Blood Oath

“I could kill you, for standing in front of me with such insolence. I’ve killed for less.” Simon issued the death threat calmly, the picture of aristocratic ease, and smirked. He looked down his nose at the witch in his chambers, searching vainly for some indication of weakness. Her dark hair was cut in a blunt shag; the clothes were modern, but not trendy; she wore eye makeup but not foundation. She was young, and not artificially so – no one with much life experience would have ventured into his chambers. Under different circumstances, he thought, he might have invited her himself – very different circumstances, which would still probably end in her death.

He expected to hear her heart race, to smell the fear waft off her as the blood rose. Instead, she failed to suppress a bemused smile. For the first time in a long time, he felt himself losing control.

“You are very bad at accepting favors.” Samantha was, actually, nervous. As she’d walked through the mansion, she had realized that it could accurately be described as a “lair.” In her relatively short life – short compared to the vampire in front of her, at least – she’d never been in a lair before. But she had also grown used to the theatrics of vampires. Drama, it seemed, was an inborn trait alongside venom and burning in the sun. She’d developed a trick, for when they started in on the soliloquies: she pictured them picking up their dry cleaning. More powerful vampires, Simon included, would of course have henchmen for that sort of thing, but the point stood: they lived in the same world she did. That was surreal, when she’d first become a witch, the knowledge that some strangers at the grocery store or laundromat might be goblins or ghouls. But having walked among the supernatural for a few years now, she’d gained clarity – and the more melodramatic a vampire acted, the more she giggled about the fact that they probably had a smartphone.

Simon’s pupils expanded, fangs silently descending. But they both knew he couldn’t kill her. He couldn’t even hurt her. She had something he wanted – that’s why she was there.

From the doorway, Anthony cleared his throat. “Brother,” he said, with the sullen gravity characteristic of a certain type of vampire, “Of course the answer must be yes.” Perhaps he was defensive of having brought her into their home – a closely guarded residence, harder to get into than the White House – or perhaps he was cautioning Simon’s famous temper. He was restrained now, and even seemed relaxed, but Samantha had heard the stories.

“You could kill me,” she allowed – she knew from her days as a babysitter how to ease her way out of a tantrum. “But then you’d be back to square one, hoping that some other witch comes along to break your curse. A witch with all the materials and enough power – and descended from the bloodline of the witch who cursed you. Those odds take a few centuries to line up. You’ve waited a thousand years, and I think that’s quite enough, don’t you?”

Simon narrowed his eyes; the smirk frozen on his face was icy. He unspooled himself further, uncrossing his legs. “And what price do you propose, for such a service?”

“Naturally,” Anthony conciliated, “money is no object.”

“I don’t want money. I’m offering you a different kind of deal. I have a contract – magically binding, of course. I will end your curse, in exchange for certain… behavioral reforms.” Samantha had rehearsed this part, come up with a few lines – but she hadn’t fully anticipated the steel with which she’d be greeted.

“Meaning?” Simon’s posture was casual, but he was statue-still, the kind of still that human muscles can’t produce. It was always eerie, to see an apparently living thing be that still – a subliminal warning signal that something wasn’t right. Combined with the obvious falseness of his nonchalance, Samantha felt cold sweat pooling at the base of her spine. Vampires, she remembered, are essentially apex predators.

She smiled with all the docile sweetness she could produce. “I don’t want money. I’m a Bonnam witch. One of the last. I want what all of us want: to end suffering. And you,” she directed a particularly saccharine gaze at Simon, “cause an awful lot of suffering. You’ve single-handedly started two wars, that I know of. So, two birds, one stone: I end your suffering, if you’ll rein it in on causing the suffering of others.”

“Rein it in?” Simon sneered. The rubber band of his composure snapped. He was towering above her, feverish with fury. This little witch, this tiny trollop of a girl, came to him in his home, tempted him, and then tried to, what – extort him? He wanted her blood, on his tongue and the floor – he wanted to hear that smug, righteous little voice begging for mercy.

Samantha stumbled back, bruising the back of her thigh on an end table. She took a deep breath and steadied herself against the wall, trying to stand upright without actually touching the livid vampire who was curling over her. “Obviously,” she continued, “vampires do a certain amount of harm. But there is a question of proportion.” Anthony laid a hand on Simon’s shoulder. It looked gentle, trying to pry him away, but it was doing a lot of work; she suspected the same force applied to, say, a block of cement, would fairly shatter it. “The contract lays it all out quite clearly. And of course you don’t have to decide right now. I’ll be around.” She hadn’t meant to sound gloating, but she was aware of the tone it struck.

Anthony successfully lifted Simon off her, where he paced like a tiger in a zoo, venting anger in long strides. “Give the contract to Anthony.” He didn’t look at her, didn’t raise his gaze as she passed the papers to his placid brother. “We’ll be in touch.