The black smoke Seraphine threw at me should have killed me.
I felt it, even though Sandro took it in his chest. I felt the cold of it, the rot of it, like a thousand dead hands trying to claw their way into my soul. It was blood witch magic, the oldest and darkest kind. Forbidden even among witches.
Sandro didn't even stumble. He just stood there, his large body shielding mine, his black suit smoking faintly where the curse hit, his hand still holding mine so tight my fingers were turning white.
But I felt him. Through the bond, through the blood still singing in my veins, I felt a sharp, white-hot spike of pain lance through his chest, right over his heart. Not physical pain. Deeper. Like something old and cursed had tried to hook into his soul and his royal blood was burning it away
