Page 113 of Twice Bitten

She picked up the scalpel and nicked a small wound in the space she’d just cleaned. I hissed and jerked away.

Imelda rolled her eyes. “That’s not the part that hurts.”

The witch laid both her hands on me and began chanting. Her eyes took on a haunting blue glow, just as my skin started to burn like hell.

I sucked in a breath. Imelda removed one of her hands and reached for the syringe. She placed it against the wound, crimson blood moving into the syringe of its own volition. The witch kept chanting, and soon the blood changed color from red to black, and pain was all I knew.

When I came to, Imelda was packing up her bag.

“Good,” she said. “You were only out for a minute.”

I stared at her. “You suck,” I croaked.

Her lips lifted in a small smile. “I get that a lot.” She closed her bag and picked it up. “If you want to get rid of the Prime’s influence, look to your books. You will find all you need.”

I sat up straighter.

Imelda pressed gentle fingers against my cheek. “Your mother was a good woman. She would be so proud of you.”

She opened her mouth to say something else but hesitated. Imelda leaned close and whispered in my ear. “I— I wish I could help more, but Alric has eyes everywhere.” She gave a meaningful glance around my house, sending a chill down my spine. “As vampires go, he is not terrible but helping you might reveal your secrets. Look to your books, Alex,” she whispered urgently. “You will find the answers you seek.”

With those words, she straightened up, gave me a sad smile, and hurried away, letting herself out of the house before I could form even one of the dozen questions burning inside my mind.

A few hours later, Edmund was preoccupied by his manic search for hidden cameras and listening devices Alric might have left behind while I was wrapped up like a burrito, watching trash television. A breaking news bulletin flashed across my screen, interrupting a cat fight between two chefs, both of whom were trying to take the last of the smoked gouda for their last dish.

The reporter’s face was grave. “I come to you this evening with a special bulletin. A strange illness has befallen several supernaturals across the country. At this time, there have been three reported deaths.”

My blanket fell away as I reached for the remote to turn the volume up.

“The man authorities suspected was Patient Zero was killed during a coffee shop break-in, curing several afflictedsupernaturals, but there is new information alleging there might be another man carrying the virus who remains symptom free. If you have seen this man or know anything about him, please call the number at the bottom of your screen.”

A faded picture flashed on the screen of a handsome young man with bright green-dominant hazel eyes. His hair was dark and shining, and laughter lines creased his face. His lips were quirked in a sort of half-smile, like someone had told a joke only he understood.

The blood drained from my face. I knew those eyes.

I saw their twin in the mirror every single morning.

And I knew that face.

I had the same faded picture locked in a box I kept under my bed. That same picture held years of my fingerprints from where I’d stroked my thumb over that face as I wondered what he was like and if he had ever loved me.

Mom had given me that picture when I was ten years old.

That man with theDANGER, DO NOT APPROACH!!sign flashing over his head on the screen was my father.

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