Letters from New York [Blood Magic, Book 2]

Until Mills and Keel, the sorcerer-vampire bond was solely the stuff of folklore and legend – a whispered myth with one hell of a body count.

Now Mills has returned to New York City, to human life, but the bond is reawakening.

And someone knows her secret.

All her secrets…

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17. Dear Diary

Chapter 14: Dear Diary

Dear Diary.

It felt strange not writing “Dear Keel,” but the Keel I’d been writing to all these months didn’t exist anymore. He had been gone a long time now, even if I hadn’t been entirely ready to admit it; this new version was a poorly rendered duplicate – obsessive and uncommunicative and unstable. He might have all the memories of my Keel, but he wasn’t the same person. And he wasn’t mine anymore either. He belonged to the throne and his people. He was Nosferatu, and all that entailed.

I tightened my grip on the pen, and placed the tip down beneath the D in Dear. Some things I couldn’t even imagine saying out loud, to anyone.

I thought my freedom would come quicker, I began, but the coma’s only made Bruce and Ephraim more paranoid. Even though the dreams are gone and Keel is gone, the two of them are still on high alert. It’s lunacy. Constant, twenty-four-hour-day craziness around here.

 Every single time I want to do anything, it requires a “family meeting.” They only agreed to let me go see Fredrick, Estella and Mikey two days ago, after four requests and four meetings! Then they had the nerve to demand that Bruce drive me there and pick me up, as if I’m a five year old or something.

Who or what are they protecting me from now? Myself? Sometimes I want to throttle them.

I probably should be wondering if that makes me a bad person, but let’s face it, I’ve done a lot worse things.

I haven’t bothered to ask to go out again. If I’m under door-to-door supervision when I want to visit my old family, there’s no chance Lucia and I will get the privacy we need to talk to Garstatt. And apparently he’s getting impatient. Lucia sounds more stressed out about it every time she calls. “He doesn’t understand ‘grounded,’” she keeps saying.

This is going to slip away from us; I can feel it, and there’s not a damned thing I can do about it. Here’s me: the big, powerful sorceress – completely helpless yet again. What a joke.

But that’s not even the worst part.

Tell me, Diary, other than going out there to talk to Garstatt, what is left for me in the world? Supes hate me, psychics are supposed to have nothing to do with me, humans must be endlessly sheltered, and the bond hasn’t so much as twitched since the coma. Which either means I’m dying in slow motion, or one of these days or hours or minutes it  and Keel with it  will come crashing back into my life, and the games will start all over again. We’re biologically bound to play them, after all.

Either way, I’m still living on borrowed time. Everything’s changed, yet nothing’s changed.

And let’s be clear on something: just because I don’t want to be with Keel anymore, just because he isn’t the same person anymore, doesn’t mean I don’t still worry about him. Because I do.  

I worry about me too. All the time.

I used to think I understood what it meant to be exiled by the sorcerers  there were times when I was even, like, “To hell with them, I don’t need them!”  but I never realized the rejection and abject hatred that exile brought with it. I’m a pariah, an outcast. Becoming one used to be my number-one worst fear in school. I just wanted to make it to graduation happily anonymous. Now that worst fear has gone and happened to my whole life!

Probably Bruce and Ephraim’s lives too.

What the hell?!

It’s not fair, Diary. My father made a mistake long ago, and now it’s destroyed my life and his and Keel’s and Bruce’s and maybe even Lucia’s. It just keeps piling up the debris endlessly, even though Keel’s father is dead and Ephraim has done his best to try to stop it. I’m afraid it’s never going to end, that it’s just going to keep taking more victims.

I want it to stop so bad… there are no words.

This is not the life I’m supposed to have. Not the life I wanted.

I’m not at the centre of the tornado.

God, I wish lying worked.

M.

 

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