The Blood Of Olympus Hardback 소설 & 이야기

He just held his arm out to her, the blood flowing freely, and waited. What are you doing? Ela asked. Her voice was flat, but there was something underneath it, something she had not felt in weeks. Curiosity, maybe. Or the ghost of concern. Or the faintest flicker of the girl she used to be. Nikolai knelt beside the bed. His gold eyes never left hers. The blood oath, he said. The oldest magic. Stronger than the bond. Stronger than the curse. Stronger than anything Lukas can do. It requires a sacrifice. A willing sacrifice. My blood for your blood. My life for your life. He reached out with his bleeding arm and touched his fingers to her lips. The blood was warm and wet, and she tasted copper

Otsana’s gold mark burned beside me, but its light bent toward the throne like a flame leaning toward wind. Ashina sobbed harder, gripping her stomach while Maelor’s heartbeat echoed through the black bone like drums beneath a coronation hall. The first Blood Feather book floated above the throne, no longer thrashing, no longer screaming, but opening itself like a servant obeying its true master. A circle of old blood appeared around the throne’s base, then spread outward until it touched Blackfang warriors and Northridge nobles alike. Conri shouted orders, but the blood ignored every blade, every title, and every frightened foot trying to step away.

I was frozen, my body shaking with a mixture of fear and a strange fascination. Alpha Kaelen and the old woman who cared for the Oracle remained silent. Their faces were calm, as if they knew what was going to happen, so I calmed down a little, but only a little. The Oracle's blood, a blood that was bright blue, a blood that was not of this world, dripped from his body and fell into the sacred fountain. The water, which had been a source of light, turned blue. The Oracle stood still, his body trembling, his eyes closed, and a silvery glow emanated from his body.

A wince from the little girl’s mouth let her know that she might have cut too deep but there was no longer time to dwell on that. She clasped her bleeding palm against her child’s own the blood mixing like a light coat of honey but rather a crimson color. “Of my desire I give you my soul. Of my will I give you my blood. Of my choice I give you my life, take this part of me and be whole. May the gods approve of this trade” She held it there for a few minutes, having what might be the last feel of her daughter and then she went towards the bathroom. The sound of running water filled the room. She was washing down her hands and the sharp tool that had just seared layers of her skin.

I had missed her greatly and wished to have her in my arms, but my blood thirst wouldn't let me. Solomon zoomed into the room from the front door with a shopping bag filled with blood bags. He got one out and threw it at me with supernatural speed. I caught it and tore the seal off in hunger. I sucked on it, and the blood flowed down my throat, calming my demons. I didn't feel the uncomfortable sensation in my veins anymore.

Of course. I did not answer. My tongue was still haunted by the memory, the taste of the Alpha’s blood. Rich. Addicting. Dangerous. “I apologize,” the Beta said stiffly. “It was a mistake of the servant. We never intended to offend you. Here.” He extended a glass filled with thick, dark crimson. “This is what should have been served to you. Drink.” With clenched teeth, I accepted. My throat burned with thirst. I had purged most of what I had taken earlier, and the hunger gnawed viciously at me.

Once I'm in place he pulls out the chair next to me and takes a seat as I start stacking papers and flipping open the history book. I am all too aware of the shifter next to me. He's so close I can smell him. Mint and honey flood my nose, it's so overwhelming my head pounds in protest. I take my glasses off again sighing as I massage my temples. "Damn migraines." I whisper to myself.

But I just could not help it any longer, being face to face with a wolf had everything flooding into my brain, and I wanted to scream my lungs out. Blood. It was blood that I saw. My parents' blood, spilled on the wooden floor around their heads. I saw their lifeless eyes and still bodies, and wounded faces. I saw my eleven year old self crying and screaming for them to wake up and look at me again, to call me their baby again. But that did not happen, it never happened. And I saw the people that had done that to them, their smug faces and crooked smirks, their hands stained with the blood of my parents, and the set of tattoos on one of their forearms.