s, but it was just as thick and metallic and sweet.
His emotions rushed through me—anger, devotion, fear, concern. Soon, distinguishing his feelings from my own was nearly impossible. Perhaps my experience with Charles would be different. Would I be burdened with his emotional turmoil, instead of the images of his past? I peered up at him, still drinking, but his expression was blank.
When the high of drinking the blood kicked in, I released his arm. The pain slowly subsided, replaced with a faint, healing tingle. I removed the gauze wrap and bandage, grimacing as the wound healed.
I lifted my gaze to him, wiping my mouth with the sleeve of my sweater. “Are you okay?”
The look of concern in his eyes challenged his smile. “You stopped before it hurt. What about you?”
“I still need time to think.”