Page 81 of Their Blood Rite

‘That’s awful. Who did that to them?’

‘You did.’

‘Me?’

‘Blood witches,’ he shrugs, casually looking around us. ‘They killed all sorts for their parts. Kind of goes along with the territory.’

Blood witches. My kind. The idea of being associated with that kind of magic makes my stomach twist in knots.

‘Will you take the blood of whatever you kill?’ I ask, keen to change the subject.

‘No. Animal blood tastes like shit. I’d rather drink piss. Funny story, I’ve actually done that. But it was an accident. Drank too much whiskey and pissed in the bottle cos I couldn’t be bothered to get up. Woke up in the morning gasping for a drink. Moral of the story… don’t be a lazy fucker and piss in a bottle.’ He chuckles.

‘Gross,’ I laugh. ‘And noted.’

‘Why are you wearing the bracelet?’ he asks.

I turn and face the waterfall.

‘I don’t want to see the scars,’ I admit quietly.

His hand rests on my wrist, just over the glamour. I pull away.

‘You don’t need to hide when it’s just us, Pixie. I hear Glamours are heavy to wear. Aren’t you more comfortable without it?’

It’s true. I hadn’t realised the weight of it on me until it was taken off and then returned this morning. Like a heavy blanket draped over me. Or walking with a thick coating of mud on my clothes.

‘You can take it off,’ he says.

‘I don’t want…’ The words get stuck.

‘Want?’

‘I don’t want to see you look at me like I’m some injured cat you found in an alleyway.’

‘I assure you. That is not how I ever feel when I look at you.’

‘How you all looked at me when you first saw the scars? I don’t want that. I don’t need that.’

‘And how did we look exactly?’

‘You went from fierce warriors who captured a blood witch to pity-stricken men looking at a broken thing.’ I move closer tothe falls and away from him. ‘I don’t like feeling self-conscious. I like my body. I’ve never been ashamed of it. And I don’t want to feel ashamed of it now. It’s survived a lot and deserves my respect and love. I just need to get used to the scars. To the idea of having them. I need time to learn to love them. That’s all.’

‘I think your body is beautiful,’ he says. ‘The scars just show its strength.’

‘You don’t need to make me feel better about myself. All bodies are beautiful. But sometimes scars are just a reminder of all the ugly things that have happened. That’s what scars are. Memories. Some are good. Some scars are full of pride. Like the ones you have from battle victories. Some are full of love, like stretch marks on a mother’s stomach. But some are full of pain and despair. That’s what mine are. Soon, I will love them all. They will be my victory scars. Proof I survived. I just don’t feel that right now. But I love myself enough to promise I will try. Besides. It’s not safe for anyone to see my Kindred marks.’

When I don’t speak or turn, his hands slowly settle on my hips.

‘Until you do, I promise to see them as your victory map, Pixie,’ he says. A few seconds pass as if he’s waiting for me to tell him to get off. To leave.

But I don’t want him to let me go. I don’t want him to step away.

A trail of goosebumps follows his touch and my skin tingles. The water shifts as he moves closer. His steady breaths land on my neck as he sweeps my hair over my shoulder.

‘Have you looked at them yet?’ he asks.

‘A little.’

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