Nora Walker, a psychic vampire, is conscripted into a task-force of supernatural legends that care more for themselves than the cataclysmic threat they face...
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After taking a moment to consult my understanding of anatomy and healing magics, I came to the firm conclusion that I had no idea what the hell I was doing.
I rubbed my clammy hands together and regretted it immediately, wiping them on my jeans. Only when they were dry did I hold Maria's hands, pursing my lips and closing my eyes. It's what everybody did in the movies when trying to cast a complicated spell, so Hollywood had to be onto something.
"What's the hold up?" Amelia asked, her voice far too close to my ear for my liking.
"Some twerp keeps distracting me," I said sweetly, rolling my shoulders to loosen them.
Amelia took the hint and shut her mouth, retreating to the far corner of the room.
I concentrated fiercely, imagining the desired outcome of the spell in explicit detail. Maria's sandy eyelashes fluttered and fanned like the wings of a butterfly, revealing a pair of vivid turquoise eyes. Her lips parted, emitting a small groan as she tossed her head, trying to shield her face from the orange glare of the bedside lamp.
The vision was utterly convincing, but when I opened my eyes it had yet to manifest. I frowned, trying to figure out where I'd gone wrong, what step I must have overlooked. I could feel the energy idling at my fingertips; could see the road I'd paved for it in my mind's eye; and yet something was interfering with the actuation of the spell.
"Maybe I need to start with these first," I muttered, examining the glove of scarring on her right hand.
"Don't bother," Amelia said bitterly. "Not even Ivy could manage it, and she can heal her own silver-inflicted wounds. I guess she's not a real werewolf, though, so it doesn't affect her in the same way."
"What doesn't?" I asked, sensing a lead.
"Silver," Amelia said shortly, as if it was obvious. "I don't know why, but it short-circuits our ability to heal. The same thing happens if we're injured by a more dominant werewolf."
"But that's dumb," I complained, turning around to face her. "What's stopping a less dominant person from hitting the gym and overpowering the person who originally hurt them? Do their scars just magically go away?"
Amelia shrugged. "I mean, I guess — but dominance is more about mental strength. Whoever has the strongest conviction wins, though in my experience, it's usually the pig-headed brutes who are the least likely to question themselves."
Grunting my agreement, I turned back to the hospital bed. By the sounds of it, werewolves were limited by expectations engrained in their society for generations, to ensure stability in the pecking order. But the truth of their kind was far simpler than all their rules and finicky vulnerabilities implied. They had evolved from witches and turned their magic inwards, which meant that at the heart of their transformative and regenerative abilities lay energy, plain and simple. If I could tweak the pattern their energy was used to complying with, even for a second... If I could somehow convince Maria's body to bypass its mental blocks, to overcome its culturally prescribed limitations...
