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The pounding hearts of the Dumont witches betray their unwavering resolve. It’s probably why Celine has haunted me all these years. The stubborn witch.
“Why won’t you let me be?” I call to the room, receiving no answer from any Dumont—past or present.
Surely, this is also part of the curse.
The sight of Josephine today was a bitter reminder of the prized unity bond that slipped through my fingers, a bond that once provided me with purpose and a glimmer of hope. The memories of sunlight kissing my skin, the surge of invincibility coursing through my veins—
It is still so vivid in my mind, yet feels so long ago.
Standing before the canvas once more, brush poised at the ready, I give in to my urges and let my emotions guide each stroke. I don’t believe in abstracts. It’s not art. It’s incomprehensible nonsense.
I said it during the movement’s rise, and I stand by it.
This isn’t that. This is a compulsion—something else guiding my hand entirely, swirling the brush around the palette, blending the colors, and wafting the chemical scent of the paints to my nose.
I start with sweeping strokes that don’t take long to devolve into short ones.
But instead of quelling my anger, it stokes it.
Like the poison of a werewolf’s bite, the pain starts in a precise spot, growing more intense, as if building power before letting loose with everything it has. It spreads through my entire body—all-consuming.
This particular poison has been leeching through me since Josephine’s arrival, and I’m powerless to stop it as it explodes through me now.
Violence erupts in me, my paintbrush clattering to the ground. Blunt nails stretch into wicked points, sharp and deadly. They tear through the canvas, ripping ribbons into the flimsy material.
It isn’t enough.
It doesn’t satisfy the craving for blood and agony that something dark inside me wants to inflict.
No, not wants… needs.
I close my eyes and take a deep breath, holding it and letting time fade away as I retreat into a shadowed corner of myself.
As my mind grows silent, the distinctive sound of a heartbeat reaches my ears—not the slow, methodical pumps of a vampire’s undead heart, but the healthy lub-badub of the living. There is but one person in the hotel with a living heart.
Josephine Dumont is on the move, her heart pounding so loud it’s all I hear.
I knew she would be trouble.
I knew Fintan couldn’t handle the trouble that comes hand-in-hand with Dumont witches. I may get to vent my anger after all.
Fintan had his chance—now it’s my turn.
***
JOSIE
I leave the redhead vampire lying in an oozing puddle of his own blood on the cracked stone floor outside of my cell and race down the short hallway. Who knew vampires could bleed so much?
The power of the spell I used on him still thrums through me with aftershocks. Just like when I used it to escape back in the alley, my magic got away from me for a second. It’s like nothing I’ve ever felt before. I really am more powerful when connected to my family’s ancestral grounds.
An unfortunate fact for poor Fintan MacBochra.
Poor Fintan?
I almost laugh at myself.
Seriously, Josie… getting swept up so easily? It’s pathetic.
