New Blood (3 page)

“Eighteen forty-eight,” Jax murmured, naming the year it had all happened; rebellion and revolution in virtually every country of Europe, ruthlessly crushed in most of them.

She ignored him. “I was a child then. We fled the trouble in the city, Mama, Papa, my brother Stefan, and me. I was eldest, almost twelve. Stefan was only six.”

Why was she telling him this? She never talked about it, not even with old Ilinca. Was it the language? The English? “Mama brought us here, to her home. But the trouble followed us. Papa was killed. Many of the rebels who escaped the government came here to hide.”

Amanusa gave a one-shouldered shrug, grateful she'd kept her voice calm for this much of the telling. Usually, just thinking of it brought tears, waking nightmares at the horrors in her memory. She didn't want to remember more, not now, not with him here. She skimmed over the rest of it. The worst of it. “Mama died. Stefan died. I did not. After a time, the old healer woman who had this cottage taught me all she knew—no one else would—and here I am.”

“I am sorry for your loss.” Jax met her gaze when she looked up, his blue-green eyes warm with sympathy.

She had to clear her throat. It was why she never spoke of this. It made her weak, and she could not afford weakness. She could not afford the sympathy he offered. She had to be strong. Strength was the only thing they respected.

“Thank you.” The instant she said it, she wished she hadn't.

Amanusa jumped up and began clearing the table. Jax crossed to the doorway where his boots waited, stockings draped over their tops, and put them on. He disappeared out the open door.

Good. She wouldn't have the job of sending him away. Amanusa bustled around, content in her little world again. Until she heard the crack of ax on wood.

She dashed out of her cottage and around it, to the woodpile where the blasted man was placing another log to split. “What are you doing?”

Her cry startled him into dropping the ax, made him dance to avoid the falling blade. She was not amused. That was not a smile trying to get free, it was annoyance. She stomped to the woodpile and snatched up the ax. Who knew what he could do with such a weapon? “Did I say you could do this?”

“No, my l—” He flushed crimson. “No.”

“I don't need you to cut my wood.” Amanusa waved a hand at her woodpile, high as her own very tall head, angry with herself for not anticipating the danger. “Does it look like I need more cut? If I did, I'm perfectly capable of doing it myself. Do I look delicate to you?”

She shouldn't have said that either, for Jax slid his gaze along her, head to toe.

“You look magnificent,” he said. “Strong and beautiful with skin so delicate a butterfly's kiss could bruise it.”

Her suspicion ratcheted up at those lovely words, even as they made her melt inside. Did he really
think she was magnificent? What did he want? Men who said pretty things always wanted something. But the instant Amanusa narrowed her eyes and firmed her lips, there he went again, back down to one knee.

“Pardon, mistress. I did not mean to offend.” The nape of his neck, exposed between his shirt collar and the slight wave of his hair, looked so vulnerable.

“I'm no man's mistress,” she snapped out, annoyed that she had to keep reminding herself of this man's threat. The word “mistress” triggered more anger than it deserved, but she couldn't stop it. “Mistress” was just one step above “whore,” and she'd heard that word far too often.

“No, my—m—madame.” Jax sounded horrified at the very idea, even as he stumbled over a way to address her.

“Call me by my name.” Amanusa was losing patience. She just wished she knew whether she lost it with herself or with him. Surely him. Which was a lie. Hadn't she sworn never to lie to herself?

“I am to be allowed to know it?” He twitched, as if he wanted to look up at her but thought better of it.

Hadn't she told him her name? She'd been ruder than she realized, and it shamed her. “I am Amanusa Whitcomb. Miss Whitcomb.”

“Yes, Miss.”

She huffed a sigh. “Get up. I'm tired of you dropping to your knees all the time. Stand on your feet like a man.”

“Yes, Miss Whitcomb.” He stood, eyes still cast down. “But you should understand—I am not a man. I am a blood servant.”

That was so patently ridiculous, Amanusa stopped
scolding herself for saying what she had and stared at him. Of course he was a man. How could he deny it? Granted, magic had swallowed up most of his mind.

Pity swelled, and Amanusa fought it down yet again. He wouldn't want her pity. Magic or not, he was still a man. She hefted the ax she held and marched around to the front door. After a moment, Jax followed, his crow fluttering from one side of the thatched roof to the other, as if to watch. Inside the cottage, Amanusa hid the ax under the bed—a bad hiding place, but she was in a hurry—and gathered up his clothes. When he came through the door, she bundled his waistcoat, cravat, and jacket into his arms and picked his long greatcoat up off the table.

“You should leave now,” she said. “You've had a rest and a meal. You've delivered your message. I have no interest in ever learning blood magic, so I don't need a blood servant. You're free to go.”

The man looked uncertain, almost fearful. Why?

“Let me at least repay you for the care and the meal,” he said. “I have no coin—you saw that. If you do not need me to cut wood, surely there is something I can do. Carry water for your garden perhaps.”

Amanusa eyed the bright blue bowl of the sky and the dry state of her garden. It was a long hike from the stream, and filled water buckets were heavy even with her shoulder yoke. And he had offered. Maybe he would spill all the water on the first trip and give up and go away. A fine gentleman like him wouldn't have the knack of handling the yoke.

As if he could sense her wavering, Jax laid his clothing on the table and stepped outside where the yoke and buckets lay against the cottage wall. Before
she could actually say yes, he had disappeared down the path to the stream.

He didn't spill any of the water. Not from what Amanusa could tell. Jax handled the buckets like an expert. Like a man who had done this before. Like a servant. He had the garden watered in half the time it took her to do it. Then he rolled down his sleeves, put on his waistcoat and jacket, and tied his cravat. He tossed his greatcoat over one arm and took the bundle of food Amanusa had packed for him.

Food might help him bear his burden of magic. He had offered her no overt threat, had repaid the little she'd done for him. Food was the least she could do. A man needed to eat.

“Farewell, Miss Whitcomb.” He bent in a graceful, flowing bow, like nothing she'd seen, even as a child in Vienna. “I wish you all the best in your life.”

Amanusa gave him a fleeting smile—the only sort she had—and a nod, stifling the guilt trying to rise. “And to you the same.”

She was not shoving him out of the nest too early. This was her nest, not his. He was not like her. He was dangerous. In more ways than one.

When he disappeared into the forest, Amanusa turned back into her cottage. The day was almost half gone and she needed to get working. She needed to make more love charms, as she was almost out. The silly girls who asked for them didn't know what they were asking, but Amanusa always put protective magic in them too. No harm would come to the girls who used them.

She wouldn't sell charms to men. If a man couldn't get a woman through his own charm—the kind without
magic—he didn't deserve to have a woman. Her protective magic warded against any man using magic to seduce one of her clients against her will. At least she hoped it did. It was intended to.

A harsh cry alerted her to the crow's presence just before it flew through her door to land on her striped rug. Amanusa almost laughed. “Your friend has gone.” She pointed at the forest. “If you hurry, you can catch him.”

The crow cawed again. It fluttered to perch on the head of her bed and began to preen its feathers.

Amanusa wasn't the sort who needed company. She didn't mind being alone. Preferred it, in truth. The man's presence had been more of a nuisance than a pleasant change. She wasn't lying to herself. Exactly. But a crow—a crow didn't require attention, or conversation, or anything other than food, and even then, it could feed itself if need be.

If it preferred her company to the man's, she didn't blame it. The creature had taste and discernment. She wouldn't chase it off. “But you're not staying the night inside.”

The bird stopped preening and looked at her, making a tiny sound as if in assent. Then it went back to its work.

Amanusa shook her head. Jax and his magic burden had made her go fanciful. She lit her lantern and closed her door on the setting sun. She had charms to make once dark fell.

T
HE NEXT MORNING
, Amanusa pulled open her door, in a hurry to reach the jakes, and fell over something lying across her doorway. Large. Human—
male
.

Terror reached her first. She struck out, fists and feet, fighting to get free. But the man didn't grab, didn't clutch or slap or punch. He curled into a self-protective ball, and she recognized him, later than she should have.

“Jax!” She scooted free of him. “What are you doing there? Get away from my door.”

He somehow got to his feet before she did, and lifted her to stand. “Sorry. Thought if I slept there—sorry, didn't mean to trip you up. Thought I'd be awake first. I suppose I was tired. Sorry.”

“Why—? Never mind.” Her need was urgent. She'd have it out with him when she came back.

But he was waiting just outside the outhouse when she emerged. Cursing the blush that burned her face, Amanusa shoved him out of her way.

He moved aside easily. Amanusa stomped past him to go inside and change out of her nightgown. Dear heaven, the man saw her in her nightgown, old and washed so thin it might as well be transparent. He would be impossible after this.

 

C
ROW CAME FLUTTERING
down to land on his shoulder as Jax walked back to the cottage door. Automatically, his hand rose to stroke feathers and Jax
had to smile. He should have known. When Crow stayed behind, Jax should have known then.

The door burst open before he reached it, and Miss Whitcomb stormed through, clothed again in her sad brown dress. “What are you doing here? I told you to go.”

Jax started down to his knees before he remembered that
this
sorceress didn't like it. He bowed and held it. An angry woman was nothing to be trifled with, especially when she held blood magic.

“Well?” she demanded. “Why didn't you leave?”

“I tried.” Jax bowed a little lower, hoping to appease her. “Four times I tried to leave, and each time, the path led me back here.”

She made an angry noise in her throat and Jax flinched. She didn't seem to notice. “The path leads to the road which leads to the village where the highway leads to Nagy Szeben and the trains.”

“I couldn't find it.” Jax dared to raise up a bit and look at her. “The magic binds me to the blood sorceress. You.”

She made another noise, a louder one, her hands clenching into fists. Jax held his ground with difficulty. When Yvaine had been this angry, he was safer on his knees. Yet this sorceress had struck out only when frightened, not in anger. Perhaps if he were more careful not to frighten her . . .

“I am
not
a blood sorceress and you are not my servant. You are leaving.” She flung out her hand, pointing at the path to the village.

“Yes, Miss Whitcomb.” He would try again. Maybe this time it would work. But he didn't think so.

Jax pulled out the bit of bread he'd saved from
supper and broke off a fat crumb for Crow. Who took it and flew off to perch on the thatched roof over Miss Whitcomb's door. Crow knew. Jax knew. They simply needed to convince Miss Whitcomb.

“Wait.”

He turned, heart pounding, to see Miss Whitcomb disappear inside her house with a ripple of her loose, pale hair. Did she understand after all?

Jax followed, stopping in her doorway. She busied herself with something near the hearth. On the table between them lay rows of little bags made of leaves tied shut with string and . . . He picked up one of the charms and sniffed. Lavender inside, and rose, and
magic
to seal it. The lady had spent a busy night.

“Here.” She thrust another napkin-wrapped bundle at him. “I know how much you men eat. Last night's remnants won't hold you through your journey.”

“Thank you, my—Miss Whitcomb.” Jax bowed, accepting the food in both hands. Kindness. From a sorceress. Who would have thought? Jax was grateful. He tucked the food in one greatcoat pocket as he drew out last night's napkin from the other and dropped it beside the charms. “I would repay your—”

“No need.” She waved her hands at him, shooing him out the door. “Just go. You have a long trip.”

He smiled. “Not so long, I fear. I am bound to the blood sorceress.”

“Who isn't me.”

Crow flapped his way down to her shoulder, startling her. But her hand rose to stroke the bird's glossy feathers.

“Think of it as payment for the bird.” She sounded
desperate to be rid of him. Why? Why was she so afraid?

“Crow belongs to himself alone.” Jax backed toward the path. How far would he get this time? “He chooses where he stays. I require no payment for him.”

“His name is Crow?” Miss Whitcomb looked at the bird, so close to her, her eyes must have crossed. “Not Odin or Ragnar or something more impressive?”

Jax felt the laughter rumbling in his belly. He didn't let it out, but it was there. Twice in two days now. How long since that had last happened even once? Before Yvaine? He couldn't remember. “Odin's beasts were ravens, not crows. Crow is who and what he is. He has no need to impress. He may have another name, but that is his own, secret, crow-ish name. We have no need to know it.”