Ruler [Blood Magic, Book 3]

Chapter 1: Blood Thirsty

And nothing I was trying was doing a damned thing to dampen the fury.

My head throbbed wickedly. I pressed it against the cool metal of the locker door, as tiny red explosions flickered on the backs of my closed eyelids. Deep down inside I knew it would hurt less to give in to the rage and let whatever happened happen, but I refused.

Because the anger was not mine.

Not all of it anyway.

I was pretty sure I had the bond to thank for that. As a sorcerer, I could form a lifelong symbiotic relationship with someone by saving them in the final moments before their death. Of course I hadn't known that when I'd bonded with Keel, a Nosferatu prince - now king - and the result was, well, this crap. Sharing, if you will.

I didn't dare move until the period bell sounded, afraid all it would take was one wrong word, one more jabbing elbow, for me to snap. Totally and completely.

Even though I was less than ten feet from the door to English class, once the hallways emptied I spun around and struck out in the opposite direction, leaving my books - wherever they had ended up - behind. I'd find them later, or not. It didn't matter. It wasn't like I was going to make it to class today anyway. If they were lost, then my father could pay to replace them. He was the one, after all, who insisted I needed to get "comfortable" among humans and learn to blend.

I wondered if he'd think that was still such a great idea if one of these days I ended going all Carrie on everyone.

My reputation had been poisoned by six months of rumours and speculation, each piece of gossip more juicy and lascivious than the last: a secret pregnancy, rehab, juvey. And since I had no real story I could tell about the half year I'd been missing, somehow all the made-up shit became imbued with more authenticity. I tried to ignore it, but when you hear something over and over again, day after day, the words start to creep under your skin and take residence in the spaces where self-doubt lives.

I ducked into the girls' bathroom and crossed the white-and-blue-tiled room to the row of sinks and mirrors, hoping the start of second period would give me five or ten minutes of privacy. The Mills who stared back at me from the glass was more vampiric-looking than ever. The angry scowl on my face only rounded out the sinister illusion. Great, just what I needed: another reminder of what a freak I'd become.

I slammed my palm against the mirror and a spider web of tiny cracks shot out from beneath my fingers. I stared at my hand. It throbbed dully. Why had I just done that?

You're losing it, Mills. You're finally losing it. It seemed impossible to keep denying it at this point.

About two weeks ago, the bursts of rage had begun to bring physical changes with them. Now, when they washed through me, I grew noticeably paler and the red rings around my irises shone like those of a full-blooded Nosferatu. Not even my coloured contacts could completely conceal the effect. Meaning, whenever the fury took hold, I couldn't go to class or anywhere until I calmed the hell down, and that was getting harder to do each time.

I slowly removed my hand from the glass, turned the tap on full and splashed cold water onto my face. I felt as shattered as the image in the mirror.

I shut my eyes again, once more attempting to will the anger back to wherever it had come from, assuring it that it was unnecessary, unneeded, unwarranted. Though, admittedly I was doing an absolutely lousy job of it. Broken Mirror Mills reflected that: I couldn't hide from myself.

I did want to take revenge; I spent countless nights fantasizing about it as I drifted off to sleep. Nothing too harsh: just a little well-deserved justice. Some payback humiliation. It was hard to keep playing the victim when I wasn't one.