Page 67 of Dhampira

“Vor scapa,” Lorcan said. “It’s the language of spellcasting, and it’s the heart of witchcraft. Each word—vor—has to be earned, although every witch is born with a root word that’s almost always their strongest power. Witches earn other vors by dueling for them. They can’t speak a vor until they possess the gift behind it. The word simply won’t come. Powerful witches can also cast with their hands.”

I looked between him and Vander. “You’ve both used this language. Neither of you are witches.” I frowned. “Unless you’re about to drop another life-changing revelation on me.” Truly, I wasn’t certain I could handle it.

“We’re not witches,” Vander said with a dip of his head. “But vampires can drain magic from anyone. The powers we steal don’t last forever, but once taken, we can still speak the vors behind them. They’re just empty after the power fades. Think of it like a candle burned to the wick. You can still light it, but the wax is gone. There’s nothing to sustain the flame.”

My mind flashed to Lorcan draining Alon…and the werewolf. He’d drained the woman in the basement. He’d sampled the woman in the dining room before declaring her blood poisoned. Vander watched me with steady silver eyes.

“You’ve used those words with magic behind them,” I said, hearing the accusation in my voice. How many times had Vander killed? How many witches had he drained?

“Elves and witches share a distant common ancestor,” he said. “I grew up steeped in Veradorn’s magic. More than a little of it rubbed off on me. The elves don’t need the vor scapa to exercise their gifts.” His self-deprecating smile showed his fangs. “Changelings don’t have that luxury. I need language to work magic, and even then, my vocabulary is limited. But I don’t have to drink to use what I possess.”

When I looked at Lorcan, he rested his hands on his sword pommel. “I have more words than Vander. As he said, once you’ve earned a vor, it’s yours forever. But the words are useless unless you possess the magic to fuel them.”

“And you get it by killing,” I said.

His expression remained unchanged, nothing in his face indicating he cared the slightest about taking lives. “Typically, I have to speak the vor scapa to cast. On occasion, I can cast by hand if I’ve drained an especially powerful witch.”

Wariness spread through me. He wasn’t like Vander. Lorcan stole magic through blood—and death. I had no idea how old he was, or how long he’d served Rasimir. But I’d been ignorant long enough.

“You took Alon’s power,” I said. “And just now, you took the werewolf’s. How many more killings will it take before you go mad?”

“I don’t know,” he said evenly, “but I’m running out of time.”

Vander swung toward him with an angry sound. “That’s not—”

“It’s true, and you know it,” Lorcan said. He held my gaze even as Vander bristled beside me. “Vander’s changeling blood makes him unique among vampires. The elves are true immortals. Death holds no power over them. Vander picked up a bit of that magic.”

“Not enough,” Vander bit out. “Not with you drinking every creature in Nocta into the grave.”

“The captain has a fondness for exaggeration,” Lorcan told me. “I’ve worked hard to earn a place at Rasimir’s side. Every time he sees me steal a gift, his trust in me deepens. As a changeling, Vander can consume dead blood without risking madness. He siphons it from me when he can, but he can’t always get to me in time. Even then, we have to be careful. We hide behind a ward or a spell that keeps others away.”

My gaze went to the patch of grass where Vander had bitten him. “That’s why you brought us here?” I asked Vander. “So you could siphon the werewolf’s dead blood?”

He nodded. “And to speak freely. That’s not possible in Nocta.”

“All of Nocta serves the king,” I murmured, the hair on my body lifting.

“Not all,” Vander said. “But even the trustworthy have turned under your father’s influence. Fear is a powerful motivator. The prospect of death can make people do terrible things. Friends become spies. In Nocta, everyone whispers. Even the trees.”

The chill in my bones deepened. I shook my head. “Rasimir isn’t my father. He might have fathered me, but we’re not the same.”

Vander leaned toward me with urgency in his eyes. “That’s a dangerous way to think, Corinthe. Your blood is the only thing keeping you alive at the moment. You don’t understand the danger—”

“Then make her understand,” Lorcan said. He loomed over me, his expression every bit as glacial as the first time we met. “Until you proved yourself with the merman, Rasimir was prepared to kill you without a moment’s hesitation. You don’t have your root word—”

“Yet,” Vander said.

“—but you’re not a full-blooded witch,” Lorcan continued, ignoring him. “No one knows what you’re capable of. It’s possible that being a halfling means you’ll never speak the vor scapa.”

My heart sped up. He was right. Every time I’d attempted to repeat one of the foreign-sounding words, I’d choked, my throat sealing itself. Only half aware of what I was doing, I put a hand to my neck. “What if I never speak it?”

“Rasimir is willing to wait, for now,” Lorcan said. “You’ve shown glimmers of the power he covets, and he wants you trained. Dhampirs are rare enough to be unheard of. The last one lived a thousand years ago. And never in recorded history has a vampire sired a halfling with a witch. Not once, Princess, until you.”

My heart hammered in my chest. “What does that mean?” I whispered. “Will he drain me?”

“Not like you’re thinking.” Lorcan crouched, putting his gaze level with mine. “Legend says dhampirs could retain the powers they stole. Once they took an immortal’s magic, they kept it forever. But you’re different. Toward the end of his relationship with your mother, Rasimir began to wonder if a child of their union would be even more powerful than the dhampirs of old. He believed you might be capable of transferring the gifts you stole. And once given, they would never fade. The powers he steals last a long time, but they don’t last forever. The witches have gone into hiding because he hunts them. Their cities languish. Their numbers dwindle. Your father is running out of gifts to steal. But if you could steal for him and pass along the powers you take, he could rule forever, all of his magical gifts intact.” Lorcan grasped my knee, his eyes intense. “The fact that Lilawen ran from him makes me believe she thought the same.”

Blood rushed in my ears. A wise woman builds her house away from the cliff’s edge. But I wasn’t on the edge. I was toppling over it—with nothing at the bottom to catch me.