Chapter 43 Chapter Twenty-One Part Two - Orenda
I stare at her, thrown by the question as the fatigue lifts ever so slightly. “The makkari High Priest Seneca…outlawed the practice thousands…of years ago.” A Native-American High Priest, funnily enough.
“Because he knew just how powerful it is, or at least he thought he did. With access to someone’s blood, you can control them in a myriad of ways,” she divulges, revelling in her own knowledge.
“So you want…my blood,” I surmise.
She smirks slyly. “I want what’s in your blood," she corrects.
“You want my magic?” I croak in confusion.
The magic of every supernatural lives not only in their soul, but in their blood. It’s how they are able to carry it down from one generation to the next. But what could she possibly want with my magic? I can’t see my abilities being of any use to her at all.
She snorts. “I could just as easily cast a spell and summon up a thunderstorm whenever I want. It may not be nearly as powerful as what you can do, but it doesn’t make your abilities that much of a prize by comparison,” she mocks, though enforcing my thoughts.
“Then why?” I press, amazed I’m still managing to stay conscious, even if doing so is excruciating.
Invidia leans forward once more, her eyes gleaming with crazed excitement. “Did you know, that in every supernatural being on this Earth, there are microscopic amounts of the blood of the God who created them flowing through their veins?”
If my face wasn’t pale before, it sure as fuck is now.
“That’s…”
“Impossible?” she teases. “On the contrary. I have studied blood magic my entire life. My mother was quite talented when it came to blood magic, but I turned it into an artform,” she declares, peacocking again. “Through my many experiments with blood magic, I discovered the presence of the most microscopic amounts of celestial blood within the human DNA,” she announces.
I blink, trying to follow along, but my frown only deepens while my headache continues to grow. “Then you made a mistake. No mutolupus, sirna, makkari or nagata are the offspring of a God. They can’t contain the blood of a God,” I contradict.
“I thought so at first,” she admits. “But then I ran more tests. Instead of focusing on syphoning the magic from the blood of a mutolupus, I focused my attention on separation the celestial markers from the cells themselves, and while it took a lot of trial and error, it eventually resulted in me coming into possession of celestial blood. Admittedly, the amount was so small it was invisible to the naked eyed, but I did it! And if I could do it once, I could do it again; and I did,” she declares proudly.
I weakly shake my head, the movement so small she probably didn’t even notice it. “That doesn’t make any sense,” I argue, her revelation sounding more confounding than awe-inspiring.
“Come on, Orenda, think about it!” she exclaims, frustratedly slapping her thighs. “The God’s are just energy. Their body’s only exist because they used their magic to create them. Just look at your own animai – or former animai, I should say,” she corrects with a taunting smirk. The reminder of my mutual rejection lances through me like barbed wire. “Azadou was made because of a manifestation of Jartre’s magic; you said so yourself. His body and the body of every other God is just a giant meatsuit. Their blood isn’t blood the way yours or – more accurately – mine is and doesn’t hold the same function. Their blood is really just their magic in liquid form. That’s why the blood of one God is lethal to another,” she animatedly explains.
I stare at her in astonishment. I hate to admit it, but she’s starting to make sense. The true form of the Gods is celestial energy; energy so powerful no being on Earth could comprehend it, and the human-like forms they take are just – as Invidia crassly put it – meatsuits. Their true physical forms are like humanoid crystals. When the Gods chose to use their magic on humans, that magic fundamentally changed their DNA to make them what they are now, and since every God can feel when someone they blessed dies and hear their prayers, it enforces the fact there is a deep connection there. We already know for a fact that the magic of supernatural beings doesn’t just live in the soul but in the blood, and since that magic came from the God’s, then it stands to reason that that very magic took the form of blood in order to be carried from one generation to the next.
Not just that, but when I think about Alpha and Luna ceremonies, the process of joining a pack or a den, the turning of sanguidaes; it’s all about the sharing of blood. Even sirna coronations aren’t exempt from the rule. While no blood is ever shed, the ceremony calls on water magic, and blood contains water. The water magic is just tapping into the water that lingers in the blood. The more I think about it, the more I realise Invidia is telling the truth, which means…she’s figured out how to procure the most powerful substance on Earth.
Invidia smirks confidently. “You understand what I’m saying now, don’t you?”
“That’s why you chose me,” I whisper gravely. “My human blood is a fabrication, which means I contain far more celestial blood than other supernatural beings.”
“Now you’re catching on,” she grins.
Invidia rises from her chair, pulls a small vile out of her back pocket and holds it up to the candlelight. Inside the vile is a silver liquid, a liquid I presume to be God’s blood, but it looks different…it’s not the vibrant silver I’ve seen the few times I’ve witnessed a God bleed. It’s darker, almost a gunmetal colour. It’s as if the mingling with human DNA, the process of abstracting it or maybe the thousands of years of being separated from the source has diluted its potency or warped it in some way.
“It took me a year to syphon this much God’s blood. It is a long, tedious process made worse by the fact that I’m only able to syphon insignificant amounts from my subjects. But I’m patient, and with enough time and dedication, a small amount doesn’t stay small for long. Sadly, this is all I have left,” she sighs, gazing at the vile longingly. “The quantities I gathered over the years I already used up. Using that supply, I was able to infuse a number of moonstones imbued with my magic with the drops of blood creating the ultimate ward against the Gods,” she grins, showcasing the moonstone pendant around her neck while putting the vile back into her pocket.
“I’m guessing the rest are around the perimeter,” I dryly surmise. It would explain why Jartre didn’t hear my call.
“Correct again! And apatite so you can’t go calling your brother. My home is a fortress, Orenda,” she proudly announces. “No one is getting in or out without my say-so. Not even the Gods.”
“You’ve really thought this out,” I acknowledge ruefully.
“Oh, you don’t know the half of it.” She begins pacing the narrow room with slow strides and I’m realising she is not a fan of sitting still. “I realised syphoning from other supernaturals was taking far too long and might take centuries before I procured a substantial amount, especially since I couldn’t very well go around just slaughtering people and draining them of blood. That would draw too much attention.”
“Naturally,” I quip sarcastically, earning a narrowed glance from Invidia.
“I knew I had to set my sights on higher prey. At first, I planned to target an irshiust. They’re much easier to get alone and they have a number of weaknesses I can use against them, but after that stupid fucking stunt with the Orraikam a few years ago, that plan went to hell,” she spits acerbically.
I remember that. A makkari tried to access and absorb Fretez’s magic from within the Orraikam, which resulted in the death of an irshiust named Nuray. I knew her. She was a wonderful person whose death is still felt by her sisters.
“I mean, how fucking stupid do you have to be to think you can just absorb celestial magic?” she rants, her pacing picking up speed as she becomes more animated. “She could have killed us all with her dumb stunt! Personally, I think she should have been executed but…” She shrugs nonchalantly. “A human life in prison is much worse.”
I eye her suspiciously. The way she so quickly got thrown off her Bond villain monologue all about what a genius she is, to start ranting about Manon feels highly personal. That bitterness she’s exuding can only come from knowing the person you’re bitter towards. I watch intently as she continues to pace, her words a torrent of mocking comments about Manon that grow with greater disdain by the second until I find myself zeroing in on her bone-white hair. I stare at her wide-eyed as I feel like the power got switched on in my brain.
“Oh, Gods…Manon is your mother,” I whisper in disbelief.