A Local Habitation

“What in the . . .”


“Two people, one murder,” I said, pressing my ear against Alex’s chest. There was no heartbeat. I hadn’t really expected dawn to revive him—that would’ve been too easy—but I’d hoped. “Alex’s blood is still alive. That’s why he changed when the sun came up. Now I’ve just got to figure out how to wake him the rest of the way.”

Tybalt growled, the sound resonating through the basement. “Why not let him rot?”

“It’s tempting. But I need to talk to him. Besides, fae don’t actually decay.” When dawn healed him, it left him with a body that was fully intact and ready to function. I just needed to figure out how to jump-start it.

It had to start with blood. Everything starts with blood. Pulling the knife from my belt, I turned his arm toward me and cut shallowly across his wrist. There was very little blood. It had probably settled in his veins when his heart stopped. That was fine; I could cope.

Bending, I pressed my lips to the cut, and drank.

Down the corridor quick now quick run away run for safety find Toby find Elliot find anyone no not now no not me no I won’t die this way I can’t I won’t so run run get awa—

Gasping, I jerked myself out of the memories and staggered backward, into Tybalt. He caught me easily, eyes gone wide.

“October?”

“Too close,” I said, trying to get my breath back. “It starts too close to dying. I can’t see who killed her.”

“Then find another way,” he said, and set me back on my feet.

I blinked at him. “You think I can?”

He smiled, briefly, and reached out to tuck a lock of hair behind my ear. “I believe it. This suits you far better than your silly illusions.”

“Oh.” I kept blinking at him for what felt like an impossibly long time before wrenching my gaze away, reaching for my knife. “The blood remembers itself. There’s nothing but inertia keeping him dead.” I paused to smile, grimly. “I’m going to regret this.”

“What are you going to do?”

“Not sure. Now hush.”

He hushed.

Blood magic is based half on instinct and half on need. There are patterns to follow and rituals that can make things easier, but in the end, it all comes down to instinct and need. I had to have lessons in flower magic and water magic; I had to be taught to spin illusions and mix up physical charms. But blood magic . . . blood magic just told me what needed to be done, and I did it. It’s the only thing that’s ever come without a struggle, even if it’s never been exactly easy.

My mother can make stone sing with a few drops of blood and a heartfelt plea. I wasn’t looking for anything that flashy. Just a little resurrection.

Placing the knife against my left wrist, I cut a careful X, deep enough to bleed but shallow enough that it wouldn’t be life threatening if I took care of it quickly. The smell of grass and copper began to rise, crackling in the air as the spell, still half-formed, began to sing. Good. Blood welled up from the cuts, running down my arm. The smell of copper strengthened, overwhelming the grass almost entirely.

Keeping my movements deliberate, I placed my knife gingerly on the counter and turned toward Alex, tilting my arm to let the blood run down my fingers. The gauze covering my hand promptly turned a rich and vivid red. I ignored it; for the moment, it wasn’t important. Things felt exactly right. Even the pain wasn’t important. All that mattered was the pattern that the blood was telling me to follow.

“October . . .”