A Story of Blood
by Crow

---

Prologue

Nicomedia, Turkey, 1112 A.D.

Every day precisely at noon the men would come. Merchants from Italy, they showed up at Najara's door, first with exotic gifts and sweet words, rich foods and spices, fine wools and silks suitable for weaving. They had traveled many dangerous miles to this remote town, they told her, to purchase a small object they believed she would never miss.

And when Najara refused to sell, the merchants' demeanor changed. They did not like the small, arid town, these merchants with their red silk tunicas trimmed in gold brocade. They did not like being refused, especially by a woman who fed herself and her daughter by the loom. Their words lost their former eloquence, became short and demanding. Even their very knocks on the door betrayed their contempt for her.

And still Najara refused to sell.

So, when the knock sounded on her door again, Najara wasn't surprised. Until, she noticed the knock was respectful this time. She exchanged glances with her daughter, Roma, who she had been teaching how to carefully dye and spin the wool.

“Go to the other room. Stay quiet,” she instructed, and without a word Roma hurried to the adjacent room, pushing aside the rough wool blanket that separated the two rooms and letting it fall behind her.

Curious, Najara walked to the door and opened it. Instead of the two surly merchants she had come to expect, there stood an impeccably dressed woman with her two retainers. The lady was dressed in a simple green stola, the linen cloth draped around her comely figure, a hood covering her hair. The woman's arms were adorned with silver bracelets and armbands. An intricate asp chocker showcased a long, slender neck. The woman reached up and pulled the hood from her head. Her ebony hair was swept up and away from her face, with silver braiding entwined throughout it. The woman was beautiful, with warm brown eyes and a friendly smile.

“Hello,” a melodious voice issued from rose-colored lips. “I hope I have not come at an inopportune time.” Najara shook her head no and beckoned the lady to enter. The woman smiled, then turned to the men behind her and spoke a few words, too low for Najara to catch. They nodded their heads and took positions on each side of the house, facing the road.

Najara closed the door behind the lady and for the first time noticed her how shabby her house must look to this woman, the simple wooden table, the few, worn pots and dried herbs hanging from the mantle, the meager stores of food—and the offerings from the merchants, tossed carelessly in the corner near the fireplace.

The lady gracefully made her way over to the standing loom, reaching out to touch the burnt orange, black, and gold threads weaving their diamond design. “This is quiet lovely,” she complemented Najara. “It's been years since I wove a carpet like this,” she said wistfully.

“You, my lady? Are you from this area?” Najara boldly asked.

The woman smiled and nodded her head. “My sister and I were born in Constantinople. We moved to Naples when I married.” Najara motioned for the lady to sit at the table before taking her place across from her. “But I am being rude. My name is the Countessa Mirat di Borghese, but please call me Mirat. May I call you Najara?”

Najara nodded her head in agreement, and Mirat continued. “The merchants who have been coming to see you work for my husband, but I could tell that you were too shrewd for them. We were accomplishing nothing but wasting time.” She favored Najara with a conspiratorial smile. “I thought it was time for the ladies to talk.”

“I am no lady,” Najara protested, “and I am not trying to be ‘shrewd,' as you say. I am afraid that the answer is the same for you as it was for your men. I cannot sell the flask.”

Mirat waved a dismissive hand. “There is time enough for that discussion later. First, tell me about the item.”

“My lady…” Najara began.

“Mirat,” the lady corrected with a firm tone.

“Mirat, if you want the item so much, then I am sure that you do not need me to tell you about it.”

Mirat gave a short smile. “And you say you are not shrewd,” she declared. When Najara opened her mouth to protest, Mirat held up a hand to stop her. “Please, I meant nothing by that. And you are correct, I do know a great deal about the relic's history and background. But you, my dear, possess a familial history of the piece. Your family has cared for it for over 300 years, correct?” Najara nodded her head reluctantly. “I would be most interested in hearing your story, Najara.”

Najara hesitated. Her guest's demeanor was nothing but polite and interested, but suddenly she caught a glimpse of something else, something ruthless, predatory. Her mind raced, thinking about Roma in the other room, trying to figure out how to best protect the relic and her daughter. Perhaps she could convince the woman that the flask needed to remain with Najara, where it would be safe.

“You want to know about the relic? Over three hundred years ago a brave and noble young man from this very village became the physician of Emperor Galerius Maximan,” Najara paused and looked out the open window, past the two retainers standing guard outside her house, past the rolling hills and green fields. From across time, she heard her mother's voice telling a young Najara a story of the blood, a story passed from mother to daughter for many generations.

“St. Pantaleon's skill as a physician was unrivaled. Being a pious man, he began to distribute his wealth and possessions to the poor Christians of Nicomedia, spending as many hours treating the poor as he did the Emperor and his courtesans. Pantaleon sought no glory or riches, but his fame increased, causing his fellow physicians to become jealous and plot his overthrow.

“The Emperor, who owed his life countless times to Pantaleon's miraculous skill, secretly begged Pantaleon to flee persecution, but Pantaleon refused. He and two of his closest companions were arrested. His friends were beheaded, each refusing to renounce the brave physician, but Pantaleon's ordeal would last one more day. He was subjected to indescribable torture—six different attempts were made on his life.”

“Yes, yes,” Mirat interrupted. “Pantaleon's captors tried to kill him by burning, molten lead, drowning, wild beasts, the wheel, and the sword.” She leaned toward Najara, like a close friend ready to share a particularly delicious secret. “Is this really true?

Why could Pantaleon not be killed?”

Najara blinked in confusion. “My lady…his life was spared then because he was favored in the eyes of our Lord.” Disgust crossed the graceful features of the other woman. “Yes, yes,” she muttered, in agreement and waved Najara on. “Continue.”

“The Lord chose to end Pantaleon's trials the next day when he was beheaded, like his friends. During his public persecution, his blood was collected in a flask by one of my ancestors, a woman who recognized the divine spark in the martyr. For over 300 years, the blood has been passed down from mother to daughter in my family. It is truly a miracle of God—a miracle that must be protected from those who would try to exploit its divine powers,” Najara finished, giving the other woman a direct look.

Mirat seemed unconcerned. “Yes, a noble gift indeed. How quick thinking of your ancestress to collect the blood of a martyr, even before it grew cold.”

“My ancestress was an honorable and devout woman.”

“But of course, of course. Devout…as you are.”

“I am but a humble servant of our Lord. It is my job to keep the relic safe, as one day it will be my daughter Roma's job to do the same.”

Mirat's eyes narrowed. “Yes, I can see you are dedicated to your mission.” She stood up and walked over to the mantle, picking up a cloth doll of Roma's. She looked over to the next room, smiled at the quick jerk and shuffle as little feet moved hastily away from the curtain.

“And I am sure you are also a good mother, as well as a humble servant of God. But I must have the relic, and I am running out of time” Mirat dropped the doll and pulled out a long, slender wooden stick from the folds of her dress, pointing it at Najara.

“Imperius,” she barked. Najara jerked and remained sitting, fixing a blank stare on Mirat. “Now you must obey me, Najara. Is the relic here, in this house?” A voice inside Najara's mind screamed, but she slowly, painfully, nodded her head in agreement.

“Get it for me,” Mirat commanded and Najara was forced to obey, heading to the bin where she kept the potatoes and onions, digging around until her hand hit the wooden box. She pulled it out and handed it to Mirat, who reverently opened the box, her fingers caressing the velvet encased flask inside. She pulled out the ornate flask, ruby colored blood swishing inside—the blood of a martyr 300 hundred years old.

Something inside of Najara's mind broke, and she felt her will returning, fear driving her to reach for the box. “No, I will die before I see the relic used for evil,” she cried. Mirat snarled and pointed the wand again.

“So be it,” she said. “Avada Kedavra.” Najara saw a flash of green, then she knew no more.

…..

Mirat stood transfixed, ignoring the dead woman in front of her, holding the flask to the light coming in the windows, watching color bounce off the ruby liquid. After all this time, she thought, when suddenly a bundle of rags knocked into her, the girl, running to tend to her dead mother. How quaint.

She paid little attention to the girl's sobs as she walked over to the door, opened it, and walked out. The men moved toward her. “Were you successful, my lady?” the older man asked.

“Yes,” Mirat informed him, holding the box close to her chest. “We leave for Italy tonight.”

“What shall we do with the child?”

“The world does not need another orphan. Burn down the house,” Mirat instructed, moving toward the carriage waiting for her. She stopped and turned back. “But bring me the unfinished carpet and the supplies,” she said. The man nodded, walked inside the house, and closed the door behind him.

…..

Many days later, Mirat arrived in Italy, physically exhausted from her travels, but her mind racing with the possibilities now open to her. She yearned to head to the quiet of her solarium to think. Instead, a very aggrieved man stood on the curving marble steps waiting for her.

“What took you so long?” he demanded as soon as she entered through the large double doors. Mirat sighed and looked up at the Counte Azzo di Borghese, her husband these past seven years.

Mirat smoothed down a crease in her red silk tunica, ignoring his outburst. “Hello, husband. I missed you too.”

“You were supposed to be back almost a fortnight ago,” he demanded.

“Your men were incompetent. I had to step in and handle the situation myself.”

Azzo strode angrily down the stairs. “Then you should have stepped in sooner wife,” he sneered. “In your absence, your sister was caught in the church graveyard, again, trying to dig up the body of the magistrate's seven-year-old daughter,” he said in disgust.

Mirat raised an eyebrow. “My condolences to the magistrate and his wife.”

Azzo stamped his feet in disgust. “I had to pledge a new stained glass window for the Church to keep the matter quiet. Do you know how much such a window costs?”

“I am sure your sacrifice will leave you highly favored in the eyes of our Lord,” Mirat murmured with a smile.

Azzo moved quickly, painfully grabbing her by her forearm and pulling her closer to him. “Do not think for one moment that you are superior to me! I have been benevolent long enough. We must, at least, uphold the smallest vestiges of Christianity. It is your job to keep your sister in line.”

Anger flooded over Mirat, but she needed Azzo, his position and fortune provided the protection she and her sister needed. Slowly, but deliberately, she pulled away from him, carefully keeping her eyes averted, striving to look meek. She felt a pounding behind her eyes, another headache coming on.

“Yes, husband. I understand my duty. I will make her obey your wishes.”

Azzo reconsidered. “Still, we do not want to upset her too much, so close to the ceremony. She will be able to help, will she not?” he said, rubbing his hands.

“Of course, husband. I am sure her forays into the cemetery were merely preparations for the ritual. As always, I am sure my sister will appreciate your generosity and beneficence.” Azzo nodded curtly then turned and walked back up the stairs.

Mirat sighed, wishing again for the sanctuary of her rooms, but instead made her way down the winding stairs and passages leading to the basement of the villa. She came to a thick oak door and knocked, then opened it without waiting for an answer.

“Sister, I see you have returned,” said a voice from the darkest reaches of the room. Mirat could barely see anything inside. Meager candlelight illuminated parts of the room, while a small fire offered little respite from the damp chill of the basement.

“Ever observant, sister,” Mirat complimented. By instinct, she walked through the room, avoiding the round table near the door, snorting at the cloying patchouli fumes that hung heavy in the air. Her headache worsened. “Oh, do come out so we can talk. I am not some peasant girl for you to frighten with your theatrics.”

A low chuckle moved closer, out of the shadows, and a stooped figure with matted, gray hair stepped into the light. Her clothes were dirty and torn, a rough black shawl was thrown around her shoulders. Sirin Abi leaned heavily against a cane and cocked a head, looking at her sister. She laughed. “And how is your husband today?”

“Irate, as you well know. He is upset by the amount of money he had to spend covering up your latest indiscretion. Could you not, at least, employ the retainers I left at your disposal? They are efficient, and discreet.”

“Pfsish,” her sister snorted and hobbled over to take a seat in the worn leather chairs by the fireplace. “Even your retainers do not know what I need, how to tell the difference between the stomach and the intestines.”

Mirat squeezed the bridge of her nose, trying to hold back the pain. “Sister,” she explained wearily, “you know where we stand. We have more freedom to pursue our goals than we have ever had before, but we must keep up appearances. We must try to keep Azzo happy.”

“Give him a 12-year-old boy, or a sheep, that will keep him happy,” Sirin cackled.

Mirat would not rise to the bait. Her sister was, in fact, probably correct. “Be that as it may, we need his support and protection until the potion is complete.”

It was Sirin's turn to sigh. “I understand, dear Mirat, but the girl was seven years old. I could not let her intestines go to waste—I needed them for augury.” She stopped when she noticed Mirat's pained expression. “I will be more careful. I promise.”

Sirin looked into the fire, then back at her sister, now sitting across from her. “Mirat…” she started.

“Hmm…” Mirat said drowsily, mesmerized by the flames.

“We still agree—don't we, little one—that we are not sharing the potion with your husband? There is no guarantee it would even work on his kind; he does not possess magical blood.”

Mirat looked sharply at her sister. “As far as I'm concerned, Sirin, the potion is ours. My husband be damned.” Mirat rubbed her temples at the sudden flare of pain. She needed rest and quiet. Sirin stood up and walked around her sister's chair. Deftly, she started massaging Mirat's tight shoulders, kneading the knotted muscles, fingers sliding to caress Mirat's collarbones. She leaned close and ran a gnarled finger down Mirat's smooth cheek.

“Your headaches are back, my love. Let me brew your potion so that you may sleep. Sirin is here. I'll take care of you. I'm the only one who can.”

Mirat stiffened slightly, then forced herself to relax. She gave Sirin a small smile and grabbed her sister's hand, giving it a squeeze before pointedly moving it away from her. “Yes, Sirin. You have always been good to me. Thank you.” She watched Sirin move around the room, gathering the herbs for the potion. As her sister chopped up the ingredients, Mirat asked, “Will everything be ready for the new moon?”

Sirin clucked and mumbled to herself as she measured and threw the ingredients in a black mortar. “There is still much to be done now that the blood is here. So many things still left to be gathered,” she shook her head, as if unsure.

I cannot wait for the next moon, Mirat thought. “But Sirin,” she said, setting her voice low and walking to where her sister stood working. She reached out and touched Sirin's cheek. “I am here now. I can help. I can gather what you need, for I learned by your side how to harvest the flesh and bone under the light of the moon.” She smiled as Sirin relaxed under her caress, saw the satisfied smile on her sister's face. “I will tell my husband we need to wait one more month to perform the ritual. That should keep him preoccupied and allow us to do our work and make our escape. This is our time Sirin.” Mirat leaned over and kissed the old woman's cheek, managing not to choke on the diseased smell that emanated from the crone.

…..

900 years later—Could it have really been that long, she thought—Mirat sat in a flat in Florence, weaving the black, and gold, and orange threads, tying the knots, carefully following the pattern. She could still vividly recall those last days as the sisters prepared for the ritual.

All her preparations back then blinded her to a very important fact: Azzo had somehow learned of the sister's intentions to betray him.  

Even now Mirat could close her eyes and remember that night, smell the thick incense, hear Sirin echoing her chants, praying to the Dark Goddess to answer their call as she prepared the potion, using a few precious drops of the blood. Mirat could still feel the power she raised that night, power and will she infused into the holy blood, the will to steal Pantaleon's gift—the gift of invulnerability from physical harm.

Mirat remembered watching Sirin ladle the strong potion into a cup, offering it first to Mirat to taste and savor. She remembered how her hands shook as she slowly lifted the goblet to her mouth, could almost taste again the bitter, coppery taste of the blood. Then, suddenly, her knees buckled as she felt the magic run through her veins like foxfire. She heard Sirin's triumphant laugh and then…

The door to Sirin's chambers was thrown open as armed guards and clerics strode in. Mirat was grabbed from behind and shoved to the floor, a young soldier holding her down. She remembered Sirin cursing the soldier, then rushing toward Mirat to protect her. She saw the soldier draw his sword, in disgust, not fear, and run Sirin through. She could close her eyes and watch the stooped figure of her sister crumple to the floor, her blood, the color of a martyr's, spreading out from her as her eyes glazed over.

“No,” Mirat snapped, at the memory and at her clumsy fingers that missed the pattern, knotting the wrong color thread. A child's mistake, not something she'd usually make.

Even now, she could hear Azzo's footsteps as he walked to her, hear his knees creak as he bent down to look at her face to face for the last time, and whisper to her, unheard by the others. “You believed that you and your sister were so much smarter than me, my little whore? You thought that I was someone to use then toss aside when you were done with me? You belonged to me, and now I will throw you away.”

He stood up and walked over to the Monsignor, pausing to spit on Sirin's body. The men laughed, and Azzo helped the clerics gather the relic and stopper the flask. They walked out without looking at her again.

But Mirat wasn't ready to be thrown aside, and it was ridiculously easy for her to use her body to gain her freedom and flee Florence. For the first time in her life, Mirat had been free—free from her family, free from Azzo, and free from Sirin. Looking back, she supposed she should have thanked Azzo for his unexpected gift.

Now, almost 900 years later, Mirat had claimed her name once again, throwing aside the hundreds of aliases she had used over the years. She had aligned herself with powerful men, wizards and Muggles alike, watching civilizations come and go, power wane and shift. And still she was here.

But now, slowly, the potion was wearing off. She could feel it in her bones, an ache that hadn't been there before, a stiffness in her step, a gray hair in the midst of her black mane. Not much yet, but Mirat hadn't lived this long without understanding that no gift comes without a price. And now it was time to pay that price again.

Knot the gold thread, then the black, then the orange…a different carpet than the one she'd had stolen from Najara's house all those years ago. But that cottage had been the start, and here in Florence it would start again. Once, Mirat had used a powerful man to get what she desired. Now there was a powerful vacuum left in the wizarding world with the death of Lord Voldemort and his most powerful allies. It should be easy to twist a young lord's affections to her will.

And Mirat knew exactly where to look for the relic, and exactly how she would get it.