Page 92 of A Chill in the Flame
“It’s something I’ve been thinking of for a while. The more I’ve been around you, the more I’ve seen your power, the more confused I am.”
It was clear from her expression that he’d tickled her curiosity. “Go on,” she prompted, propping herself up on her elbow as she looked at him, black curtain of hair falling over her shoulder, gaps between tendrils of hair revealing the curves of her breasts. From her navel, to her hips, to her toes, she was far too comfortable being naked.
“You can do anything,” he said.
“Is that the question?”
He shook his head. “Can you manifest?”
“Isthatthe question?”
Tyr met her eyes at last. “Why haven’t you broken the bond?”
Her expression tightened. “You’re asking why I haven’t removed my tattoo so I can kill you,” she reiterated flatly. Ah, yes. The siren understood him just fine.
He didn’t bother nodding, just continued to look at her.
“The Blood Pact doesn’t use a natural power for the bond. You know that. Their namesake has appropriate connotations. It’s unbreakable.”
“But surely—”
“It’s not magic. It’s not a power. It’s a curse, Tyr. We’re cursed. We willingly submitted ourselves to a fucking blood curse. Surely, if there were a way, I would have done it. The removal, that is. Not the killing you.”
His eyebrows lowered, lips twitching as if fighting the urge to smile.
“No—”
“You don’t want to kill me.” His smile began to spread.
“I didn’t say—”
He was certain his eyes sparkled. “You don’t hate me.”
“Tyr, I hate your guts.”
He shook his head, still grinning. “You don’t want me dead. You said so yourself.”
“Fuck off.” She plopped back down on the bed, allowing the arm that had been supporting her to relax at her side. She covered her eyes with both hands. “Now I have to kill you again just out of spite.”
Though her eyes were covered, he hoped she could hear the smile in his voice. “Sure, sure.” Then on a more serious note, his voice dropped. “It really can’t be removed? There’s nothing that can be done? Even with Ophir’s power?”
She released her palms from where the heels of her hands dug into her eyes, allowing them to thumb to her sides with irritation. “Our Blood Pact is a curse, Tyr. It breaks when we die. Ophir can manifest. Only death breaks the curse. We could kill Anwir to break it—”
“Then we’d all die.”
“Precisely.”
There was a simple elegance to the Blood Pact’s cleverness. Mutually assured destruction kept them in line. It was much like a witch’s poppet created to be stuck with pins, except the object was the giver, and the subject was the receiver. If Dwyn killed Tyr, she would die. When she’d burned his hand, her own had melted into his. Tit for tat, no action could be committed from one member of thegang by another without reciprocal consequence. This was why she hadn’t taken Ophir’s power directly. It hadn’t been altruism. It hadn’t been love or affection or kindness. It was because Dwyn feared that if she carved out Ophir’s heart and ascended, everyone in the Blood Pact might stand to benefit. It was a risk she wasn’t willing to take. Anwir seemed to believe it to be true, and she would be damned if she gave him the chance to be right. The curse that bonded her with every member in their fucking blood gang reminded her of it every time she looked at her leg.
In the race for blood magic, there would be no tying for first.
If she and Ophir reigned as partners, Dwyn could possess a heart by proxy. Anwir and his Sulgrave Blood Pact gained nothing.
“You didn’t even try other methods?” he prodded. “You could have trapped Anwir in a cave for ten thousand years—”
“And if he got sick? If he starved to death? Since I was the one who enacted the trapping—”
“I get it.” A long pause stretched between them. “Dwyn?”
