Chapter 117 Blood Paint
Fennigan didn't hesitate, but the rigid set of his shoulders betrayed the sheer, suffocating terror he was holding back. He reached out and took the silver ceremonial knife from the heavy oak desk. The metal was cold and ancient, a tool designed for sacrifice, not salvation. He didn't flinch as he drew the sharp edge across his left palm. The skin parted instantly, and thick, dark Alpha blood welled up, pooling in the crease of his hand.
Instead of handing the knife back to Elder Veda, he offered it directly to Leela, handle first. The silver grip was already slick with the warmth of his hand.
Leela took it. Her hand was steady, but her breath hitched, her lungs tight with a fear so profound it made her dizzy. She looked down at the heavy stone bowl. Inside was red river clay and dark, gnarled iron root. It was the earth—the very element she loved, the foundation she used to grow life and bring healing.
Now, she was about to use it to forge a shroud. She was going to use the earth to make her unborn child smell like a corpse.
Her stomach churned violently. She pressed the silver blade to her own skin and pulled, mirroring her mate. The sting was sharp, cutting through the numbness of her exhaustion.
They held their hands over the bowl, side-by-side, their knuckles brushing. The dark, heavy drops of Fennigan's blood fell first, splashing against the dry roots. Immediately after, Leela’s blood joined his. Hers was brighter, thinner, humming with the faint, latent vibration of Elemental magic.
As their life force hit the clay, mingling together into the soil, the metallic tang of copper filled the air, thick and choking.
"Whatever it takes," Leela and Fennigan whispered together, their voices overlapping in a quiet, unbreakable vow. It was a promise made in the dark, born of absolute desperation.
Drip. Drip.
The sound of their blood hitting the dry earth was deafening in the quiet study.
Ginny couldn't watch. A small, distressed whimper escaped her throat, and she turned her head away abruptly. She pressed one hand hard over her mouth, fighting a sudden wave of nausea, while her other hand wrapped fiercely around her own five-month baby bump. The smell of open veins and dark magic was triggering every primal, protective wolf instinct she had, screaming at her to run.
Elder Veda watched the Alpha and the Luna with eyes like polished, unblinking stones. She offered no bandages, no words of comfort, only a grim, solemn nod of approval. She picked up a heavy wooden pestle and drove it into the bowl.
She began to stir.
The sound was hideous. It was wet, thick, and squelching—like boots sinking into a muddy grave. As Veda ground the blood deep into the iron root and clay, the mixture began to change. It lost the rich, fertile scent of the riverbank and took on the foul, heavy stench of an abattoir. The earth turned a deep, rusted crimson as it bound itself violently to their bloodline. It was necrotic magic. It felt wrong.
Fennigan pulled a clean linen cloth from his pocket. His jaw was clenched so tight a muscle ticked rapidly in his cheek. He gently wrapped Leela’s bleeding hand, his large fingers trembling slightly as he pressed her palm closed, sealing the wound before hastily binding his own.
He looked down at the dark, glistening mud Veda was working. He looked like a man staring at a nightmare.
"And this will keep until Vane shows his nasty face again?" Fennigan asked, his voice a low, gravelly rasp.
Veda stopped stirring. She tapped the pestle against the rim of the bowl. Clack. Clack. The sound was sharp and final.
"Blood is life, Alpha," Veda croaked, pulling a thick, heavy beeswax cloth over the top of the bowl and tying it tight with a leather cord to seal the magic inside. "And life spoils when it is taken from the vein."
She looked up at him, her ancient face carved in deep shadows by the dancing firelight.
"The clay will hold the charge for three days. It is a suspension. If Vane does not arrive by the third moonrise... the blood will die. The magic will sour." She looked from Fennigan to Leela, her expression merciless. "And you will have to bleed again."
She pushed the heavy bowl across the polished wood of the desk toward Elder Thorpe.
"Keep this in the cellar," she ordered him, her voice brooking no argument. "In the dark. It must stay cold. If it warms, the rot sets in early."
Thorpe nodded, his usually ruddy face entirely pale as he picked up the vessel. He held it away from his body like it was a live explosive, his eyes wide behind his glasses.
"And when he does come?" Leela asked. She cradled her bandaged hand against her chest, her heart hammering against her ribs. She couldn't stop looking at the bowl in Thorpe's hands. "How long does it take to apply?"
"Long enough to pray," Veda said simply. "When the perimeter wards signal his approach, you come to me immediately. I will paint the sigils over your heart and your womb."
Veda leaned forward, her milky eyes locking onto Leela’s green ones, ensuring the young mother understood the absolute terror of the rules.
"It will burn. It will smell of decay," Veda warned, her voice dropping to a harsh whisper. "But once that clay is on your skin, Leela, you cannot wash it off until the ritual is complete and the connection to the Dead Zone is severed. You must wear the death. If you panic, if you wipe it away..."
Veda pointed a crooked finger at Leela's stomach.
"...the mask falls. And the void will find the baby in a heartbeat."
The sheer horror of the warning hung in the air, a suffocating blanket over the room. Leela squeezed her eyes shut, a single tear escaping to track through the dust on her cheek.
Fennigan stepped in, wrapping his good arm around Leela’s shoulders and pulling her firmly into his side. He pressed a fierce, lingering kiss to the top of her head, anchoring her against the storm.
"He'll be here," Fennigan said, his golden eyes flashing over Veda's shoulder toward the dark window, burning with a lethal, protective rage. "Vane is arrogant. He thinks he’s coming here to collect a surrender. He won't wait three days to gloat.