Page 55 of A Betrothal So Bloody

Loathe as I am to let my guard down, I sink into the offered seat by the fire. Dante’s gaze drifts to me—to the gash on my shoulder.

“That isn’t too deep, is it?” he asks.

I gingerly touch my shredded nightgown sleeve, still damp with blood. “I’ll live.”

When I glance back up, I’m puzzled to see him fighting off a smile.

“Something funny?” I ask tersely.

“You continue to surprise me. The feral creature you are, hiding under that sweet face.” He gives a little shrug. “You’re so tiny, I thought that last hunter would crush you.”

“Oh, for fuck’s sake. I am not that short!”

Dante’s lips purse in a mocking pout, cocking his head to the side like my irritation only heightens my more endearing facets.

“You know,” I say, thoroughly soured under his scrutiny. “You have every opportunity not to be a complete and utter dick at any given moment.”

“Oh, I love those moments. I get a rush when I let them flutter past.”

He’s saved a well-placed kick to his shin when the witch returns, bearing a pitcher of steaming black coffee. The tattered shawl remains draped over her simple dress, but she’s now a striking young woman, perhaps in her thirties. For now, she sticks to this form, taking a seat across from me at the cluttered table. I thank her as she pours me a mug, but I make no move to bring it to my lips. She could offer me my favorite meal in three decadent courses and it wouldn’t change anything—I won’t be ingesting anything offered by a hag.

“If you won’t drink,” the witch says, her voice silken now. She nods at my sleeve, soaked through with blood. “May I offer you some relief? You’re clearly not blessed like your companion is.”

“Cursed is more fitting,” I mutter under my breath. Though admittedly, I feel a pang of jealousy that Dante’s wounds are nearly stitched up now, while mine continue to send white-hot shivers of pain down my limbs. “And no, thank you. I can handle myself.”

“Don’t be foolish.”

She doesn’t give me time to protest further, steepling her hands together. I shoot to my feet to dodge, but a burst of warm, conjured light sails across the table. It feels like an ember has pierced my skin—hot, searing. The sensation gradually morphs into gentle tingling that trails down my arm. When the light fades, the gouge in my shoulder is gone.

“There. Right as rain, dewdrop.”

I rub my shoulder, staying on my feet. Kindness can scarcely be trusted on the best of days—and rarely, is it free.

The witch slides her gaze over to Dante, her brows quirked. “Is she always so defensive?”

He scoffs. “Don’t get me started.”

The witch smirks, looking back at me. Those icy blue eyes seem to slice right through me. “Regale an old woman. A vampire and a vicious girl… What brings you here? I doubt the festivities are tempting enough to steer your path.”

A beat passes. And then—

“We’re searching for someone. Someone powerful,” Dante says. I glance at him sharply—what the hell are you thinking, trusting a witch—but he’s not looking at me. I see it again, that thread of fragile hope behind his gaze that he works so hard to bury. “A renowned healer named Callistia. She’s said to reside in an isolated grove not far from Verona.”

Some of the mirth drains from her unsettling eyes. “And why would you need her services?”

Dante fidgets, folding his arms over his chest. “It’s rumored she can heal anything. Reverse the most wicked of inflictions. Including…this.” He gestures flippantly at himself, his expression guarded.

The witch straightens. “You want to revoke the dark gift? But why—”

“It doesn’t matter,” Dante interrupts. “I’m not going to pen you a damn book. Do you know of her or not?”

The witch tucks her raven hair behind her ears, chewing her lip in thought before answering. “As it happens, I do know of Callistia. She’s been a person of interest in my recent studies. But why travel all that way to that con artist of mystic practices when I have the cure you desire so badly right here?”

“You—what?” Dante sputters.

The witch rises from her seat with predatory grace, striding across the room. She rummages through a weathered trunk, bottles clinking. Straightening, she withdraws an oblong vial, holding it up to the firelight for us to gaze upon.

“Funny, isn’t it? I crafted this as self defense some time ago. I told you the last vampire I met was ill-tempered.” Her lips lift at the corners as she gently swirls the viscous liquid inside, like she’s gazing at a memory. Its contents glow, glinting with flakes of something iridescent.