Page 18 of Blood

“I can see into your soul, young necromancer,” the White Stag resumes. “Don’t hide from me. And don’t hide from yourself.”

The truth of the matter is, I know the answer to the White Stag’s question. I don’t even have to think about it, and that knowledge alone terrifies me.

I would die for Violet Dracula—I’ll offer up my heart on a silver platter, as damaged and rotten as it is. I shouldn’t, I know that. She’s my enemy. I tormented her. She tormented me. We’re fire and gasoline, and so long as we’re near each other, the world will eternally burn.

But fuck, do I want to be consumed by her flames and bask in her heat.

“I’m supposed to hate her,” I whisper. “I’ve always hated her.”

But saying the word “hate” in regards to Violet has revulsion slithering through my veins like a thick sludge weighing me down. Hating her is like hating sunlight. I’ve lived in the darkness for so damn long that I’ve forgotten how good it feels to step out into the light.

The White Stag’s expression doesn’t change, but I swear his eyes warm, burning with a banked fire.

“Feelings can change, as can perceptions. Tell me, young necromancer, everything that you’ve discovered.”

So...I do. My mouth seems to have a life of its own as I regale him with what I’ve learned—that Zeus has been stealing souls to grow in power, that he placed a spell on the other monsters to make them hate vampires, that he had his mistress kill Violet’s mate.

The White Stag listens to me ramble without interrupting, though I do see a calculating gleam enter his eyes.

“The rune you speak of... The ones marking Vanessa Van Helsing and Violet’s mates...” He pauses, though I’m not quite sure if the resulting silence is intentional or not. He doesn’t seem like the type of monster to draw out suspense, and yet...

He doesn’t fucking continue.

Those beady eyes of his remain locked on my face as he waits for me to...I don’t fucking know. Understand his unspoken sentence?

Fucking stags.

After a solid minute of unbearable silence, the White Stag heaves out a heavy breath—the noise laced with agitation, as if I’m the stupidest being known to man—and says, “From what you described, that rune hasn’t been used in thousands of years. An ancient species of monsters once used it to control the dead and convince unruly souls to go to their final resting place.”

“The Fomorians,” I breathe, thinking of that asshole Balor.

The White Stag doesn’t even blink as he takes another step closer. “They are one of the few species that have control over both the living and the dead. For the longest time, they were the only ones.”

“Until Zeus,” I supply bitterly, but the White Stag is already shaking his massive head.

“No, not Zeus. At least, not naturally. What he’s doing is a blatant defiling of the natural order of things.” He pauses yet again, but before the silence can become too long, he continues. “I’m speaking of another monster—one who was born of Hell and Heaven, of the goddess of fertility and the king of the dead and damned. A creature of both life and death.”

I swallow around the razor blade that has become lodged in my throat. “You mean Violet? You think she’ll be able to...remove the runes? Break them?”

The White Stag’s voice gentles considerably. “If anyone can, it’s her. I’ve never seen such a stubborn soul before. Once she figures out how to break the spell, I believe she’ll have more monsters on her side than she initially expected, including me.”

I swallow, scarcely able to believe what I’m hearing.

“So, you’re helping us?” I demand.

“I’ve seen into your soul, Alex, and your heart is pure. Your love for Violet Dracula has made it so.”

I begin to choke on nothing but air. “Love?” I ask in disbelief, panic jangling my nerves. “I don’t love Violet. I tolerate her, at best.” I don’t know why I’m arguing with the damn deer. Maybe I have a death wish?

But the White Stag only dips his huge head, his canyon-like eyes—fathomless and cloying—twinkling.

“Whatever you say, young necromancer.”

His words spin around and around in my head.

Love?

Violet?

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