A Perfect Blood (The Hollows #10)(90)
Author: Kim Harrison

And finally it reached the tipping point. With a wrench, I felt a tug, and like two drops of water, my soul was realigned with reality.

Trent’s eyes flashed open, wide and wondering as his chanting stopped. "My God," he whispered, suddenly tense and shocked. The heat of the charm lay in his eyes, the promise of what could be – what might be if I could trust another with my heart again. And it hurt me knowing it wasn’t mine.

"Is it done?" I said, feeling the pain of unfulfilled passion. I ached for it to be gone.

Trent licked his lips, shaking his head. "Tunney eva so Sa’han, esperometsa."

I gasped, Trent’s fingers tightening on mine as the sudden power of the lines flooded me, pure and untainted. They rang my soul like a bell, bathing us in sound inside and out. I gloried in it, my head flung back as I breathed it in, feeling it pool in me like gold, washing away my lingering headache and tingling all the way down to my toes. It was glorious, and I almost cried as I realized how deeply I’d cut myself off. Never. Never again.

Exhilarated, I looked at Trent. My eyes opened wide as I saw him sitting before me with his head down and his aura glowing about him like a second shadow, magnificent and beautiful, not a hint of demonic taint, the tragic streaks of red running through the brilliant haze of gold.

And then I realized he was clenched in pain.

My eyes went to our clasped hands. "I’m sorry!" I said, trying to pull away only to have his hands grip mine more tightly.

"Dampen it so I can think," he gasped, and I did, still able to feel the currents ebb and flow. My God, why had I done this to myself?

Trent looked up, a sheen of sweat on his brow. "Sha na tay, euvacta," he whispered, and I sucked in air when his fingers spasmed, opening from mine and falling away. "Now it’s done and sealed," he almost croaked, looking at his fingers as they cramped into claws.

Breathless, I sat up. Eyes wide, I looked at the bracelet. It still hung on my wrist, but the words were gone and the metal had turned black. The spell was broken. Frantic, I pushed it to my hand, wanting it off. The metal pinched my skin, and then with a wrench, I felt the metal seem to expand and it slipped over my folded fingers and was gone.

My heart pounded. I stared at the ring of black metal as it wobbled to a halt and sat on the carpet in a fake patch of sunlight. It was done.

"Better?"

Blinking away tears, I focused on Trent. He was easing back, looking wan. I nodded, unable to find the words. I could feel the lines – all of them – though the sensation was fading. They sang in me like the heartbeat of the sun, a thousand tones all harmonizing to one om of sound. And then they all slowly vanished with the sensation of sparkles, leaving only the soft hum of the line we were sitting inside.

"Thank you," I said, then grimaced. Now it would get difficult.

On my lap, the sparkling line of the scrying mirror glittered, caging the ruby image it was throwing back into reality. My fingers ached where they rested on the smooth surface, and I could feel the latent energy pressing into my legs. The bracelet was dead, the mirror was alive. Everything had shifted. Now all we had to do was convince Al to let me stay . . . and everything would be fine.

Trent was rubbing his hands, the white marks of where I’d gripped him too tightly obvious. "I’m sorry," I said, and a heavy weariness edged his grim expression.

"For this?" He held up his hand, the white pressure marks easing.

I shook my head, afraid to bring up my second sight to see Al waiting for me already. "For what happens next."

Silent, he got up to stand beside me. He avoided my eyes, and I wondered what he’d felt as his soul had crept into my own through the cracks and crevices, bursting the wall that he’d put around it. He was still looking at his hand, probably remembering Al taking his fingers off in an attempt to move him to the ever-after one ounce of flesh at a time. A pang of tension that had nothing to do with talking to Al went through me, and I took his hand and turned it over. "When this is over, can I fix that?" I asked him even as he stiffened, surprised that I’d touched him.

His posture eased. "If you like," he said as he pulled his hand away.

"Are you sure you can cure the demons?" I asked, and he nodded, shakily moving to take up a position behind me as I put my free hand on the mirror. Al would listen. He’d give me anything for that. If he believed me. Fear made me jerk as my eyes closed, and, taking a breath, I drew the glory of the ever-after energies into me. My gut was a slurry of emotion – doubt, dread, the fear that I wouldn’t be able to live up to my bold words that I could be the demon – hope, confidence, and elation from being connected to the lines again: all mixed together until I felt as if I was going to throw up. A quiver went through me when I found the collective, and I felt Trent shift his feet. Al? I called out in my mind before I lost my nerve. He would listen. I’d make him.

But there was nothing. No response, no echo. I frowned, worry joining everything else.

"Maybe he’s dead or in jail," Trent said, knowing what was going on from my attitude.

"He might be sleeping," I said, having run into this before. Shoving my fear aside, I steadied myself to try again. Al! I shouted in my mind. Ah, it’s Rachel.

This time there was a faint stirring, like a bat opening his beady little eyes, reflecting the world in a cold, uncaring light as his consciousness joined mine. It was him, and a spike of fear-based adrenaline was cold in me. Um, Al? I said again, wary at the rising hatred in me, a reflection of Al spilling into my psyche.

Goddamned mother pus buckets. His evil, cold thought slithered through mine, calculating, ancient, bitter – and utterly lacking his usual noble British accent. Back already? Leave me the hell alone!

A bare hint of intent warned me, and I yanked my hand off the glass. I jumped as a pop echoed both in my ears and thumped through my lap, and I looked down to see a tiny crack running through my mirror.

"What happened?" Trent asked, peering over my shoulder.

I could smell him, feel his breath on me, but my eyes were fixed on the glass. My lips parted and I ran a finger over the mark, feeling only the smooth, unblemished mirror. The break hadn’t gone all the way through. The amount of mental force needed to crack it even this much had been immense, though. If I hadn’t severed the connection in time, it could have been me.

"He cracked my mirror," I said, not sure if it was going to work anymore. "He doesn’t think it’s me. He thought I was one of his buddies, messing with him." Feeling reckless, I put my hand back on the calling glyph. "Give me a sec."