Bitter Blood (BBi)

Chapter 33: Crossfire

Chapter Thirty-three
Crossfire

I sleep like I'm dead.

That's the only way I can explain it. It's like I've died in that bathtub, been claimed by the fever and the infection, and I'm now drifting through my after life, sent into an eternal rest until I'm awoken to be reincarnated.

When dreams begin to allude me, I awake to creaky bones and a body that feels like it's been hurled into the center of a hurricane. I move my legs over the side of the bed, one and then the other, and look down at myself. I'm battered and bruised, purple splotches of colour illuminating my pale skin. I take a moment to convince myself that I really wasn't dropped into the violent heart of a storm.

My clothes have been changed and I lift up my shirt to study the clean, white bandages wrapped around my ribs.

“You're awake.”

I look up at Morna and drop my shirt as she walks into the room, Blue a few steps ahead of her. I'm lying on a cot in a small bedroom that I haven't seen before but I can tell I'm still in the shop by the familiarity of the brick walls and antique furnishing around me.

“You weren't expecting me to be?” I ask, lowering my head to my hands to press darkness into my eyes with my thumbs. Blue hops up onto the bed beside me and rubs his head up against my leg, a happy purr vibrating out of him.

“Honestly – no.” she admits. “There was a very high chance you were going to die.”

I look up at her with a concerned frown.

“But you didn't.” she amends with a smile.

Wonderful.

“Here. Eat this.” Morna moves over to the bed and hands me a bowl of what appears to be porridge. It smells of sugar and honey. I scoop up a spoonful and put it in my mouth, testing for a moment whether I'll be able to stomach food. The porridge is sweet and warm and I eat it at rapid speed.

“I'm guessing you're a little hungry.” she says.

I mumble my answer through a full mouth.

She sits down in a comfortable looking chair across from the bed.

I swallow. “Could you maybe explain to me what happened?” I look over my bowl at her as I scrape up the last spoonful. Despite me being alive right now, the last time I interacted with this woman I was certain she had succeeded in murdering me.

“Well, I'm not certain about what happened to you. But I know that you're a Witch and that – “ she points in the direction of the bandages. “ – is from a Werewolf. Sometimes a scratch can turn you, though it's rare. The Blood Curse was just starting to take affect. You're lucky you came to me when you did, otherwise you'd be dead."

“The Blood Curse...” I repeat, realization dawning on me. The fever, the hallucinations, the nightmares – it was all apart of the curse my ancestors put on our Witch bloodlines centuries ago.

Our.

“What would be the symptoms of the Blood Curse?” I ask.

“It would start small.” she says. “Maybe you're a little unstable on your feet, stumbling when you walk, losing your balance. But then it'd get worse. You'd lose large chunks of time, feel nauseated and tired. Then you'd have nightmares so real eventually you'd be afraid to fall sleep. There's waking hallucinations, respiratory difficulties, nervous system collapse, organ shut-down, and then finally death.”

“I had... I had a good portion of that.” I say.

“Well, it's lucky you came to me when you did. No mortal doctor could have helped you.”