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Swallowing hard, she turned away—swaying a little as she did—and pulled out the knife and jar from her bag. “Let’s hope this will only take one try.”
She handed him her phone again, not meeting his eyes, too afraid of what he might see in hers. He took it without a comment, but his energy brushed against her skin in a dark, vibrant wave. She shivered with longing.
Assessing the glass walls of the greenhouse closest to the corpse, she zeroed in on one to the right of the ritual remains, which was the most intact and offered the size needed for the sigil.
“That one,” she said and pointed at it.
He nodded and held the phone at the ready.
She squatted down, holding her arm over the jar on the floor. Her hand shook slightly as she laid the knife’s edge against her left wrist. She’d bled a lot today, enough to feel the creeping advance of adverse side effects—lightness in her head, cold hands and feet, her skin a few shades paler than usual. Her heart thrummed fast in her chest, working harder to make up for less blood to pump through her veins.
This had better work right away. Because if she had to do this more than once again, it might kick her blood loss into dangerous territory.
One slice, and red liquid welled up from her skin, dripping down into the jar on the ground. Her heartbeat was a dull echo in her head as she watched her blood pour out of her, a bit more sluggish than the first time. Just a little more. The amount had to be big enough to be easily splashed and not get diluted too much when hitting the wall.
Dizziness creeping up on her, she squeezed her wrist underneath the cut and mumbled the healing spell that would close the wound. Unfortunately, it wouldn’t replenish her blood—for that, she’d have to go home and brew a rather repulsive-tasting potion.
“All right,” she said and picked up the jar.
She had to pause for a moment before getting to her feet, the world around her losing color. Taking a deep breath, she fought down the nausea bubbling up from her stomach, turned to Tallak—and froze.
His irises were completely black, not even a sliver of amber remaining, and his features were stark with the sort of predatory hunger that made primal awareness drum in her bones. This was different from the way he’d looked at her in her bathroom, less sensuality in his single-minded focus…and more primitive darkness, the kind people had warned about around a fire since the beginning of mankind.
He was the whisper of chilled air against one’s neck when entering a pitch-black basement. The echo of one’s steps on the pavement when hurrying down a dark street at night. The hush in the air when fog misted over the ground in a gloomy graveyard.
Instinctively, her magic gathered beneath her skin, responding to the spike of anxiety in her, as if priming itself for a fight. Her powers were weaker, though, her blood loss making it hard to get a grasp on her magic.
“Tallak,” she said, her voice but a rasp.
He didn’t seem to hear her. His nostrils flared as he inhaled deeply, and a quake went through his energy, his gaze fixed on the jar in her hand.
Why was he acting this strange? Almost like a starved bluotezzer—which made no sense. His demon species didn’t drink blood.
But maybe he’d killed a bluotezzer at some point, and now some of the lingering memories and instincts rose up again and hijacked his mind? She sucked in a breath. That had to be it.
Which meant, if he didn’t remember who he was and she didn’t snap him out of it, he might just try to attack her.
“Tallak,” she said firmly, holding up her free hand, palm out toward him. “I know this isn’t you. You need to shake it off. You’re a hæmingr. This”—she indicated the jar—“isn’t your food, okay? You don’t drink blood. You love burgers and fries and even the occasional salad. You’re not a bluotezzer demon.”
At that, a scowl darkened his face, and he bared his teeth.
Which featured fangs.
Oh, no. He’d even taken on the form of a bluotezzer now.
Without thinking, she took a step back. His eyes flashed at her retreat, and the next second, he was on her.
One arm snaked around her waist; with the other, he grasped her wrist right underneath her hand holding the jar. Her free hand slammed against his shoulder, finding his muscles as hard as concrete. She tried to call up her magic to push him back, to put space between them and give her time to talk some sense into him, but her powers fizzled weakly underneath her skin. Too much blood loss.
Irises completely swallowed by black, he stared at her with an intensity that made her quiver. His gaze flicked to the jar with her blood.
“Don’t,” she whispered.
Unperturbed by her plea, he raised his hand holding her arm with the jar toward his face. She fought back, trying to pull her arm down, but he was physically stronger, even more so now that she was impaired by her blood loss. White spots danced in front of her eyes. Her breathing became shallow.
The jar was almost to his mouth.
His mouth.
