Page 58 of I Will Always Find You
The blood moved chaotically across the parchment until it formed a perfectly shaped directional symbol: an arrow. This blood-made pointer would turn in the direction that led to the individual it was spelled to locate.
However, within seconds of the spell’s completion, the blood vanished, absorbed into the paper, leaving no trace behind.
“Dammit!” the Romani witch cursed.
He attempted the spell again using Aeneas’ name; this time, the blood dribbled right off the page, entirely refusing to heed the spell.
The Romani witch believed that this setback was caused by the Wheel of Destiny’s eternal interference in his pursuit of happiness. Using his witchcraft to locate Aeneas’ soul had seldom been successful, as if his very essence was somehow shielded from being detected by magical means. Still, he continued to try in every lifetime despite the frustrating failures.
As he waited in the alley, the sounds of gunfire and shouted orders in both Spanish and French echoed in the distance. Hecontemplated his next move, considering which direction to take based purely on chance and luck, giving a silent prayer to the goddess Fortuna. It was then that the Romani witch noticed something strange out of the corner of his eye.
A solitary man, tall and brawny with dark hair and a thick beard, had appeared out of nowhere and begun moving among the bodies on the street, both the dead and the dying, with an air of authority and a commanding presence.
The Romani witch noted that he was dressed like a Spanish officer, wearing a dark blue coat adorned with silver buttons and embroidered lace along the collar, cuffs, and lapel. He wore white trousers and black riding boots that extended just below the knee, topped off with a black bicorne hat trimmed with silver lace, a red cockade, and a red plume.
Though there was dust and blood upon his boots, the rest of him remained remarkably immaculate.
Something was not quite right about the striking man, though the Romani witch could not pinpoint what it was. He found it odd how the gentleman appeared completely unbothered by the war-torn environment, but it was more than that. It was the way he moved, along with the shadows that seemed to shift around him, that made it seem as if he wore darkness like a cloak.
When the Romani witch blinked, the shadowy figure disappeared. Then, as fast as he had vanished, he mysteriously reappeared, but in a different location further up the street.
How is this man moving so fast? Is this but a trick of the moonlight? Is he a witch, a sorcerer? What is he—by Hecate! That face! Now that I see it so clearly, can it be? It can’t be him!
Only the Romani witch was certain it was. This conviction only grew stronger when he witnessed the man lift one of the nearly dead French soldiers off the ground as if he weighed no more than a feather. Then, under the glow of the moonlight, hewatched the bearded fellow sink a pair of long, glinting white fangs into the soldier’s neckand begin drinking his blood.
By Hecate! It is him!
The blood-drinker was Gian, whom the Romani witch had not seen since the 4th century.
Before he could call out to his immortal friend, the god who was a father to Aeneas in his life as Rufus vanished.
“Dammit!” The Romani witch immediately attempted to locate Gian through magic. Though he had no blood belonging to the immortal, he used his own Romani blood, pricking his finger and letting the scarlet ichor drop upon the goatskin parchment. He willed the sanguine ink not to find a specific individual but anyone with blood as powerful as his, as magical,more so.
Within a few moments of relative silence, before the gunfire started up again, the magic locked onto something.
“Yes!” the Romani witch cheered. He reasoned that once they had their brief reunion, he could ask Gian for aid in finding Alejandro amid a battle-torn Madrid.
With a renewed sense of urgency and excitement, the Romani witch followed the map through multiple streets and alleys, occasionally needing to avoid patrolling soldiers and rebels. Spells of misdirection and confusion were most effective when used quickly without drawing attention to himself. And they needed nothing extra to cast, only words and will.
What was strange was that the blood map led him north, toward the outskirts of the city, through an area he knew was sparsely populated; yet, he soon found himself wading through a surprising number of dead bodies. Most were torn apart and scattered here and there. French and Spanish. Commoner and soldier. Even, to his horror, a few youths.
Soon, the corpses practically covered the street he was led down, most displaying no signs of fatal bullet or sword wounds.
“What in the world?” The Romani witch was both flummoxed and revolted.Gian would never commit such an atrocity, not the man I knew, immortal blood-drinker or not! Who could be doing this? Who—or what—is the map leading me to?
As the Romani witch turned another corner, to what appeared to be a dead-end street, he finally got the answer to this mystery.
And he was staggered by what he saw.
It was an immortal, a blood-drinker, but it was not Gian. Not by any means. It was something diabolical and vicious. And unbelievably dangerous.
“You—!” the Romani witch gasped.
The air was heavy with the metallic scent of blood, and scattered around the dark figure were the lifeless forms of dozens of people, their faces frozen in expressions of terror. In the center of the cobblestone street, bathed in the glow of Luna’s ethereal moonlight, stood the very monster that had haunted his nightmares for over a millennium. It was the immortal fiend that had taken his and Rufus’ lives in Britannia ages past.
Their day of reckoning had finally come.
To make the situation even more horrific for the Romani witch, Alejandro was held in the immortal’s iron grip. He was cursing and futilely struggling to free himself. Although the blood-drinker was much smaller than the wizard, that did not matter; both figures were floating above the ground.
