Blood and Kisses

chapter 12



Thalia hesitated at the threshold.

The fragile veil of control Gideon wore snapped. “Come and release me,” Gideon demanded, his voice half human, half lion’s roar, eyes glowing red with hunger and rage, fangs sharp and white in the dim light.

Thalia took a deep breath. As he’d warned her, the hunger had become a kind of madness. The man she had known had become a monster. He strained against the chains, growling. He’d rubbed his wrists and ankles raw, and precious blood spilled onto the bedclothes in wine-dark rivers.

He would try to drain her if he could, no matter that it would mean both their deaths. But if she left him here...

If she left him here, he would starve. He was near starving now.

Thalia summoned every scrap of strength she possessed and was about to funnel it into her protection spell when she realized the absolute futility of it all. If she released him now, she could prevent him from killing her, but she would forfeit the life of the first unfortunate he met, along with his soul, as he succumbed to the addictive lure of the Claiming. He would become just as dangerous as the villain who had murdered Lily.

Thalia closed her eyes and prayed. Somehow, she would have to reach some remnant of the man beneath the monster on the bed in front of her. But was it already too late?

She diverted the energy she had gathered and began to slowly feed it to Gideon, desperately hoping to give him the strength to bind the hunger and free the man.



The room was drenched in blood. Crimson spatters decorated the dirty cream walls like some vile faux painting technique. Flies buzzed, knocking against the filthy windows as if trying to get out.

Detective Cole covered her mouth with her hand, choking back the bile that threatened to erupt. It was perhaps the most gruesome thing she had ever seen, but the smell was worse. Poole had already left, unable to stand the stench for another moment. She wondered if he were outside, puking on those Italian shoes he favored. And they said women were the weaker sex. She swallowed, regaining her equilibrium through sheer willpower. She couldn’t afford to vomit. The men she worked with would never let her live it down.

The crime scene investigators had already done their work, but she stepped gingerly into the room for a better look, placing her feet with care.

The body had been removed. Unlike the others, this was the first they’d found inside. And despite the blood spatter, it had already been determined through blood typing that the victim had been killed elsewhere and brought to this location, a derelict house in a neighborhood that had long since finished the treacherous slide into decay. Was the murderer changing his pattern? She should be so lucky. A pattern killer whose pattern changed often got sloppy.

Like the others, the vic had been drained of blood. So the sixty-four thousand dollar question was, whose blood spattered the dingy walls? A sample would be sent out for DNA comparison, but she held little hope it would yield results. The average person rarely showed up on a DNA database, and without DNA to compare to the sample...

Cole started as her cell phone broke the eerie silence. “Cole here.” She nodded as she recognized her boss’ voice. “Sergeant Bryant,” she said in greeting.

“We’ve identified the latest victim. Her name is Dorrie Thompson. She worked at the Bell, Book, and Candle.”

Cole snorted. “Big surprise.”

“There’s more. We just found another body of a young girl in the High Falls District. Looks like your perp has struck twice.”

“We’ll be there.” Cole shook her head and closed her phone against her thigh. Was the smell getting worse? Probably. No doubt the result of the last evening sun heating the house through the boarded-up windows. A sudden sound spun her toward the door. The creak and pop of the elderly floorboards set every nerve on end. Someone climbing the stairs, or the normal cries of a settling house?

“Poole?”



“I’ve called you here because we all have a stake in this,” Heath said to the crowd in his living room. He ran a hand over his bare scalp. Witches and mages packed the cozy space. Those that didn’t fit on the furniture, or the rows of metal folding chairs he had set up, lined the walls.

“Is that a pun?” a gray-haired witch named Karla Gibson asked. Her creased face folded into an ironic smile.

He ignored the remark and the vampire jokes that followed on its heels, his face a mask of displeasure. Slowly the occupants of the room seemed to pick up on his anger and the laughter faded. Outside the window, the red evening sun went behind a cloud and the room felt suddenly dark and cold. A young witch in the front row rubbed her arms as if to warm them. A June bug pitched its tiny body against the light fixture in the ceiling, intermittently clicking on impact and droning as it fell back and made another attempt to penetrate the glass.

A young mage wearing a rock concert T-shirt spoke into the unnatural hush. “I don’t see what all the fuss is about. It’s not like the vampire is a danger to us.”

“Of course, he’s a danger to us.” Karla shifted in her chair. “Don’t you see that if the pettys knew that vampires were real and a threat, they might realize that witches are real, as well?”

The young man rolled his eyes. “This isn’t the sixteen hundreds.”

“Sixteen hundreds, two thousands. People don’t change.”

“She’s right.” Heath shook his head, and took a few steps closer to the blue-jeaned mage, hazel eyes intense under his heavy brows. “It’s human nature to destroy what’s different. We’ve survived out in the open because the pettys no longer believe in magic.”

He scanned the diverse crowd. Seeing the comprehension on the faces before him, he switched gears, strolling back to the center of the room where everyone could see him.

“We’ve always had a Champion. And no one can argue that the Champions we’ve had in the past have been witches and mages of remarkable power and insight.” A wave of nods circled the room, but perhaps quashed by the stern expression on his face, no one said a word. “We have grave doubts about the present Champion, however, and that, as you know, is one of the reasons for this meeting.”

“And just what do you propose to do about it? Champions are born, not elected.” Karla again.

Heath colored. “We would have had to alter tradition eventually. This Champion shows no sign of producing an heir.”

“She’s still young,” Karla countered. “And although she’s never shown signs of great power, she’s proven herself capable in the past.”

Footsteps pounded up the front steps and across the porch. The screen door was ripped open, its hinges screaming. It was John Trenton, his black hair in disarray, his open face distressed. He bent over, clearly out of breath from running. He wiped his exertion-stained face with his sleeve. “Kimmy Simpson is dead.”

The room seemed to draw a collective breath. A woman gasped, and the crowd exploded into a cacophony of exclamations. Heath raised his hands to chest level, palms down and motioned for quiet.

When the noise died, Heath asked, “The vampire?”

John nodded.

“How?”

“He cut her throat.”

A wave of reaction crashed through the room. Hands raised uneasily to throats, covered mouths, or were clasped to chests. Shocked glances were exchanged. One woman sobbed softly, while another leaned over and patted her hand, murmuring comforting phrases.

Heath addressed the crowd. “This just emphasizes how important it is that we have a powerful Champion. Where was Thalia when this was happening? Consorting with that vampire?”

“That’s not fair!” a middle-aged witch shouted.

“It’s a valid question!” a mage defended, triggering a rush of heated arguments.

“Enough! I’ve had a vision.” The voice came from a tiny African-American woman wearing a violet pantsuit, seated in the back of the room. She could have been anywhere from fifty to one hundred. Her hair was upswept into an elegant braid. Her voice was as rich as crème brulée.

“Mina.” Her name swept through the room like a fragrance carried on the breeze. Perhaps the most respected witch in the community, Mina Shaw rarely ventured out of her elegant home in the affluent suburb of Brighton. When she did, it paid to listen.

“If the rogue vampire is not stopped, we will have more than just pettys to worry about. We can’t afford to allow Thalia the chance to fail.”

Her words seemed to reverberate in the heavy air.

A young witch sneezed, breaking the tension, and all heads turned in her direction. “Sorry,” she sniffed before sneezing again, and then a third time. She raised watery eyes to Heath. “Do you have a dog?”



Spirit slid out behind a late arrival, ducked into the bushes and materialized. Whew! For a second there he thought he’d be discovered. Who’d have thought he would choose to sit next to one of the rare people who were allergic to basenjis? An ordinary group of humans wouldn’t have thought a thing about it, but witches...

He waited until the coast was clear and loped down the sidewalk. A dried leaf blew across the street, skipping and skittering as if it were alive. He restrained the urge to chase it. This body, as convenient as it was, came with strong instincts. Real basenjis had a powerful prey drive and no car sense at all.

Fortunately, he had the benefit of human intelligence. He looked both ways before he crossed the street and headed toward the bus stop. The driver had no idea as he opened the door for his exiting passenger that he’d also picked up an invisible hitchhiker.

Spirit growled softly as he ruminated over what he had heard at the meeting, causing the only other occupant of the bus, a heavy-set woman in a blue flowered dress with four burgeoning grocery bags at her feet, to look uneasily in his direction. When she didn’t see anything, she looked to her left. Failing to see anything there as well, she shook her head, pulled a paperback bestseller out of one of the bags and buried her face in it.

As the bus driver navigated the bends and curves of the city streets with great swings of the steering wheel, Spirit lay down on one of the plastic seats, his invisible body rocked by the vibration of the bus, and conjured terrible penalties for Heath and Mina. They should be banished from the community. Boiled in oil.

How could they attack Thalia’s abilities as Champion?

The Kents had been Champions since before he met them.

Thalia was an excellent Champion. True, she performed her duties with a minimum of magic, but why use more when less would do? If she was sometimes so drained in the pursuit of executing her responsibilities that she had difficulty getting home, well, that was just part of the job.

And to blame Thalia for Kimmy’s murder, when even now she risked her life to find the rogue? It was more than just unfair. It was nothing less than betrayal.



“Come here.” Gideon seemed to regain some small fragment of humanity, but Thalia knew he had only switched tactics. His voice was low and seductive, full of promise and urgent with compulsion. Thalia shuddered. Her body longed to obey. Sweat burned on her forehead. Her muscles trembled with exertion as she fought to retain control.

She didn’t dare use magic to resist. He needed every bit of power she could spare. She had to rely on willpower alone. She took an involuntary step forward, as if jerked by an invisible string. Gideon smiled. His eyes gleamed. A wolf watching prey step into an ambush.

Thalia dug in her heels. She imagined her feet were rooted to the floor. Her upper body swayed forward, like a skyscraper resisting an earthquake, but she stayed put. Thwarted, Gideon growled.

The sound crashed over her like a breaker of cold water and broke the spell. Freed from compulsion, Thalia raised her arms, channeling energy from every cell in her body up and out. Streams of blue light flowed from her out-raised palms. Twisting and turning, they combined into a river that washed over Gideon.

He stiffened as if punched in the stomach. His powerful body arched away from the bed. Fresh blood stained the sheets as his unsheathed claws bit his flesh. He howled. The unearthly sound pierced Thalia to the core. Her chest ached. She couldn’t seem to draw in a full breath. Tears pearled in her eyes, but she held her focus, continuing to feed him the precious force.

“Gideon, the hunger is not your master. You’ve got to fight. Take my power. Use my strength. Come back to me.” She maintained the steady current of energy, even as she carried on a desperate monologue, barely aware of the words rushing from her like the tide through a spillway.

As she spoke, Gideon writhed against the damp, blood-dyed sheets. His glorious face turned toward her, and she saw the red haze begin to fade from his eyes.

The spell was working.

Thalia drew more power from inside. She exhausted the reserves of her energy and began to take from her own life force. Her body shook with the effort. Her voice quavered. Feeding him more and more of her personal strength, she was painfully aware of her dwindling capacity; willpower alone kept her on her feet. She couldn’t go on much longer.

Gideon’s face twisted with agony. Thalia could feel the struggle raging within him as the man fought to subdue the beast. Who would win?



Thalia’s magic rushed over him like a shock wave and suddenly Gideon remembered why taking blood from her would be wrong. Not only was witch blood poisonous, but more importantly, he didn’t want to hurt the witch. A glimmer of sanity returned. Not the witch.

Thalia.

That was her name. She was brave and beautiful. A rare mixture of strength and vulnerability.

Vulnerable, no. Weak. The creature insisted. The beast wouldn’t surrender without a fight. Ripe for the taking. She was nothing more than a feeble human, after all, destined for only one purpose. To fill the hollow ache. He would gorge on her blood, milk her of every scarlet drop.

No. Fortified by the power Thalia was feeding him, Gideon rejected the vile thoughts and attacked the vicious evil within, wrestling for control. He herded the demon, prodding it into submission. Gradually the whirlpool of hate and anger let loose by starvation drained. Reason returned.

The hunger still beat within him like a swarm of angry wasps, but the beast was in retreat. Gideon, the man, reinforced by the surge of energy Thalia provided, shoved the demon into a small dark corner of his soul and raised the mental walls that would imprison it, at least for now.

In control once more, he collapsed, temporarily debilitated by his long battle despite her generous gift. The bed groaned under his weight.

The blue light flickered out like a defective neon light, and Thalia sank to the ground, her skin the color of wet clay. She’d given him almost everything she had.

She’d risked her life to help him cage the monster.

He hadn’t come so close to the edge in millennia. That this woman had seen him this way was almost more than he could bear. He closed his eyes against the crippling shame. He didn’t want to see the revulsion in her clear blue gaze.

Thalia, clearly too sapped to open his chains, drew the key from her pocket and handed it to him. The chains fell to the floor with a thunk.

He steeled himself to face her, but when he turned to her, he found her kneeling on the floor, leaning back against the side of the bed, unconscious. Gideon swept her up into his arms.

Spirit was waiting in the hall. His ears went back, lips curled and for a moment, Gideon thought the familiar would take a chunk out of his leg. “She’s all right,” he said.

“She’d better be.”

Gideon didn’t bother to answer. He felt the same. He would never forgive himself if something happened to her.

She stirred when he crossed the threshold to her bedroom, but never opened her eyes. He laid her gently on the bed. Her hair formed an ebony halo against the vivid red and green of the quilt. She looked so small and helpless on the bed and yet she had saved his life. His hand brushed her hair back from her damp forehead. He didn’t want to leave her, but he had just enough strength left to feed safely. If he waited much longer, her sacrifice might be for nothing.

He went to the window and hit a button to raise the shutter. It whirred softly as it rose section by section and came to rest in its recess.

“I’ll be back soon,” he said over his shoulder. “Watch over her.” Without waiting for a response, he threw open the window and launched into the darkening sky, wondering as he shape-shifted into a massive osprey, whether she would be there when he returned.