The Winter Long

I’ve said it before, and I’ll say it again: blood magic is based on a potent combination of instinct and need. The two feed and inform each other, shifting their balance as the situation demands. Need something that the blood can give you badly enough, and there’s a very good chance that you can have it . . . if you’re willing to pay the price. If you’re willing to bleed for it.

There was a time when I would have taken care in injuring myself. That time was long past. I slashed my knife hard across my own wrist, hard enough that a few drops of blood spattered the Luidaeg’s cheek, standing out against what was already there only because they were fresh and red, not brown and dried. The smell of cut grass and copper rose around me, bloody and aching, as my magic responded to the wound. I took a deep breath, gritting my teeth against the pain. No matter how fast I heal, pain will always hurt. I guess that’s a good thing. It keeps me from getting more careless than I already am.

Gingerly, I placed my knife on the bed next to the Luidaeg’s unmoving body, trying to remember what I’d done to resurrect Alex Olsen. It hadn’t been that long ago. It felt like a lifetime. Blood ran down my arm and covered my fingers, dripping onto the duvet and leaving little red spots everywhere it hit. The wound itched, already healing, but it was too late; I had what I needed.

I raised my hand and caressed the Luidaeg’s cheek, wiping away the old blood in a veil of the new. My magic rose around me, cresting and filling the room with the smell of potential. It was up to me to sail this ship safely through the storm and into whatever port I could find, no matter what. I pressed my hand flat over the Luidaeg’s heart, leaving a bloody handprint behind. Her skin was so cold it felt almost like it burned.

“Oak and ash and rowan and thorn are mine,” I chanted, bringing my wrist to my mouth. “Salt and wind and witch-willow flame are mine.” I licked what blood I could from the rapidly healing cut, and when that wasn’t enough, I bit, cutting my own flesh with the jagged ivory edges of my teeth. It hurt as badly as anything I had ever done to myself, and that was exactly right, because this should hurt, this should cost. If it didn’t, I would be lost.

This time, I got a solid mouthful of blood before the bleeding slowed too much to be useful. I swallowed, and it froze all the way down.

“Blood is blood and power is power,” I said. “By the root and the branch and the tree, by our Lord and Ladies, live.” I paused, and added more softly, “For Maeve’s sake, live. What are mothers with no daughters left to live for?”

Nothing happened. My magic hung heavy in the room, the smell of it almost strong enough to be overpowering. “Live!” I commanded, and grabbed my knife. No time for chewing now; the ritual, if you could call it that, was too far along. I slashed the inside of my wrist open, cutting too hard and too deep for safety, and filled my mouth with my own blood. Then, before I could think better of what I was doing, I leaned forward and clamped my lips over the Luidaeg’s, forcing my blood through them until some of it was forced down her throat by simple gravity.

The magic snapped solid with a painful flash, the blood suddenly rushing out of my mouth, and off of my body, like it was being pulled into a whirlwind. I could feel the heavy stickiness being pulled from my hands and arms, leaving them clean. I tried to pull away, and the Luidaeg’s arms closed around me with impossible strength, holding me fast.