Page 79 of Wicked Hour (Heirs of Chicagoland 2)

The concept was simple: Bite, spreading the agent that prevented coagulation and triggered the mutation. Drain the human blood and replace it with my own blood, which would feed the mutation. And then wait for the physical transformation to be complete—three days of pain and terror as human biology transformed to vampire.

Unless it didn’t.

Only Master vampires—those tested and recognized as Master vampires by the AAM—were officially considered strong enough to ensure the transformation would be successful—and wouldn’t simply kill the human. They were also the only vampires considered experienced and resourceful enough to manage the emotional and psychic connection that linked the Master and the vampire he or she created.

I was twenty-three and could barely manage my own life,much less anyone else’s. But that couldn’t be helped, any more than the risk could be avoided.

The beast had taken Carlie’s life. Here, in the forest alone, this was her only real chance to live again.

She barely moved as I drank, neither conscious nor strong enough to fight me. And I thought it was better that way. She’d seen, experienced enough horror for the night. There was no point in adding to the burden she’d already carry.

It took only minutes for me to drink, my body hungry and depleted from the fight. She was a limp doll cradled in my arms, skin translucent, cheeks hollow, dark half-moon shadows beneath her eyes.

“I’m sorry,” I said again. Full of blood and power and oblivious to pain, I snicked fangs into my own wrist so the blood welled in two dark streams. I held my bloodied wrist to her, let droplets fall upon her lips, and waited.

But she was still as a stone, an alabaster rendering of the woman I’d met at Georgia’s. The woman who’d attacked a beast with a stick to save me from harm.

“Come on, Carlie,” I said, and maneuvered more droplets onto her lips, the contrast between bright blood and pale lips so obvious, so terrifying.

For another minute more, there was nothing. No movement, no sound, no attempt to take the blood I’d offered her. Despair covered me like a blanket. The possibility that I had not saved her, but hastened her death.

And then her lips parted, and the blood licked away. Hope rose, and I offered my wrist again.

Her eyes flashed open, stared up at me. She dug fingers, bloodied nails, into my arm, wrenched it against her mouth, and then began to drink. The sensation was strange—not bad, not good—but strange. My own power, life force, being taken, used, to complete the transformation. And literally sucked away.

“Ow,” I said as her teeth began to sharpen and dig into my skin, but I was glad of the pain. It was penance, and little enough cost for the havoc I’d be wreaking on her life.

Magic rose, cold but bracing, as it began the first stages of its work—mending what was broken. With my free hand, I pushed away the jacket I’d used to put pressure on her wound, watched as the jagged edges knitted together until the skin was whole again. Still sickly gray, but whole.

She would never see the sun again, but she’d heal quickly. Assuming she survived the rest of it.

There were footsteps, movement through the trees, and I wrapped my free arm protectively around her, gaze darting from tree to tree to find the threat.

Connor stepped into the clearing, in muddy jeans and shoes, a shirt rolled and snaked into his waistband. He must have picked up his clothes while searching for us. His torso was bloodied, punctures and lacerations tracking across his arms, his belly.

Relief crossed his face first—gratitude that I was alive. And then he looked closer, saw Carlie, my arm, her lips around my wrist.

His mouth opened, but he didn’t speak, just stared at us until, I guessed, he could comprehend what he was seeing. It would have been a shock, I knew. A horror, probably, to see the girl he considered a little sister bloodied in my arms.

And to watch her drink.

But we were on a schedule, and there was no time to waste. So I had to add insult to injury and hope we’d find our way out the other side. Because while I understood the process, I wasn’t a Master, and Carlie deserved more than my inexperience.

Fortunately, I now knew a vampire, a Master, a physician. I needed his help and hoped he’d be willing to give it.

“I need Ronan,” I told Connor. And hoped he could see the apology in my eyes.

***

We waited until she stopped drinking, which took only another minute. She detached from my arm and fell back, limp; Connor scooped her into his arms and began to move through the woods.

That he wouldn’t let me carry her, despite the fact that I was fed and healing and he was still injured, was an arrow through my heart. Like he didn’t trust me not to do her further harm.

He didn’t speak, and the silence between us seemed to stretch and strengthen.

She’d survive, I told myself. That was what mattered—that the destruction the clan was wreaking wouldn’t claim another victim. And if Connor and I—the bond that had grown between us—didn’t survive, I’d have to live with that. But that didn’t stop the stutter of my heart or the pain that pierced it.

***

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