A Perfect Blood With Bonus Material

  “Candice, could you bring in a pot of coffee for two,” he said lightly as she stood, and the woman checked her motion, going to the small employee kitchen just down the hall.

  His office enfolded him like a warm blanket. The salt water fish tank he kept as much for the charm-breaking qualities of the water as for the colorful fish took up a large part of the wall behind his desk, and he frowned, not wanting to put her in the back of the room. The vid screen with a live-action feed from his yearling pasture was bright, the lights incorporated behind it casting a credible illusion of sun across his floor. Hearing Candace in the hall, he shifted Rachel—still worrisomely silent—so that her feet were in the artificial beam. He rocked away, then came back to move her so she couldn’t see the corner where the rat cage had once stood.

  “Sir . . .”

  He spun to Candace. He didn’t flaunt his millions but it tended to show even when he didn’t try, and it bothered him when Rachel noticed. “Wonderful,” he said, taking the tray before the curious woman could come into the room. “Candace, I’d like to not be disturbed please. Can you see to that?”

  Nodding, the woman reluctantly backed up, her eyes lingering on Rachel. “Is she okay?”

  Trent’s pointed reply hesitated. Office gossip had Rachel half dead of a demon attack when the reality was she’d spent the night getting a slug taken out of her thigh. She had every right to be in shock. The way he’d felt after finding her, suffering and struggling at the end of her endurance, had been a surprise. The idea that their antagonistic better-than-you relationship they’d had since kids was slipping into dangerous territory had him questioning his own actions.

  And here I am, secluding her away so she has only me to thank for what happens, he thought. Bloody hell and damnation. I don’t have time for this.

  Candace was still waiting for an answer. He wasn’t going to give her one. “On second thought, take the day off,” he said, and the woman’s eyes brightened. Hooking his foot on the door, he swung it shut, right into the suddenly startled woman’s face.

  “Thank you, Mr. Kalamack,” echoed briefly, and then nothing. If his secretary was out, everyone would assume he was too—at least until Quen found him.

  The tray clattering on his desk failed to rouse Rachel. Concerned he sat in his chair. He’d swear she was okay, but maybe this was too soon. She was peaked in her borrowed sweats, but Rachel was tougher than she looked, a trait he remembered from camp when finding her refusing to submit to fatigue. It was one of the first things that attracted him to her. Still did.

  Taking the top file from his IN box, he waved the scent of coffee at her.

  Like magic, Rachel took a deep breath and pulled herself out of her funk. Head lifting, she looked at the vid screen, then him, her expression unreadable.

  His heart gave a thump. She was ready to take that damned bracelet off. He’d been preparing for weeks: charms, circles, invocations. Finally he would be able to show her he was more than just a checkbook. Why does that bother me so much?

  “Are you okay? You kind of spaced out.” Setting the folder down, he leaned over the desk. “I’ve never said that before. Spaced out. But that’s exactly what you did.”

  A strand of hair slipped between them as her head dropped and she looked at her hands, unmoving in her lap. “Did I?”

  The soft hint of fear in her voice pulled him up and he came around to the front of the desk, not liking the position of authority that came from sitting behind it. “You started to go into shock. I thought my office would be better than a room full of helpful Ceri. Unless you want her help with this, too?” Back to her, he poured out a cup of coffee.

  She seemed improved as she reached for it, shaking her head at his suggestion that Ceri join them. A spike of something went through him. She wanted him here with her. Not Ceri, not Quen, but him. Why me? His fingers fumbled as he poured his own coffee.

  “Thank you.”

  Inclining his head, he sat back against the edge of his desk. Maybe she just doesn’t want Ceri’s or Quen’s death on her hands.

  “Don’t do that,” she said, and he eyed her from over his cup as he took a sip.

  “Do what?”

  Her eyes traveled over him, making him freeze. “Sit on your desk and look sexy.”

  Okay, that’s not what I expected. More surprised than embarrassed, Trent stood, hesitating at his indulgent chair behind his desk. Sitting there wasn’t going to happen, and setting his coffee down, he shifted one of the smaller leather chairs before his desk to face her. “I’ve never sat in one of my own chairs before,” he said as he eased down, leaning to take his coffee as he saw his office from a new angle.

  Rachel silently hid behind her own cup, and a pang of worry struck him. “We can wait if you’re not sure,” he said reluctantly, thinking she looked scared under her thin bravado. His charms would help; he’d worked on them every morning for the last three weeks, and he was eager to try them.

  “I’m sure.”

  Relieved, he stopped his shifting foot when she noticed it. “I have a room set up,” he said, wanting to do this before Quen interfered. “Lots of circles, protection. We should break the charm before the sun goes down so we have a chance to prepare for him popping over.”

  “No.”

  “No?” he echoed, and then realigned his thinking. She wanted to do it here, in his office. “Okay, give me a moment, then,” he said as he stretched to reach his phone from the wrong side of his desk. “I’ll get some charms that might contain him for a few moments sent up—”

  “No, as in we’re not going to trap him when he shows,” she said, and he fell back into his chair, staring at her.

  Talk to a demon with no preparations? His hand ached, and he made a fist, hiding his missing fingers, fingers that her demon, Algaliarept had taken. “You’re joking,” he said, and Rachel’s distant mien sharpened to an irate defiance as she unlocked the wheels and rolled her wheelchair back two lengths.

  “Am I in it?” she asked somewhat breathless.

  The ley line that runs through my office? Trent wondered. If she was in the line while standing in reality, and a demon was in the line while in the ever-after . . . It was the middle ground that broke all the rules and made all things possible. “No. Rachel—”

  Jaw clenched, she moved back a foot. “How about now?”

  “No.” She frowned at him, waiting. His eyes narrowed, and when she made an exasperated face, he stood, his arms crossed over his chest. She wasn’t the only stubborn person in the room, and it rankled that she had a simple, viable option he hadn’t considered. If she contacted Algaliarept within a line, all she’d need to do was step out of it to be safe from him. At least until the sun went down.

  Seeing his indecision, Rachel raised a hand to explain. “I promised Al . . .” she said, then caught her breath at an unknown emotion. “I promised Al that I wouldn’t ever summon him into a circle,” she said, her voice low. “Trust is going to keep him calm long enough to listen.”

  “I thought you were going to be smart about this,” Trent said sharply, and she glared at him. What was wrong with her? Trust? It was a demon, for the Goddess’s sake. “Nothing is going to keep him calm. He’s a demon. You can’t trust him.”

  Still she sat there tapping her fingers on the arm of the chair. “You’re asking their entire species to trust you to give them a cure, not a death sentence,” she said, glancing at the knock on the door. “I won’t let you offer them a cure in a way that prevents them from accepting it.”

  Is that so? Arms over his chest, he ignored the knock as well.

  “Look,” she said with that infuriating tone she had when handing out ultimatums. “I understand if you want to leave the room and let me handle it.”

  “I’m not chickening out,” he said, and whoever was at the door left. “I’m pointing out a little preparation will make the
difference in walking away from this or limping. Why are you making this difficult?”

  Rachel extended her cup of coffee toward him, and he took it, not sure why she’d given it to him. “Even with the promise of a cure, you’ve grossly overestimated our chances,” she said, pale as she looked over his office as if trying to remember where the line ran. She couldn’t see it with that bracelet on. “I’d prefer to contact Al immediately after taking the charm off, but if you can take it off for me right now, I’ll wait and call him when I get home. He’ll probably sense me and be waiting for me in the line by then.”

  Trent’s pride stung. He’d gotten her into this. He’d get her out. Motions abrupt, he moved her two feet back and her hair swung with the momentum. “Now you’re in the line,” he said darkly. This was a foolish idea, but he had a few charms he knew by heart.

  “Thank you.”

  Her soft voice stopped him cold. Her hands are shaking. Frustrated, he went to get her scrying mirror out of his desk. If they were going to do this, they’d do it right.

  Rachel’s shock was obvious when she saw it. “Where did you get that?” she said, reaching for it. “I thought it was lost in the quake!”

  “I asked the coven for it,” he said, pleased. “I knew you’d want it eventually.”

  His smile faded as she took it with a proprietary reverence. The thing was decorated with ley line symbols that made his fingertips ache and the rims of his ears hurt. “Tell me how you plan on staying alive long enough to bargain with him if you don’t use what I’ve prepared.”

  Her new fragility was unexpected. “I don’t really have a plan, but hiding in a spell-proof room surrounded by an arsenal isn’t going to help. He’s got my summoning name.”

  No plan? How does this woman survive? “I have your summoning name, too,” he said, trying not to make it into a threat. She didn’t say anything, and he finally returned to his desk, rummaging in his top drawer for his ribbon and cap. He’d be damned if he faced Algaliarept again without them. “Can’t I just—”

  “Defense only,” she demanded. “Promise me.”

  He hesitated, weighing her anger against simply lying to her to get that bracelet off.

  “Damn it, Trent, promise me,” she said, and he turned to keep her from seeing his flush. “You’re all about me taking responsibility, well this is my decision. I have to do it my way.”

  He slammed the drawer shut, his cap and ribbon in hand. “It’s not that I don’t trust you.”

  Rachel snorted. “Trust me? He might kill you. I’m not saying he won’t. But if you raise one charm in anything other than defense, I will spell you down you myself.” She hesitated. “Sure you want to stay?”

  This wasn’t how he’d wanted to do this, but he nodded. Rachel slumped into her rolling chair. “Thank you,” she said. “Is it going to hurt when you take the bracelet off?”

  “No.” Frustrated, he shifted his chair to face her. He’d never hurt her again. It had been agony when his spell had hit her instead of Winona. Unable to meet her eyes, he draped his ribbon over his neck and fixed the cap on his head. The line hummed about him, and he shuddered as he opened his second sight to make sure there were no demons ready to snag them.

  “Why am I even here if you won’t let me do anything?” he grumbled as the image of the red-smeared ever-after wavered over the reality of his office, the knee-tall grasses waving in the gritty wind and the broken city shining in the red light.

  But then he noticed she was shaking again. Fear iced through him. He had to be the one to break the spell bound into the bracelet, but Ceri should be here to protect her from Algaliarept, not him. Or Quen. Either of them were experienced in dealing with demons. But she had asked him, and he wasn’t going to fail her. Never again.

  “Give me your hands,” he said, calm though he was fighting the shakes as well.

  Her fingers were cold as they slipped into his, and they clasped hands, their joined knuckles resting on the tingling sensation of the scrying mirror. She looked frightened, and he gave her fingers a tiny squeeze to make her look up. “Don’t let go until I say,” he warned her, and when she nodded, he closed his eyes to begin the spell. It was in Elvish, and he shoved his feeling of embarrassment away.

  “Sha na tay, sha na tay,” he said, his voice becoming more sure as he chanted it, seeking the attention of the Goddess that he was reluctantly beginning to believe in. He’d seen too much not to. His pulse quickened, an awareness seemed to touch on him—one eye among thousands idly turning his way. The line was all around him, and dizzy with it, he let it fill his chi. And when he was sure he had the Goddess’s attention, he reached for Rachel’s chi.

  His eyes flashed open as he found it empty, utterly and desolate, dead where once it had been bright with life. And Rachel herself? He mused, seeing her with his eyes closed waiting breathlessly for him to break the charm. She couldn’t feel him there, his soul twining about hers. My God, what have I done to her? He had to rekindle her chi before breaking the spell, and the only way to safely manage it would be to use his own energy.

  “Tunney metso, eva na calipto, ta sowen,” he whispered, changing his chant as he allowed the energy of his chi to spill into her, and her aura seemed to pulse with it.

  Rachel’s fingers gripped tighter. She was feeling something; he was doing it right, and he forced himself to calm. It was indescribably intimate, as if he was touching her face, running his fingers through her wild untamed hair, caring for her when she was helpless.

  But then again, she was.

  His chanting bobbled as her eyes opened, clearly feeling a change. A shimmer of moisture glistened, and he closed his eyes, unable to bear seeing her realize what he’d done to her. Her chi swam with his energy, alive once more, but the charm still prevented her from connecting with the lines as it looped forever. He slowed his chanting to pick the spell apart, widening the syllables, spacing them, and therefore their intent, farther and farther apart until at last the spell was frayed enough that the cadence lost its meaning and . . . disintegrated.

  For an instant, it was as if their souls stood at the same place, their energies the same. Rachel gasped, and they stared at each other in wonder. “My God,” he whispered. What have I done to her? He thought, humbled. The spell was broken, but it wasn’t sealed, and her soul was bare to him, the scars of her tragic past and her triumphs over pain and her aching need to find her place. He just wanted to hold her to him and tell her it would be okay, that she had survived and was beautiful.

  But he couldn’t. She’d never believe him.

  “Is it done?” she whispered.

  Shaking his head, Trent licked his lips. “Tunney eva so Sa’han, esperometsa.”

  Rachel gasped as the line flooded her through him, and he bowed his head, holding her fingers as it burned, the energies shifting between them and growing stronger. He was hurting her again, but he couldn’t stop it. The line raced through them both, stronger than any he’d ever felt. But then he realized she was glorying in it, this force that had him gritting his teeth in pain.

  “I’m sorry!” she said as she realized it, too, and he tightened his grip before she could pull away.

  “Dampen it so I can think,” he said, and he looked up when she did, longing to touch her face in reassurance—she was shamed that she hurt him. She was shamed that she had hurt him. “Sha na tay, euvacta,” he whispered, sealing the curse so it would never act again.

  Rachel gasped when he pulled his hand away. Head down, he let go of the line, feeling overly full, tingly, as if he’d run through a lightning storm naked in the rain. His hand cramped up, and he hid it, trying to rub the ache away. “Now it’s done and sealed,” he said, but he wasn’t sure she heard him, frantically pushing at the bracelet on her wrist.

  The silver metal had gone black, and with a final wrench, the circlet slipped from her, hitting the floor to roll to a
halt in the fake sun. Eyes wide, she stared at it, then him. He was an idiot. She didn’t need his help. The woman could channel enough ever-after to down an elephant. “Better?” he said, and then cringed when he realized she was crying.

  “Thank you,” she said, her hand was on the mirror to call Algaliarept. “I’m sorry,” she added, and he flushed as he realized he was rubbing his hand where her fingers had gripped him.

  “For this?” he said, dismissing it, and she shook her head.

  “For what happens next.”

  She wanted to summon Algaliarept. Into his office. With no protection whatsoever. Panic hit him, and he shoved it away. Adrenaline demanded he move, and he pushed his chair out of the line to make more room for whatever might happen. Though they were inside, the gritty wind from the ever-after pushed on him, and the cloying, rank scent of burnt amber. He stood beside her, gazing at the red sun and dry grassland superimposed on his office. Rachel’s touch on his hand shocked through him, and he jerked.

  She was trying to open his fist, and his fingers sprang open.

  “When this is over, can I fix that?”

  My fingers, he realized, shivering when she brushed his palm. She’s talking about fixing my missing fingers. “If you like,” he said with a false calm, then pulled away, stifling a spun-sugar feeling as her hand slipped from his. It’s the adrenaline, he thought, not meeting her eyes.

  “Are you sure you can cure the demons?”

  Nodding, he stood behind her, not sure what had brought that up. She waited for more, and when he remained silent, she set her hand on the calling glyph and closed her eyes. Trent’s hair seemed to prickle, and he drew his fingers away before they could touch her shoulder.

  “Maybe he’s dead or in jail,” he offered when there was no response, and she pressed her fingers into the mirror harder.

  “He might be sleeping,” she said, making him wonder at the concern in her voice. She was worried? About her demon master?

  She twitched, shifting subtly in the chair as if listening to voices he couldn’t hear, and an eerie feeling stole over him. She was talking to her demon, and again he fought the urge to put his hands on her shoulders. Head up, he scanned the ever-after, the reality of his office almost disappearing.