Page 8 of Dark Flame
Come on, come on. Body, if there’s a time to work, now would be it. Hecate, if you could give me a thirty-second break from my punishment, I will pay you a tribute every single day for the remainder of my pathetic life.
The vampire takes another step, a dark brow arching in a daring manner. This is all a game to him, and with that look, he’s goading me to fight back. Oh, how I’d play his game…if only my magick worked.
Witches aren’t taught magick necessarily. Enchantments and control, yes, but we’re born with the power and it’s unlocked with puberty. I’ve had my magick since I was thirteen and managed to control it by seventeen, when I gained a much better handle on my ever-fluctuating teenage emotions—thanks, hormones—considering a witch’s magick is so closely tied to our emotional being.
I call upon fright and self-perseveration to save me, like I did the night of my parents’ deaths. For my magick to function again. I think about every lesson on control Mom and Dad taught me in lieu of us having a High Priestess and push it away. Control isn’t what I need right now.
Come on, come on, come on!
The vampire laughs, his melodic voice cutting through my determination. “Oh, this is good. You don’t have your magick, do you?”
I refuse to answer, to admit any weakness to my new enemy, to address what truly happened the night my parents died.
“Harlow, run!” Dad’s voice comes from down the hallway, and there’s only one thing that would suggest the sharp fear in his tone.
I bolt towards the kitchen since the back door is the closest to me and the farthest away from the crash that just came through the front of the house, and hopefully the direction the vampires won’t expect me to go.
My hand’s on the door handle when the loudest scream chills me to my bone, masking the natural heat from my magick.
Mom.
She’s by the stairs, throwing shield after shield up against one of the intruders, but it’s the one who came up behind her, its teeth jamming into her shoulder, that distracts her.
Beyond her, Dad is fighting against two more—and losing.
I can’t run. They’ll die.
Mom screams again, and I whirl around, calling every flame buried within me. Every ounce of my fear and anger burns through me.
I only aim for the one feeding from Mom, to burn him to death and kill him in one of a few ways vampires are able to be killed: burning, decapitation, and ripping their heart out. Instead, my magick comes out in a massive wave that knocks me to the ground.
And the world burns in a mirage of red, orange, yellow…and black.
I tried to save Mom but instead killed both my parents and the attacking vampires.
When I woke up, I no longer had access to my magick, shadows bathed my surroundings in an inescapable blackness, and a barrier was erected around the house. I figured it was the last act of my power. The emotion that went along with saving them did the one thing I never knew was possible: drained me entirely. The barrier was my magick’s final protection.
The stranger grins, his fangs seeming larger. He takes another step forwards, but I jerk my hands in his direction again.
“N-no, that’s not it. Stay away from me or I’ll?—”
“You’ll what?” he asks mockingly. “Push me to death?”
In a flash I miss entirely, a movement quicker than a blink, he’s standing in front of me, his body closer than I’ve ever been to a vampire. His head hangs over mine, his fangs dangerously close.
Apparently that self-preservation that’s been keeping me alive the last little while is broken, because when my head screams at me to run, I remain, captivated by his gaze. His voice. Byhim. By the way, as inexplicable as it is, he feels safe and familiar.
This must be one of his powers. A thrall or something that compels me to want to be near him so he can strike.
Then he opens his mouth, and every ounce of that comfortable reaction wanes.
“Harlow Sinclair. Oh, how much fun we’re about to have.”
It’s not what he said. Not that he knows my first name.
It’showhe spoke it.
It’s the exact same as the voice in my head.
