Page 23 of A Dawn Of Blood

“Sure,” I reply as I lean against the desk across from her, “but now that I’m a vampire, shouldn’t you be training me to use my powers instead?”

“Jaeger will be the one doing that,” she says with a sigh. “This is more urgent. I only have an hour to spare today, so make sure you don’t waste it.”

I smile. “I’m sure we’ll be done much faster than that.”

She quirks an eyebrow at me. “Oh will we?”

I fold my arms. “I was a human among Originals. I’m well aware of the fact there’s no full-proof way, but I do know how to defend myself against Mind Magic.”

A smirk tugs at her lips. Then, abruptly, she narrows her eyes at me and the next thing I know, I’m in pain, feeling her violent presence in my mind.

Quickly and ruthlessly, she goes through the memory of my getting there, talking to Alaric and Raven last night, smelling Dryden’s blood once we got back from the mission.

Once she retreats, I find myself kneeling on the floor without any recollection of getting there. I’m panting, my palms pressed against the cold parquet and my head throbbing.

“You were saying?” she asks with a smirk.

She doesn’t seem surprised by what she found in my mind. Just like before we started, she looks more bored than anything else.

Slowly, I push myself up and force myself to look at her. I’m a little butthurt when I say, “You’re much more powerful than any vampire I’ve encountered before.”

She lets out a scoff. “You’d be surprised to see how good they’ve become now that they can use Mind Magic freely.”

That vampire who held Lorcan and Raven captive in Troyes pops into my mind.

Inhaling deeply, I stand straight and look straight into her eyes. “Yeah, well, I didn’t have time to prepare. Why don’t you try again?”

She gives me another smirk. “Of course, that’s what I’m here for,” she replies with mocking sweetness in her voice.

I brace myself, but this time, she’s even more violent and efficient. It’s not my most recent thoughts she digs through, it’s all my most hidden memories of Jericho and Orpheus, things I’ve never shared with anyone but the two of them.

By the time she retreats, I’m having a really hard time not cursing her for doing this to me.

“Such a hopeless romantic you are,” she drawls. “Of course, I only managed to see that because you let me, right?”

Working on steadying my breathing, I take a moment to look at her. I narrow my eyes. “I’m not playing this game with you.”

“Where will I get my fun then? You’re so bad at this, it’s making me bored out of my mind.”

But while a moment ago, I would’ve believed her, this time, for some reason, I don’t. Still, the intrusionsaregetting me a little shaken-up, so I just say, “Just get on with it, please.”

This time, she digs even deeper, so ruthlessly, I find myself barely managing to stop myself from screaming.

The memories she’s reaching for are the memories of my father. He must be dead by now and I no longer need to hide from him, but I stillreallydislike even thinking about him.

But despite all my efforts to keep her away from these memories…

I find myself sitting at the table during that dinner, the first one he let me attend and the last one before it all began. I don’t know where to look, my palms are sweaty and my dress is itchy. The dining room is just as grand as I remember it, decorated in the neoclassical style, and packed with officials from all over Croatia and the region. There are no Originals in the room — father claims to hate them because they’re an abomination, but I know the real reason is that he resents not being top of the bloodline hierarchy — but each and every one of the attendees still holds great power in his or her hands. This is why father has had me and mother sit far away from him, to reserve the more important seats for the powerful people who will eventually retreat to his study with him, to smoke cigars, drink rakija and seal secretive political deals. But even at such a distance from him, mother is still nervously wringing her hands under thetable. I’ve been forbidden to engage in any actual conversations with anyone but her, but even if I weren’t, seeing my mother sad always makes me so eager to help, I forget about the world around me. I’m no more than twelve, so the best I come up with to cheer her up is recounting my favorite stories. As always, my mother listens to me with growing relief on her face. This makes me get even more passionate, but just when I reach the climax of the story, she takes my hand under the table and shushes me. I freeze. My gaze follows hers only to see this sweet old man smile at me from across the table with curiosity in his eyes. I curse myself when I realize it’s the one I’m not supposed to glance at, let alone start a conversation with — the man my father has been unsuccessfully trying to woo for years. Now he’s leaning forward to talk to me, but the next thing I know, I feel this urge to look in my father’s direction. The instant I do, blood curdles in my veins, the way he’s coldly narrowing his eyes at me making me want to run away and hide somewhere no one will ever find me.

This thought makes the image abruptly start switching out for the memory of my first escape attempt, but that’s where I finally succeed in diverting de Groot back to today’s events.

Still, I think shewouldmanage to get to the memories that hurt the most, if she wasn’t running out of time. Because when she finally releases me, she first throws a glance at the clock above the desk and only then does she turn to smirk at me.

“Don’t you find it odd,” she asks softly, her head tilting at me, “that you’ve had so little love in your life and that’s what you’re choosing to preach?”

I just stare at her for a second. She’s not bored any longer, she’s intrigued. But it’s not exactly a good thing. For some reason, I know this is no longer just part of my regular training. It’s becoming personal.

And there’s anger in me at hearing her say what she said, but I take a moment to process it before I choose to reply, “You mightbe able to enter my mind, but don’t confuse it with being able to get to me.”

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