I balked at her as much as I could in this in-between state. She gave me a half smile and raised a shoulder.
“How do we open it?” I asked.
She frowned, running her hand over the stone and closing her eyes. Her lips parted as if she were connecting to something, feeling something. “It is meant to only be open one night,” she spoke softly, the usual edge in her voice vanished. “But it has been opened numerous times.” She motioned between us at the invisible but very real, thick, tangy power.
“How did he do it?” I asked. “How was it supposed to be done?” I added, unsure if those questions were the same or not.
“You open it with blood,” she responded.
“Why does it always have to be blood?” I knew I sounded annoyed.
She laughed; it was deep and rich and as beautiful and warm as she was.
