Csilla started, heart skipping. “Now? But you said you didn’t want to use your own blood again.”
He brought her hands to his lips. They were cold, not even warmed by his breath.
“Powers we don’t understand are being unleashed. What if our killer isn’t even human at all? There might not be any blood to use, even if we do somehow find him before Ilan.”
The idea that a demon could hold its form long enough to kill was absurd; there would certainly be blood. “It will hurt you.” Her own scars itched at the memory of his. He chuckled, grim, and there was so much pain there that she couldn’t help but put her arms around him. She knew well enough that physical hurts were nothing compared to those of the heart. She’d seen him sweat with traumatized fever, she’d seen him cry. Maybe he was the only person who would let her help him anymore.
His fingertips combed through her hair, soft like petting a kitten. “I’ll be more careful this time. And if Ilan’s right, perhaps you can still help. You were raised here, confirmed here.”
“Expelled from the church here.” Her hand twitched.
“Your blood is still on the seal.”
And having a soul could give her whatever spark it was that borrowed the presence of the divine. She tilted her chin to look up at him, taking in all his grief and glory.
“Please.” The word was the plea of a burning man needing water.
She had agreed to this. And she didn’t want to die and be nothing. But… “You won’t care about saving the city anymore. And I might not either.” Tamas’ warnings and Ilan’s threats rang in her ears, loud as any death bell.
He flinched, caught, and she took both his hands in hers.
“Promise me we won’t leave Silgard until it’s safe," she said. "Promise me we will keep trying.”
“And if you don’t-”
Her smile tightened. “If I don’t want to? If I tell you I want to run away to the last safe province, marry and have your babies?” Each word was salt in her mouth. “Then you’ll know that that is not me. And you'll have to say no. Not until this is over. Can you be that strong?”
After a long second, he squeezed her hands. “I swear.”
She nodded, knowing she shouldn’t believe him. It was always going to come to this.
The thin curve of the moon barely gave enough light to see the sharp lines of concentration on Mihály’s face. The knife in his hand was freshly polished, looking shop-front new.
All life began and ended with blood, be it gushing or cooling. A rebirth was no different.
“We should both sit.”
They were behind the house, where dark garden soil would absorb any spill and make it innocent, and the thin weaving branches of dead rosebushes would hide most eyes. Night wind pulled at Csilla’s hair and eyelashes, the sting teasing her to close her eyes. Mihály settled himself in the dirt. Csilla started to follow, sitting across to face him, but Mihály reached out. The moonlight outlined him in silver, every inch divine.
“Against me. The closer we are, the less chance of a mishap.”
She settled in the v of his legs, half-turned so her shoulder met his chest. Cold from the ground leeched through her skirts and the thin leather of her shoes, and when she shivered against him, he smiled.
“Trust me, Csilla. This will be good for you, too.”
Good was starting to seem like such a relative concept. Every nerve in her body was alight, jumping at the slightest brush of his body against hers, twisting at the whisper of his voice against her neck. “She’s here now?” There was nothing hanging in the clear night air that she could see. The only thing spectral was the faint white of their breath.
He hummed assent as he rolled his sleeve up, then tugged on hers. The material had less give and ripped under his hand. He turned her arm so the pale underside rested upwards, showing this blasphemy to the heavens.
She squirmed, all instinct telling her to double forward and protect everything vital. His steady breaths pushed against her back, the rise and fall of his broad chest lulling. If he was so calm, there couldn’t be anything to worry about.
“Don’t worry, Csilla,” he whispered against her ear. She could hear the smile in his voice, soft and hopeful. “And don’t move.”
Carefully he traced the old scars on his forearm with the blade, blood rushing up to meet it. The urge to take her skirts and staunch it was like a sudden itch. This was good blood, she told herself, like letting out poison. It didn’t make it easier to watch.
He took his bleeding cut and smeared it over her arm like he was washing down a board for chopping meat. There were so many notes in the streaking red, crimson glisten and thinned rust.
The rabbits had been clinical, no different than a surgery or stitching. Neat. Planned.
This was birth.
His fingernails scraped a pattern over her stained skin, and the whispers were an invocation. With each syllable the smell of old ash rose around them, and her body froze as if bound by invisible rope. “Mihály...” Even her jaw felt the pressure. Nothing about this was holy, and as the dead scent crawled down her throat and stopped her protests, she gagged.
The knife on her forearm drew a sharp slice. It was like pledging herself to the church, she told herself as her fingers dug into his thigh. Ceremony and faith, real stars above instead of dying magic below. It only felt wrong because she was scared, and that was her own weakness.
“Steady now.” He jammed his thumb against the cut, opening it wide, as white pain sent her shuddering. “You have to be open to her. Let her in. Otherwise she can’t stay. Say yes, my dear.”
The pressure on her head released to allow for the tiniest nod.
A buzz like locusts vibrated in her ears, under her skin, shaking her to the teeth with unnatural, discordant notes. Something cold moved on her exposed skin and hooked, more like the slide of slick leather than delicate spectral hands.
This was wrong. This was no ghost. This was a thing she’d seen in old books and nightmares, and...
The darkness set on her wound like a suckling babe on a breast, ice filling her veins. Every scream was stoppered in her throat as the shadow found a home.
“There,” Mihály whispered, pushing the wound together. “There, my sweet. I’ve saved you now.” He bent close, lips on hers, his breath and falling tears the warmest thing on her.
