Winterly (Dark Creatures Book 1), стр. 113

“I’d rather have the tea.”

“You shall have the tea after…” He nudged the goblet closer to her lips.

“What is this?”

“A panacea.”

“What is it really?” She pressed her lips together.

“Drink. It will cure your fever.”

She glanced down into the goblet. The claret looked far thicker and darker than was natural. “Blood then.” He made no reply, which was answer enough. “Will I have more of those wretched blood memories?”

“Perhaps. One of the side effects.”

“What other side effects are there?”

“Accelerated healing, for one. You might also find you’ve suddenly developed preternatural sight or hearing. It is usually very unpredictable and temporary.”

“But if I drink your blood I shall be made immortal.”

He shook his head and gestured to the goblet. “It does not work that way. You must drink directly from my vein, and your own blood must be envenomed by my kiss ere your heart beats its last. Those cursory drops of blood in the wine can do nothing permanent; leastwise not without my venom. Your mortal flesh is safe for now.”

Emma sniffed tentatively at the claret. It was fragrant and wholly without the metallic taint of blood to sour its bouquet. But she dared not take a sip, though she knew he did not offer it lightly. Nevermore would she trust anyone’s truth except that of God himself.

His face darkened as she set the goblet away, but he made no comment.

“When you drank my blood, did you…?” She paused for a minute, flushing at the remembered intimacy the thought convoked. “What secrets did my blood impart?”

“None. The blood memories are a consequence of immortality. We are made vulnerable by the act. Consequently, we take great care when sharing our lifeblood. It is done but rarely, if at all.” He glanced at the goblet with renewed irritation. “If I could know all you guard in the vaults of your mind,” he said, “I fear you would have no blood left to quench my curiosity.”

She dropped her gaze, lest he saw in her gaze the secrets of her soul, and allowed him to tuck her head securely beneath his chin.

“Keep your secrets if it gives you ease,” said he. “They are safe from me; safe for tonight at least. Now sleep.”

She must indeed have fallen into a fitful sleep, her thoughts struck silent by the fever. The nightmare, however, had not been arrested. When she awoke again her skin was damp with fear. It was as though the Horeb Blade had whispered her awake, its call insistent, its presence a throbbing ache in her head. Though her lids had sprung apart, the rest of her body was as still as the grave. Kill Markus. Kill Markus. Kill Markus.

What had the nightmare meant to reveal? It had felt too real to be merely a bad dream. Another blood memory, perhaps? Through a clouded lens, she had watched the lurid dream unfold through another’s eyes. The hands—her hands?—mixing and handling strange and pungent liquids from a vast array of vials and dirty beakers spread before her on an onyx floor. A seething adder had lain coiled in a basket near her ankle, the venom lately milked from its fangs. Beside the basket lay the warm and foaming remains of a servant girl, eyes sightless and milky. Such ghastly white eyes. Eyes of the unseeing dead.

In fine, a scene of horror and despair had prevailed in the nightmare vision, the air fetid with that milky death. She’d stepped out of herself and watched from some distance as fat tears ran unchecked down the face of she that had poured the evil brew into a golden bowl. Even now, Emma felt those tears as though they’d been her own. The bowl was then lifted to blood red lips, lips trembling with silent sobs. Somehow, Emma had felt the woman steel herself against the agony to come. The murder of self.

The sharp pain in Emma’s lungs was a swift reminder that she had lain all this time reliving the nightmare without drawing breath. The suspenseful realism of the vision had so affected her that she’d not, at first, remembered where she was, nor upon whose chest her head now rested. The scent of cold woodsmoke, leather, and of Markus’s crisp musk calmed her a little.

She lifted her head with the leadenness of a rising fog. Kill Markus. Kill Markus. Kill Markus. Her movements were painstaking, lest the sleeping dragon bestir. The nearer her fingers crept towards the hilt, the louder the shadows whispered their warnings, and the faster the torrents fell from her eyes.

No! No! No! What was she doing? But her hands continued to reach without her consent, heedless of her horror. The furor of her heart seemed so deafening that she wondered at his stillness. She begged him silently to wake. Do not let me kill you! Why did he not wake up? Surely her movements must wake him?

He is more powerful at night. Wait till dawn, then kill him.

Terror-stricken, she felt the hilt settle coldly in her hand. All the while, Markus remained a dormant mountain beneath her, motionless, his lids sealed against the quickening dawn. Bile gathered hot and acrid in her mouth. Every nerve in her body revolted, and every new tear was a fierce invective. She was like a puppet to some alien hatred, powerless. She fought it so hard that for an instant her hand stilled, obeying for only a fleeting moment. In silence she struggled, but her muscles ached and trembled and her brain was pounding against her skull. Little by little she felt the strings—nay, iron fetters—compelling her hand into lethal readiness. How she despised that hand that raised the blade over his ribs. In horror, she watched his chest rise and fall. The black tip of the blade was poised to strike. Her mouth filled with bile.

The heart is the seat of power—lay his chest open and pierce the heart.

No! No! No! She shook her head violently. The hush in the library was absolute, but inside