Baldur’s sleeping quarters—or what I assumed were his sleeping quarters—were furnished with a canopied bed, two dressers, and a wardrobe, all made of chestnut and carved with scenes from Greco-Roman mythology. A large wooden tub filled with water had been prepared off to the side, along with a pitcher and several washcloths.
Baldur lit a candle, then instructed me to strip off my soiled garments. My desire to submit to him overruled my sense of modesty, and so I undressed. Baldur gestured for me to sit in the tub, and I complied. The soapy, lukewarm water came up to my waist. Baldur collected my filthy clothes and left the room to dispose of them. I waited like an obedient child, submerging my claws in the water and lifting them out to get a better look at the black fur coating my palms and the back of my hands. I didn’t know what to make of my transformation. I was both curious and revolted.
Baldur returned and knelt beside the tub. “Your lessons begin tomorrow, my boy.” His condescending tone and the way he called me “boy”—Baldur spoke as if he were my elder, but judging by the tenor of his voice, he very well could have been younger than me.
“Lessons?” I mumbled, my attention fixed on his talons as he dipped a washcloth in the bath water.
“Now that you’re one of the Anointed, you possess our gifts. I can teach you how to use them.” Baldur wiped the soaked cloth along my arm. Muddy grave soil dripped from my fingers.
“What gifts?” I leaned into Baldur’s comforting touch. My tan skin emerged from beneath the grayish-brown dirt where he scrubbed me.
“For one, you are now a chimera, possessing the speed, senses, and physical traits of a beast.” He raised my clawed hand, using it as an example. “You can heal from most injuries in but a moment, adhere to and climb any surface, and you’re stronger than you once were. Not as strong as me, mind you.”
“How strong are you?”
“Well, I once lifted a downed tree that took over a dozen mortals to move. I estimate I have the strength of fifteen men, whereas you should only have the strength of about ten.”
I stared at Baldur in astonishment. “Will I ever be as strong as you?”
Baldur dipped the washcloth in the tub to rinse it off. “No, acolytes are always weaker than their Anointers.” He scrubbed my other arm.
“Acolytes?”
Baldur propped his elbows on the rim of the tub. “Acolyte is what we call the ones we Anoint.” He predicted my next question before I could speak. “Anointment is the process of turning a mortal into one of us. I am your Anointer, and you are my acolyte. Do you follow?”
I nodded. “You fed me your blood. That was an anointment?”
“The Anointment,” Baldur corrected, “and yes, it was.” He moved around me to scrub my back. “Our abilities do not grow with age or experience. Only the living change. Our power stems from how generationally close we are to the Originator.”
“The what?”
“The first of our kind.” Baldur finished my back and dipped the washcloth again, then stepped around the tub to face me. “The Originator Anointed the first scions, who in turn Anointed my generation, the second scions.”
I tilted my head. “That would make me a third scion?”
“Indeed.” Baldur lifted my chin and washed my face. “The purer your blood, the more power you have. When we’re Anointed, our human blood mixes with the gifted blood, diluting the conversion. So each subsequent generation is weaker than the last. Now, while you are weaker than I am, you are still powerful and have various magical abilities.”
I pushed the washcloth away from my face. “Magic?” I exclaimed in dismay, remembering the words of my Geneva Bible. “Thou shalt not suffer a witch to live.”
“Calm yourself.” Baldur nudged my hand aside and wiped my face a few more times. “Yes, magic. Third scions like yourself can see and hear the thoughts of others. You can also control their minds, altering their perceptions and bending their actions to your will.”
“By Heaven,” I gasped. If we possessed magic, surely that meant our souls belonged to the Devil.
Baldur ran his claws through my hair, his touch subduing my alarm. He rinsed the washcloth again and scrubbed my hair, neck, and ears. “We also wield the power of transmutation.”
“Transmutation?”
“It means you can transfigure objects through physical contact,” Baldur explained. “Even your own form, though that’s far more difficult. Most Anointed can only transform into one or two guises, but with practice and commitment, you could shapeshift into possibly anything—another person, an animal, mist, or whatever most suits you.”
I lifted my clawed hands and examined the wet fur coating my knuckles and palms. “Then we can undo these deformities—this fur and these talons.”
Baldur lowered the washcloth and cupped my hands. “I mentioned but a moment ago that we can heal quickly. Our ability to regenerate won’t allow us to permanently transmute ourselves. A shapeshift requires constant concentration, and we can hold that concentration for perhaps an hour—at most. You could shave off this fur, but it grows quicker than your natural hair.” He combed my wet bangs with his claws. “You would have to remove the stubble from your hands every half hour, and that can grow tedious. You’d do well to accept that this is your true form now.”
I bit back a groan and lowered my hands below the surface of the turbid water. “Is that the extent of my powers?”
Baldur soaked the washcloth again and scrubbed my chest and belly. “No, you have one other gift—the power to work ice.”
“Work ice?”
“You can summon the cold, conjure snow and hail within your near vicinity, and generate ice constructs, shaping them into any form you desire.”
I sank deeper into the water, struggling to process what Baldur had told me. What was I supposed to feel? Grateful for these gifts? We were the product of witchcraft. We were inhuman! I had lost God’s favor! And yet part of me was inexplicably happy to be with this man—this creature I loved without reason. I could only sit there, my opposing emotions deadlocked. “Is that everything?”
Baldur nodded. “I’ve encountered many Anointed Ones, and they all shared the same faculties within their respective generations. There’s no reason to think you would deviate from the norm. Third scions like you aren’t the most powerful, but you’re not the weakest either.” His hands dipped under the water to scrub my leg. “Fourth scions, for example, can read thoughts and perform transmutation, but they lack your ability to control minds and work ice. And then fifth scions are the lowest of our kind. They can heal, scale surfaces, and possess animalistic speed and senses, but that’s the extent of their power. Their blood is so impure that they can’t even create acolytes of their own.”
The feel of his hand on my thigh excited me, but I steeled myself against the arousing touch and tried to steady my voice. “Wha … What are your powers?”
“The same as yours, and a couple others.”
“What others?”
Baldur shook his head. “Let those be a surprise. We’ll focus on your magic for now.”
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