The Dark Arts of Blood by Freda Warrington Read Free Book Online Page A

“The police are never off-duty, madam. Ever vigilant.”
    “You are no policeman,” she said. “Who are you? Do you know the brute who stabbed me? How did you find me?”
    That made him pause. Then he said in a low voice. “All I want is for you to answer my questions and give me back the damned knife.”
    She heard his words with the weird feeling that her mind was cut in two; one half clear and rational, the other stranded in a dream.
    “If you want to question me, come closer. I can’t leave the mirror. Come.”
    She watched his reflection approaching until he stood just behind her
doppelgänger’s
shoulder. Handsome freckled face, serious expression. He, too, had the look of a soldier: an officer. Perhaps he really was a policeman, or used to be.
    “My comrade was a fool to attack you,” he said. “But the question is, how did you survive, sweetheart?”
    His pale blue eyes widened – mesmerised by the lovely mad-woman. She suspected that he was scared: bright, but out of his depth, pumped up with false courage. If his comrade had assaulted her and stabbed her in the gut, what might this man be capable of?
    “Who are you?” she asked. “And the knife, what is it?”
    He shook his head. “You don’t need to know.”
    “If she comes out of the mirror, you’ll die,” said Charlotte, pointing at the lamia.
    He hesitated, wetting his lips. He clearly thought she was insane.
    “That’s your reflection, you mad witch,” he hissed. “There’s something in this house that doesn’t belong to you. That’s all I’m here for.”
    “Who are you? I’m dreaming but I can’t wake up. Unless you can help me wake up, you’d better go.”
    “Not without that knife. Where is it?”
    “Until recently, buried in my stomach. Do you want it back so your friend can stab the next unfortunate being who crosses his path when he can’t hold his drink?”
    “Bruno made a mistake,” he said. “He’s a fool. But if you hadn’t bitten him—”
    “If
he
had walked away when I asked him to,” she retorted. Both their voices sounded far away and fuzzy. Inside the rippling surface, the lamia’s eyes were cold and dangerous, like those of a snake preparing to strike.
    “Just give me the damned knife,
strigoi
!”
    He grabbed her shoulders. The moment his clammy hands touched her, she reacted as if burned. She spun to face him, her mind suddenly focused. The rough fabric of his jacket scratched her bare arms. His touch was an assault.
    “Take it, if you can,” she whispered.
    She lunged, mouth open, forgetting she was supposed to be human again. The man reacted by reflex, thrusting her away with a curse. She stumbled and fell backwards into the veil.
    The mirror shattered under her. A hundred glass shards pierced her body as it crashed flat to the floor. The pain was excruciating. Set free, the lamia came flowing out. Charlotte watched in blank amazement as her other-self seized the man with pallid arms, pulled him to her, pushed her face inside his collar and nipped the salty flesh until blood poured over her tongue…
    He cried out. He struggled. Damn him, he was strong, and she was still weak from her injury. Their battle took them across the bedroom to the balcony doors before he finally went limp in her hands. Then, in mindless fury, she ran him straight through the closed glass doors and pitched him over the balcony rail.
    In a split second he was gone, falling from sight into the darkness of the steep tree-covered drop below.
    His blood was foul, tainted. The dual being, Charlotte-and-lamia, bent over the balcony and regurgitated the blood she’d swallowed. It streamed easily out of her, like water from an upended vase.
    Then the lamia floated back inside the room through the ragged hole of broken wood and glass. When Charlotte moved, the creature moved with her. They were one again.
    “Help me,” she whispered.
    * * *
    “Charlotte?”
    She found herself sitting on the bed, curled against the headboard