*CHAPTER 48*

*CHAPTER 48*
"What?" Malcolm asked, his golden head was suddenly in my personal space, nearly knocking the phone from my hand as he tried to see what I was looking at. The spiced smell of his soap, and the smoldering ember scent that always seemed to clung to him tickled my nose. I shoved him away with my elbow. He grunted out an oof, but held his ground.

I zoomed in as far as I could, until the image was so pixelated that it was starting to get fuzzy, but I could make out the basic shape of it.

The same symbol that had been on the plastic bracelet in George's house.

The one tattooed on the vampire.

Malcolm peered over my shoulder and swore, snatching the phone out of my hand before I could protest, to squint down at the screen.

"You've got to the kidding me," he muttered under his breath.

"That's the same symbol from before, isn't it?" I demanded, "The one from George's house, the one on the vampire?"

"Sure looks that way."

"What does that symbol mean? Is it some sort of Curse Mark?"

He shook his head, "It doesn't look like any sort of Curse Mark I've ever seen. And the color of that symbol is wrong for blood, so I'm not sure what that could be. Paint maybe. The state of your house matches that of a fire curse, but this symbol doesn't match." He ran a hand roughly through his hair as he considered it, "If I had to guess, I'd say the Mark was some sort of calling card—"

"Like a signature?"

"More like a warning."

The chill of that statement washed over me for a moment.

"You think the murderer tried to blow me up? Or was letting me know they could have if they wanted to?"

"If it was the murderer, it goes against his typical patterns. Whoever the murderer is, they tend to favor chopping people up rather than arson, so it seems a little out of character for them to destroy someone's house instead of using them for Blood Magic."

He was right. I hated to admit it, though. But something in my gut was screaming at me that they were related, I just didn't know how.

"How did you know something was off?" Malcolm asked.

I blinked up at him, a little thrown off by the swift change in subject, "What?"

"You told me that when you got to your house, you knew something wasn't right. What was it that made you think that? Did you see something strange, or was it just a feeling?"

I thought back to that afternoon, before everything else that happened. Trying to pinpoint what it was that had made me feel so uneasy. Just a feeling...a feeling of being watched? But no, there had been something else, "The smell," I said, "The smell was off."

"What smell?" He asked dubiously.

"It was that same smell from the Curse circle you took me to. Like garbage, or rot or something."

Malcolm made a thoughtful sound in the back of his throat, leaning back into his seat, considering, "Have you smelled that anywhere else before?"

"Just once, when they found George's body, that smell was outside his house."

"I haven't had much time to research your brand of Magic, but I'm wondering if this has anything to do with your being a Harbinger."

"What, like I'm getting a better sense of smell?" I asked in disbelief. "That I'm transforming into some sort of freaky bloodhound or something?"

He rolled his eyes, "I mean, maybe this is how you're mind is processing remnants of different types of Magic. Richard said that Harbingers are able to sense that. Maybe you're sensing that through smell."

"It's not the craziest thing you've ever said," I admitted, "So that rotting smell, you think it's my Harbinger Magic sensing other Blood Magic?"

"It's plausible," he shrugged, "Have you noticed any other strange smells when people pull their Magic?"

"I don't know. I haven't been around that much Magic until recently..." And when I was it's not like I was focusing on how it smelled.

Malcolm's green eyes lit up with that spark of gold I was starting to recognize, and I was instantly wary, "Let's test it out, then, shall we?" he said, rubbing his hands together in unholy glee. He glanced to the door leading to the hallway and before I could protest, he effortlessly pulled a spark of fire to his fingertips.

The sight of the flames had my heart pounding unsteadily. I had to blink away the images that pulled at the back of my eyelids as I stared at the golden flames dance along his fingernails.

"You can't just throw balls of fire around here," I hissed at him, "This is a hospital. There's oxygen tanks and tons of other flammable things here you psychopath. You could blow the place up."

He rolled his eyes, the flame already vanishing into thin air with a flicker, not even a trace of smoke left behind, "Well?"

"Well what?" I asked, suddenly frustrated.

He eyed me like I was obtuse, "Do you smell anything?"

"I don't know!"

"Close your eyes and focus."

"I'm not going to close my eyes."

He gave me a long, leaden look, and I leaned back into my pile of pillows with a huff, blowing a stray piece of hair out of my eyes, "Fine, fine," Feeling foolish, I let my eyes droop close. I focused on the taking slow steady breaths. Focused on the air drifting in and out of me. The stale scent of the hospital room mixed with the sharp scent of antiseptics the staff used for cleaning. Hand sanitizers and plastic.

Through all that though, there was a hint of something else. So faint, I almost missed it at first. It was an ashy sort of smell. Like dying embers or the scent hot pavement gave off in the summer. Heady, like something that could breathe life into someone or destroy them. It lingered in the back of my throat, a scorched feeling that left me feeling like I needed to cough.

"Yeah, I smell something...or feel it, maybe?" The hot scratchy feeling in my throat wasn't something I could just ignore.

"Huh," Malcolm leaned forward in his seat towards me, cocking his head like a bird of prey. "Okay, what does it smell like?"

"I don't know...fiery?"

He shot me a bland look.

I shrugged helplessly, "I don't know how to describe it."

"Try."

"Alright...sewage." I lied.

His head reared back in horror, and then his eyes narrowed suspiciously, "You're lying. You're acting like a degenerate right now."

"Maybe, but at least I'm not weirdly obsessed with what my Magic smells like," I muttered under my breath, "Do you have a fetish for smells I should know about?"

He rolled his eyes so far back I could see the whites, "I'm trying help you, you little gremlin."

"Fine," I huffed, eyes drifting to the milky white ceilings, staring at gray speckles until they formed a shape. They looked like a rough outline of a donkey. How fitting. "I guess it smells sort of like summer...and ashes. It makes my throat feel weird. Kind of hot and scratchy."

His eyebrows pulled together as he considered that, "And you said Blood Magic smells like rot?"

"Sometimes like rot," I confirmed, "And burnt sugar."

He hummed, "We'll make a note of this, and then we can have Caleb and Jenna help us test how you react to Air and Earth Magic. I'll have to look for someone with Water Affinities who'll help us without asking too many questions. That way you'll know what you're dealing with when you come across any Magic remnants."

I nodded slowly. It was a good idea, though I wasn't about to tell him that. His head would grow bigger than his hair—though his hair was a little flatter since we'd been in the hospital. I guess he didn't have access to all the boujee hair products he usually used.

"Tell me if you sense either of those Magics again so we can find the source." He instructed, suddenly serious.

"I will."

He nodded, satisfied, and flipped the television back on. After a moment, he stood and left the room, coming back with a styrofoam cup filled with icy water. He handed it to me before settling back down in his seat.

"For your throat." He explained at my questioning look.

"Thanks," I stared down at the icy water, a droplet of water on the side of the cup as I said, "Not just for the water, but...helping me with my Magic. And for staying."

He sent me a quick measured look, but didn't say anything at first, then, "For the Bond, you know."

"Of course."

We settled back into a semi-comfortable silence as the television droned on. After a while, the lights dimmed, the machines blaring the steady slow beating of my heart.