bathroom, waving his hand and shutting the shower off. “Internal hemorrhaging is painful, I'm surprised you're managing to talk and walk right now.”
My legs become wobbly again and I stagger to the edge of the bath, sinking onto the lip and supporting my weight, automatically reaching for toilet paper to staunch the blood spewing out of my nose. I'm a little dizzy but wasn't aware I was bleeding this badly.
He covers the narrow distance, placing a hot hand on my forehead, blasting light into me.
Dabbing at my nostrils, looking down to avoid the accusation in his eyes, I breathe in hard, trying to regain my equilibrium.
The blood flow has ceased; the paper barely blots with crimson.
“What were you thinking going there at midnight on a full moon?”
His glare jangles my nerves like rusty spurs on saloon stairs.
Listless, I stare at my feet, wishing he'd just leave me alone. “You gave me a task, I achieved it,” I grumble in a careful monotone.
“Yes, you did.” Leaning against the doorframe with his gargantuan arms folded, he nudges his head, “White hair is a status symbol. It's a badge of honor worn only by true vampyre elders who have met the ningen and lived to tell the tale. She put the yoke of angelic responsibility on you and that turned your hair into a symbolic halo. You are half angel but now you have the capacity of an Almighty. Wield it with restraint, humble gratitude, and wisdom.”
“That was a ningen?” I ask, peeking at him.
“Yes. The name means human in Japanese. They are the first, the ones who still dwell in the oceans.”
“But they don't have hands. I thought they would.”
“Their claws are their only defense, and far more practical than hands.”
He points at my arm, “Heal that wound. You can now.”
Looking at the gash from her claw, I know we can heal ourselves, even of fatal injury, so him telling me to heal it is moot.
“No Seithe, you can now heal instantly, much faster than your kin. Put your hand over it and simply manifest healing.”
Quelling the desire to arch a sarcastic eyebrow, I do as he instructs, amazed when heat blasts into my arm and the mark and muscle are both instantly reconstructed into angelic perfection.
That's so damn cool.
Giving me his deathly smile, he says, “Your hair will go back to brown in a fortnight. Let me know when you can fly,” and with that he vanishes from the bathroom, leaving in his stead a new rising dread.
Fly?
Is that what the feather was for? Fly?
Snot! That's a legend, a fallacy, a myth and a fable. Vampyres can't fly.
But angels can ... speaks into my head.
Jo arrives back in the doorway, looking at me with worry. “Are you okay?”
“Would it kill him to care? Would it kill him to tell me I've done well? Would it kill him to have enough compassion for my pain to heal the internal damage I suffered tonight? Instead he makes me do it when I'm weaker than a foal just born.”
“In a sense you are reborn,” booms behind Jowendrhan, and Jo looks like he's about to pass out when he hinges to face Arelstin.
“You again,” I mumble through clenched teeth.
Why the hell can't they just leave me alone? Do they have to rub salt into every wound?
If Dad was still around none of it would be this way. I'd have been given warning, help, assistance. I wouldn't have snuck off to face the prehistoric humanoids. I wouldn't have left my younger brother helpless on a narrow stretch of sand in the dead of night during a raging storm, when I might never return. Mom would have been here with a hug and a warmed cup of sustenance for me. She would have been proud. Instead I'm treated like a fugitive. Their barely concealed derision irks me, and I hate them.
We'd be better off alone, without them .
When I grow up I'll never help Venix because he sure as hell hasn't helped me.
Jowendrhan is my witness. He knows the only person who seems honestly concerned at all is my sister's guardian, Arelstin.
*
Venix:
Turning
My legs become wobbly again and I stagger to the edge of the bath, sinking onto the lip and supporting my weight, automatically reaching for toilet paper to staunch the blood spewing out of my nose. I'm a little dizzy but wasn't aware I was bleeding this badly.
He covers the narrow distance, placing a hot hand on my forehead, blasting light into me.
Dabbing at my nostrils, looking down to avoid the accusation in his eyes, I breathe in hard, trying to regain my equilibrium.
The blood flow has ceased; the paper barely blots with crimson.
“What were you thinking going there at midnight on a full moon?”
His glare jangles my nerves like rusty spurs on saloon stairs.
Listless, I stare at my feet, wishing he'd just leave me alone. “You gave me a task, I achieved it,” I grumble in a careful monotone.
“Yes, you did.” Leaning against the doorframe with his gargantuan arms folded, he nudges his head, “White hair is a status symbol. It's a badge of honor worn only by true vampyre elders who have met the ningen and lived to tell the tale. She put the yoke of angelic responsibility on you and that turned your hair into a symbolic halo. You are half angel but now you have the capacity of an Almighty. Wield it with restraint, humble gratitude, and wisdom.”
“That was a ningen?” I ask, peeking at him.
“Yes. The name means human in Japanese. They are the first, the ones who still dwell in the oceans.”
“But they don't have hands. I thought they would.”
“Their claws are their only defense, and far more practical than hands.”
He points at my arm, “Heal that wound. You can now.”
Looking at the gash from her claw, I know we can heal ourselves, even of fatal injury, so him telling me to heal it is moot.
“No Seithe, you can now heal instantly, much faster than your kin. Put your hand over it and simply manifest healing.”
Quelling the desire to arch a sarcastic eyebrow, I do as he instructs, amazed when heat blasts into my arm and the mark and muscle are both instantly reconstructed into angelic perfection.
That's so damn cool.
Giving me his deathly smile, he says, “Your hair will go back to brown in a fortnight. Let me know when you can fly,” and with that he vanishes from the bathroom, leaving in his stead a new rising dread.
Fly?
Is that what the feather was for? Fly?
Snot! That's a legend, a fallacy, a myth and a fable. Vampyres can't fly.
But angels can ... speaks into my head.
Jo arrives back in the doorway, looking at me with worry. “Are you okay?”
“Would it kill him to care? Would it kill him to tell me I've done well? Would it kill him to have enough compassion for my pain to heal the internal damage I suffered tonight? Instead he makes me do it when I'm weaker than a foal just born.”
“In a sense you are reborn,” booms behind Jowendrhan, and Jo looks like he's about to pass out when he hinges to face Arelstin.
“You again,” I mumble through clenched teeth.
Why the hell can't they just leave me alone? Do they have to rub salt into every wound?
If Dad was still around none of it would be this way. I'd have been given warning, help, assistance. I wouldn't have snuck off to face the prehistoric humanoids. I wouldn't have left my younger brother helpless on a narrow stretch of sand in the dead of night during a raging storm, when I might never return. Mom would have been here with a hug and a warmed cup of sustenance for me. She would have been proud. Instead I'm treated like a fugitive. Their barely concealed derision irks me, and I hate them.
We'd be better off alone, without them .
When I grow up I'll never help Venix because he sure as hell hasn't helped me.
Jowendrhan is my witness. He knows the only person who seems honestly concerned at all is my sister's guardian, Arelstin.
*
Venix:
Turning
Similar Books
