Page 58 of Blood Bond

Donovan steps forward, his posture relaxed yet authoritative, like a seasoned businessman ready to close a crucial deal. "Jonathan, Jonathan, Jonathan …" he coos, almost melodically emphasising his name.

Jonathan’s gaze sweeps the room, his alarm growing as he spots Marcus and Amelia. Even to someone unfamiliar with their kind, it’s clear these two are predators, akin to cats poised to pounce at the first sign of weakness. In their human lives, Jonathan muses, they were probably cowards, now masquerading as threats.

He instinctively steps back, but says nothing, his silence a testament to his wariness.

"You weren’t infected by Alitora," Donovan observes, tilting his head slightly as he scrutinises Jonathan. "Your daughter and wife got sick, but you – you were unscathed."

Jonathan shrugs, feigning indifference. "Maybe I just got lucky. It's the luck of the draw."

Donovan chuckles softly. "Ah, but that's where you're mistaken. It’s not luck – it's your genetic makeup, or should I say, the lineage you descend from. Come here, do me a favour."

Jonathan eyes Donovan suspiciously, distrust etched in every line of his face. Despite his apprehension, he cautiously moves closer, his gaze darting between Marcus and Amelia. Marcus stands with his hands clasped behind his back, sporting a sinister smile, reminiscent of a snake poised to strike. Amelia lounges in a chair, her long nails rhythmically tapping on the table's surface.

Approaching the table where the book lies, Jonathan peers down at it. "What is this?"

"A grimoire," Donovan reveals with a hint of satisfaction.

Jonathan narrows his eyes, scepticism mingling with curiosity. "Like a witch's book?"

"Exactly like a witch's book," Donovan confirms. "I need you to open it."

Jonathan furrows his brow in confusion but compiles, his fingers gingerly turning the cover of the grimoire’s pages. Donovan watches eagerly, a cloth pressed to his nose, stained with the dark hue of his own blood. His anticipation is thick, his focus singular.

As the pages flutter, a brilliant light bursts forth, illuminating the words written in a long-forgotten script. Donovan's eyes light up with triumph. "Yes ... This is it," he murmurs.

But the light and the words fade as quickly as they appeared, disappearing like sparks in a dark room. Donovan's elation turns to frustration. "No. Fucking no." He snatches the book back, desperately flipping through the pages, searching for the words.

Jonathan takes a step back, eager to distance himself from the volatile situation.

"What the fucking hell ..." Donovan mutters under his breath.

In a swift, unexpected move, Donovan grabs Jonathan's wrist, his grip ironclad. He slashes across Jonathan's bare skin with his nail, drawing blood effortlessly. Jonathan struggles, but the vampire's centuries-old strength is overwhelming.

Donovan turns Jonathan's hand, letting the blood drip onto the book's cover. The cover absorbs the blood greedily, as if starved for it. The book flares to life again, but the words remain elusive, fading as soon as they appear.

Meeting Jonathan's eyes, Donovan shakes his head in frustration. "It's Payton we need. Payton's blood. But your blood ... your blood holds the power."

Jonathan's eyes widen with fear, a deep, visceral terror that grips him. He attempts to pull away, but Donovan's grasp is unyielding.

Donovan positions Jonathan closer, his hands firm on the man's temples. The need to feed, to quell the pounding in his head from the relentless sun outside, is overpowering.

He manoeuvres Jonathan, securing his grip, then tilts his head to expose the vulnerable neck. Jonathan's heart pounds wildly, his breathing ragged with fear.

As Donovan's lips brush the nape of Jonathan's neck, a shiver of dread runs through him. The scent of his fear is intoxicating to Donovan, fueling his primal need.

With a powerful surge, Donovan sinks his fangs into the soft flesh of Jonathan's neck. A sharp pain courses through him, intermingling with a bewildering rush of pleasure. The sensation is overwhelming, a maelstrom of agony and ecstasy unlike anything he has ever known.

Donovan feeds voraciously on Jonathan's lifeblood, feeling the hot rush of vitality invigorate every part of him. With each draw, he senses an increase in his power and vitality, a resurgence of life coursing through his veins.

For Jonathan, reality blurs into a hazy mist as he succumbs to the overpowering sensation of the fangs buried in his neck. The rhythmic drawing of his blood transforms the room into a disorienting whirl of colours and emotions. Time loses its grip, and pain melds into an eerie pleasure, a vampire's deceptive gift. But Donovan's true intent lies elsewhere; he's delving deep into Jonathan's mind, searching for the latent magic.

And there it is, just as Marcus had said - dormant, yet unmistakably present. Jonathan, unbeknownst to himself, is a conduit for Payton, a carrier of her inherited magic. Donovan can feel the faint thread, the subtle connection between father and daughter.

"Find her," he urges through their mental link. "Where is she?"

Jonathan's mind, under Donovan's forceful guidance, reaches out like a beacon. His thoughts, manipulated by Donovan, plead desperately. "Help me," he thinks, his silent plea travelling down the psychic connection to the daughter he let go.

He finds her in the ethereal plane of the mind, asleep yet reachable. Donovan skillfully weaves images of Jonathan in distress, in need of his daughter's aid.

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