Page 78 of House of Crimson Kisses
“We have to win, Octavia. I want that cure for Amelia. And we’re not going to unless we claw points back. And we won’t do that if one of us dies.”
I scan Red’s face. Her words are potent, but her expression doesn’t match.
“Do you still want to win?” I ask.
“Of course I do,” she snaps.
But I’m not sure she still believes that. Or maybe she does consciously, but her subconscious says differently.
“What if we’re ambushed? What if we lose our minds? What if the trial unleashes our worst nightmares and scares us to death?” She flings her arms in the air.
“Then I won’t run this city, and you won’t be getting a cure for your sister. So how about we lay off the negativity and focus on getting ourselves through this? Which you won’t if you have a shred of doubt about your capabilities.”
I lean forward and pull her chin around so she’s facing me. “I believe in you, Verity Fairbanks. You’re going to get through this. As am I. And when we’re on the other side of it, we’ll celebrate in style. And then we’ll shape this city into something magnificent. Something we can both be proud of, and we’ll do it by each other’s side.”
Her lips part, her breathing short and rapid. My focus drops to her mouth. I want to kiss it. I want to draw her lip between mine and suck it until she begs me to fuck her. But I can’t. This love that we’re holding between us is so fragile, I don’t want to do anything that will risk what tenuous connection we have left. She hasn’t forgiven me. I know by the space she holds between us. But I’ll fight for every millimetre I can gain back.
It’s why I refused to bite her the other night when her emotions were all over the place, and it’s why I won’t kiss her now. Because kissing her will lead to fucking her, which will lead to one or other of us biting each other. And we don’t have time for any of it.
I pull the carriage curtain aside and glance at the sky. The first hints of burnt ochre simmer on the horizon.
“Time to go,” I say.
Red grumbles but opens the carriage door and steps into the church courtyard.
We’re welcomed by monks, one for each of us. These monks don’t appear to have taken a vow of silence yet. They chatter away to each of us. The one chatting with Gabriel hands him a book and presses Gabe’s hands against it. Gabriel about bursts with excitement.
The monk talking to Red seems to have lifted her mood already. She throws her head back, laughing. Her eyes are bright and smiling. There’s a bite in my chest, a stab of something I’d rather not confess to. She seems delighted though, as they huddle closer and natter away to each other.
The church doors open as the sky brightens and my arms itch. My siblings and I all speed inside, eager to get the gnawing sensation off our skin. The hunters waltz in behind us, and last, the blood monks follow, closing the door and sealing us inside the church.
Red was fine outside, but as I scan her up and down, I can see she’s trembling. I edge next to her. “Everything okay?” I ask.
“The scent is strong in here,” she says.
The blood, of course. I hadn’t even thought about it. But last time we were here, there were basins filled with blessed blood. Given the state of her addiction, she’s got to be overwhelmed.
“Breathe through your mouth. It will reduce the severity.”
She nods and her lips part.
The nine monks stand in front of us and bow, indicating that we should follow them. Side by side, down the main aisle, we proceed through the church.
My eyes gaze up at the art that adorns the building. I’m impressed each time I see the stories told not with words but with images, and the memories painted and carved into the ceilings and windows.
It makes me wonder whether artists should really be called wizards, for the gift they have for translating meaning and emotion from one complex language into another.
We pass through a gate at the rear of the church and into an area I’ve never visited, down a narrow, twisting stone staircase and into the bowels of the building.
My body flecks with gooseflesh at the drastic drop in air temperature; Red and the hunters must be freezing. At the edges of my vision, the unyielding stone walls seem to pulse, and I can’t work out whether it’s in my head or if they’re really throbbing with some mystical force.
We reach an antechamber and the monks guide each of us to stand in a circle. Red is back chatting with her monk, and whatever he’s saying is engaging enough that she’s smiling again. All I can say is thank the Mother of Blood for him because the last thing I want is for her to go into this trial mentally distracted and riddled with doubt.
The monks vanish and return with bowls of water and washcloths. They make us cleanse our faces, brush our fangs and wash our hands.
We’re silent the whole time. The only sound is the slow, methodical beating of the blood monk’s hearts and the increasingly rapid beating of the hunters’.
Next, they bring us red cloaks identical to the ones they wear, though several shades lighter.
