Chimes at Midnight

No matter how advanced my blood magic has become, the sight of blood has always made me nauseous. Not this time. I couldn’t take my eyes off the glass as it filled. My stomach grumbled again. If I couldn’t have goblin fruit, apparently blood would do perfectly well. “Great,” I said, sounding dazed even to my own ears. “Now I’m a vampire.”


“There’s precedent,” said Walther. “There are some old records that claim Daoine Sidhe changelings last longer once they’ve become addicted than most others, because they can take sustenance from the blood of beasts. You’re just cutting out the middle man.”

“I could hunt for her?” asked Tybalt.

“You could, but I think this is more hygienic, and probably more effective. Pass the ice tray?”

“Here.” Tybalt stepped up beside me, holding a bright green plastic ice tray.

For some reason, that struck me as unutterably funny. I put a hand over my mouth, but not quickly enough to smother my smile. Walther just smiled, taking the ice tray from Tybalt’s hand.

“If you’re smiling, there’s hope,” he said, and put the tray down on the counter before picking up another cotton ball. “Hold this to the wound while I determine whether we need more blood.”

“Yay,” I deadpanned. “Holding my blood inside my body is always my favorite part of crazy alchemy adventures.”

He pulled the needle out. A bead of blood welled up before I slid the cotton into the place. The smell of copper still filled the air, relaxing my nerves further and causing my stomach to rumble again. It felt like I was trading one form of addiction for another. At least this one came naturally, and might eventually make me better, instead of making me worse.

Walther turned to the ice cube tray, squirting blood from the syringe into each of the tiny squares. He ran out of blood with only half the spaces filled. Turning back to me, he said, almost apologetically, “Other arm, please.”

“You could at least buy me dinner first,” I said, bending my right arm to keep the cotton in place as I extended my left.

“Tybalt would gut me if I tried,” said Walther. Again, he slid the needle into my vein; again, the glass chamber began to fill with blood.

“See, that kind of attitude is never going to get you anywhere with the ladies.” I sighed, watching the blood flow. Then I paused, and asked, “Shouldn’t I be dizzy? Blood loss is supposed to make you dizzy.”

“Right now, I think your body is too distracted for dizziness.” Walther pulled the needle out again, putting another puff of cotton in place. “Bend your arm.”

I did as I was told. “That doesn’t sound very scientific to me.”

“Says the girl with the goblin fruit addiction and the tomcat boyfriend, to the alchemist who’s about to do something really impressive,” said Walther. He emptied the freshly-drawn blood into the last of the little squares, put the syringe aside, and reached for a saltshaker filled with what looked like paprika. “You may want to step back.”

“Why?” I asked.

“Because there’s a fifty-fifty chance this is going to explode.”

I stepped back. So did Tybalt, who positioned himself slightly to my left, where he could push me clear if something actually blew up, without seeming like he was hovering. I appreciated his concern, even as I resented the need for it.

Walther sprinkled the paprika-looking herbs over the squares of congealing blood before waving his hands and beginning to chant in Welsh. The air in the lab chilled by about eight degrees in as many seconds, the faint ice and yarrow scent of his magic surrounding us. He kept chanting, lowering his hands toward the blood. The air got even colder. Then the magic burst like a popped balloon, and Walther turned to face us, grinning broadly.

“I am a genius,” he announced. “You may lavish praise upon me at your leisure. But don’t take too long, I haven’t got all night.”