Bloodkin (19 page)

“Where’s the kitchen?” I asked. I would willingly eat Midnight’s food, which had practically been stolen from shapeshifters in the first place, but I didn’t think I could
stand to ask a slave to wait on me, which I assumed was what Vance meant when he said “order a meal.”

“This way.”

Vance led us confidently into the hall, then paused. I saw indecision cross his face, and I asked, “Do you
know
where the kitchen is?” It was probably an insulting question—even serpiente royals could locate the kitchen, though I was pretty sure none of them knew how to use it—but for all I knew, Vance hadn’t been allowed to visit such a common place. The vampires hadn’t wanted him to know too much, after all.

“It’s in the south wing,” he answered immediately, “so we have a choice. Would you rather go past the trainers’ rooms or the slaves’ cells?”

“This way,” I said, turning away from the library and the areas we had seen earlier. I wanted to avoid the trainers for as long as I could.

I wasn’t prepared.

We passed a guard as we entered the east wing, through a heavy door that was closed but unlocked, and then all hints of comfort disappeared. Plush woven carpets gave way to gray stone, worn smooth by centuries of hopeless feet. Where other halls had boasted artwork, wood paneling, and frescoes, here there was more stone, occasionally dotted with ominous iron brackets or bars. I did not want to consider their possible uses.

There were no doors to conceal the cells we passed.
Most cells had four beds, simple blankets, and occasionally a small table cluttered with some kind of project. One had a braided scraps rug, which was noteworthy enough that I couldn’t help glancing inside. The two children within were at the age where they were probably just beginning to walk, which explained the rug. Jeshickah wouldn’t want her possessions damaged by a fall on the stone floor.

There were no windows, and no artwork to make this cool, gray place less oppressive.

I would die in here
, I thought as I caught sight of a young girl diligently working with needle and thread. Around her throat was a collar, as if she were little better than an animal.
I would simply fade and die. How do they survive?

WE TURNED A
corner, and instead of a long expanse of cells, we were suddenly surrounded by the sounds and smells of work: the steady
whump-whump
of a loom from one room, the splash of steaming water being poured into a washtub, and the mouth-watering aroma of baking bread and what smelled like meat stew.

Probably not squirrel
, I thought as I followed my nose. The only sound missing from this scene was that of chatty conversation. The voices I heard were soft, murmuring whispers, impossible to make out.

We had just reached the doorway of an immense kitchen when a cultured voice from farther down the hall said, “Excuse me?”

The man who had hailed us wasn’t a vampire.
Serpiente?
I wondered. His fair skin, bright blue eyes, and dark
hair would make sense for that breed, which meant he was probably one of the bloodtraitors who worked for Midnight.

“Could you help me with something?” he asked, when we both regarded him warily. Then he ducked back into the room he had come from.

I looked to Vance for guidance, but he had already stepped forward. “That’s the infirmary,” he explained.

Was the man a healer? If so, he was still a traitor, but at least he was using his skills to try to alleviate suffering.

Or prolong it
, I thought darkly,
if you consider slaves better off dead
.

As I walked into that room, I was struck by the strangest sense of familiarity and nostalgia, though for a moment I didn’t know why. A memory surfaced of my mother sitting next to me, singing and soothing my brow.

Vinegar
, I thought, realizing the smells in the room had triggered the memory,
and hyssop
. My mother had been a nurse, and especially once I had become ill, our home had always smelled this way.

The pungent memory had distracted me from the man who had summoned us here, but a low whimper brought my attention back to him, and the child who lay on a cot in front of him. The young boy was unconscious, hunched into a ball, trembling. His eyes were swollen and his breath came in wheezes.

“What did they do to him?”
I gasped, horrified. The boy
was about the age I had been when I was brought to Diente Julian Cobriana. How I had railed and whined, horrified by the palace, and all the strangers around me, with their bizarre looks and customs. What an ungrateful child I had been.

“What did who do?” the man asked. “No one did anything to him. He stuck his hand in a black widow’s nest while getting preserves from the root cellar.”

“He isn’t collared,” Vance observed. “Who is he?”

“His father is one of the guards here, but the boy doesn’t seem to have inherited his father’s shapeshifting abilities at all,” the man answered. “That’s why the spider bite is affecting him like it would a human. It’s also why I think you can help me,” he said, looking up directly at me. “You’re a serpent, aren’t you?”

It was hard to resist just saying, “Yes, I’ll help!” when the child moaned, but I didn’t want to agree to anything until I knew what I was getting myself into. “Who are you?” I asked.

“My name is Stefan,” the man answered. “I’m a witch, occasionally in Midnight’s employ. Are you or aren’t you? If you are, I can use you to trigger his shapeshifting reflex. It should purge the poison from his body, and save him a lot of trouble later.”

“You can do that?” I asked. The Shantel had struggled for weeks when they tried to force me to shapeshift, and that was after my serpent form had tried to manifest on its
own. Years later, I still found shapeshifting uncomfortable, and tried to do it as rarely as possible.

“If you’re willing to help me.”

“I’m only half serpent,” I admitted. “Is that a problem?”

“What about his father?” Vance asked, his distrust clear in his voice. I was so concerned for the child, I had almost forgotten he was still there.

“So is he,” the witch answered me, “it’s fine.” To Vance, he added, “His father is working in the market. The boy was brought in by one of the avian guards.”

“What do you need me to do?” I didn’t care that the child’s father was a bloodtraitor, and quite possibly worse, since his human mother was probably a slave. A child wasn’t responsible for the sins of his parents.

“I just need a little blood,” Stefan said.

“Is this safe for Kadee?” Vance asked.

“Nothing I do will injure her,” Stefan assured the quetzal. “I need far less than you gave to the vampires every time you let them feed.”

He turned back to me too quickly to see the way Vance’s gaze dropped at the reminder. I knew Vance’s blood was what had infected the vampires, but I had never stopped to think
how
. They had fed on him. Stefan’s words implied that Vance had been willing, but Vance’s expression now spoke of shame.

Stefan was oblivious, too focused on the sick child and
the task at hand. He smoothed the child’s flushed brow and said, “I understand your caution, but we are in a bit of a hurry. If you won’t help, I should go find someone who will before it’s too late. If it isn’t already.”

“Do what you need to do,” I said. I held out my hand, and the witch drew a strange knife from a sheath at his waist. The handle looked like silver, but the blade was transparent, like glass, with a pink tint, as if it had already tasted blood.

The Shantel deathwitch who had nearly killed the trainers had also had a special knife, though his had been made of wood and inscribed with symbols. I was sure I wasn’t the only one recalling that memory; I could almost feel Vance’s tension vibrating in the air.

“What kind of witch are you?” I asked as the witch uncurled my palm and drew the blade across it. Either the blade was too sharp to hurt or the magic numbed the pain, because all I felt was a vague sense of warmth and tingling.

“Shhh,” Stefan hushed me. He sheathed the knife, then turned my hand and let my blood drip into his curled palm, gathering it. His gaze went distant, the way Malachi’s did when he was working magic or staring at visions, and I went silent.

The blood should have spilled through his fingers, but instead, it drew together in a sphere that he cradled in his hand like a bubble. The cut on my hand drew closed with a deep itching sensation as the witch reached his free hand
out to the boy. Stefan gently touched the red, swollen fingers near the spider bite, and the inflamed flesh started to pale. He touched the child’s temple, then his throat, and unbuttoned his shirt one-handed to place a palm over the boy’s heart.

The boy gave a sharp, gasping breath, and I saw the witch’s muscles tense as if he were
pushing
against the child’s chest—but if he had actually applied that much force, the boy would have gone sailing off the other edge of the cot.

The child’s skin writhed and rippled. I saw green-gray snakeskin appear and disappear in patches, like dappled sunlight coming through trees.

The boy’s body started to shake, and I instinctively reached forward, catching the back of his head just in time to have my fingers slammed into the cot hard enough to bruise. Without needing to be told, Vance jumped forward to help hold the child’s legs as his whole body began to seize.

This is what I looked like
, I thought. The pain in one hand, the bone-deep itch in the other, the nostalgic smells of disinfectant and herbs, and the reality of watching this witch do for this child what no one had been able to do for me made my head spin.

The boy never stilled, but his body began to flow, shifting from a human child to a skinny green snake with white markings down its back. I pushed Vance away, unsure if
this boy might be poisonous, but the snake just dropped its head and collapsed, tongue flickering slowly.

The witch let out a long, shaking breath, and wiped sweat from his brow. Then he reached forward, tapped the snake once on the head, and abruptly the boy returned. The swelling was gone, and the boy’s skin had returned to a healthy color. He yawned widely and closed his eyes as the witch whispered, “Sleep, boy. You need rest.”

“The Shantel weren’t able to do that,” I whispered, amazed.

Stefan raised a brow, almost appearing offended. “I’ve been studying my craft a good deal longer than any Shantel. I should hope I can do things they can’t.” He stood and stretched. “I don’t suppose you would allow me to purchase some of your blood for future work?” he asked. “I could do a lot of good with it.”

“There are other serpents here I’m sure you could deal with,” I said, wary. We had healed the child, but I didn’t want to fool myself into thinking this man was only a healer.

“Your half-human heritage is less common,” Stefan explained. “Well, there’s the boy, but I don’t approve of bleeding small children, even if it
is
perfectly safe. And of course,
your
blood could be even more valuable,” he added, looking back at Vance. “As you might imagine, the Azteka usually won’t sell.”

“They consider blood sacred,” Vance said.

“But you and I know it’s simply another commodity,” Stefan replied. “I could compensate you in coin or craft. I’m aware that the Obsidian guild has their own witch, but I’m sure there are useful charms I could provide.”

“What kind of work do you do?” I asked. He might be able to provide us with a valuable trade, but how dangerous could Vance’s blood be in this man’s hands?

“Hmm, what might appeal to a child of Obsidian?” he pondered aloud. “Perhaps a charm for warmth. I usually work them into doorways or thresholds, but I could etch one into a talisman you could carry with you, which would warm an area even if you could not light a fire. I could charm your bow to make sure your arrows fly true even in the wind. Or, if you’re wary of magic, I have other resources. I am allowed a certain number of deer from Midnight’s land, for example, and would be willing to trade some of that allowance.”

All of that sounded good, but hadn’t answered the question I tried to ask:
What will you do with Vance’s blood?
His boast about the Shantel made me want to know one thing in particular.

“Serpents
like
fire,” I said, trying to show the same reserve I would in the marketplace while trying to bargain for a better price. “I’m not sure they would bother with a charm that made warmth without flame. Now, if you could make a fire that would burn in the rain, on wet wood,
that
might be valuable.”

“Making wood burn, even in the rain, is easy. Let me use
Vance’s
blood,” Stefan replied, “and I can make you a spark that will burn stone.”

That’s what I was afraid of
, I thought. Even without Vance’s blood, I believed this man posed a threat to the Shantel woods. At the moment he was dealing with us, and earlier he had been working to save a child, but the fact that he was here meant he worked for Midnight.
At least we have a real threat to report to the sakkri, in case she still doesn’t believe they are in danger
.