The Blood Gift by N. E. Davenport

Author:N. E. Davenport
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: HarperCollins
Published: 2023-04-18T00:00:00+00:00

20

Leave him the fuck alone, I want to snarl. But we played at this during SSEE, and I learned well from the consequences that resulted with Enzo up on the mountain. Instead of protecting Enzo and making Reed back off, I turned Enzo into a target—a particular person of interest. So even though it takes every drop of discipline that I only sometimes possess, I do not speak a word. I barely breathe. I should look away from Reed altogether. Focus solely on Nkosi like he’s the only one in the room. But I don’t have that much self-control, and I couldn’t take my eyes off Reed in the moment if the planet were about to combust. It feels too much like abandoning him; the mere thought of it feels like having a sundisk slammed into my chest and explode on impact.

Though . . . whatever damage Nkosi may be about to deal Reed will surely result in the same thing.

The Blood Emperor reaches forward and grabs Reed’s chin. Reed emits a low, violent growl. Nkosi smirks and digs his fingers harder into Reed’s flesh until purplish bruises blossom on Reed’s skin beneath Nkosi’s punishing grip. “I expect all inferiors—which means everyone who stands before me—to bow unless they have a good reason to remain standing. So kneel.” Ruthlessness flashes in Nkosi’s eyes, and I assume he’s issued the order with a whip of compulsion. I can feel the sheer power wafting off him when he speaks. It dials up the mildly warm air that suffuses the war tent to the heat of an inferno. The blistering air turns suffocating. But as I stare at Reed, he doesn’t go glassy-eyed. He retains all lucidity, and Nkosi gifts him a vicious smile even as Reed refuses to kneel.

“I could force you with compulsion,” Nkosi says as if reading my mind, “but I enjoy asserting my will upon the wayward and stupid by more thrilling methods.” A blood spike isn’t what forms in his hands. Instead, a full replica of an actual dagger—scarlet and glistening and lethally sharp—congeals in his palm as easily and seamless as I can form my blood weapons. He drives the dagger into Reed’s gut, and I scream loud enough that I almost drown out the wail of agony that comes from Reed as he falls to his knees. He hunches over and clutches the wound, immediately breaking out in a sweat, blood leaking out of him and saturating the floor.

“That’s better.” Nkosi, the bastard, looks down at Reed with a mildly disappointed expression. “Though I expected . . . I don’t know . . . something more . . . someone actually formidable out of Verne’s protégé he took such an interest in. What I’ve glimpsed from you is pitiful.” Nkosi emits a short chuckle, like it couldn’t elate him more.

Reed grunts from the ground. Glaring up at Nkosi, he yanks the blood dagger out of his stomach. I expect him to simply toss it aside to make a point.

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