thirteen
For two days, the storm raged unending.
It was a sign of Calder’s anger, Anton explained to Sonya. Emotion fed into one’s seidr, and when someone was a seidr user, the emotion found expression in a spell like an artist painting an image. The image Calder was painting was of ire and violence and—sadness, because the skies would not stop weeping, the thunder kept shouting, and the lightning threw itself like unwieldy, despondent fists.
Anton often stood at the open door and watched it all, his eyes hard and fixed on the muddled outline of Eihwaz in the distance.
Sonya watched the rain, too. She thought about the man who seemed intent on drowning the world, but more often she turned her mind to England, to her mum and her dad and the friends she’d left behind. She missed them terribly. Did they miss her? Did Callum and Kirstie and Sahar have families who mourned their loss? Did Dr. Rangel have children? She imagined a notice tacked onto a lecture hall door, canceling classes for the rest of the term. It made Sonya immeasurably sad for a reason she didn’t fully comprehend. The cost of four—five—lives, summed up in a bit of inconvenience to be forgotten in a matter of weeks.
Sonya gazed into the mug braced between her hands, the cream and sugar sluggish in their spirals through the black coffee. Outside the window, the rain had relented from a veritable hurricane to a passable squall, and Anton had gone out somewhere with a vague promise of being back before dawn. She glimpsed the carriage clock on the mantel—an antique one from the Continent—and saw it was almost time for him to return.
Across from Sonya, Fiske sat on the couch by himself, stuck indoors and away from his chores because of Calder’s fit. He played a card game on a phone Sonya thought might be as old as her. It made tinny noises whenever he won.
“What do you think?” she asked him softly, not expecting an answer. “How would you go about getting blood from a man determined to keep it?”
To her surprise—and delight—Fiske responded in his usual manner, setting the phone down for a moment to mime stabbing a person and sticking his tongue below the wound. Sonya laughed.
“Well, I’m reliably informed he has to give the blood willingly, else it won’t work. On the other hand, though, I do believe Mr. Halfdansson might benefit from a bit of stabbing.” She sipped her coffee. “It might relieve that festering attitude of his.”
Fiske shrugged.
Sonya finished her drink and watched the rain lash at the window, tangling in the long blades of sodden grass. Then, in a soft voice, she admitted, “I probably would have made for a poor vampire anyway,” and picked at a spot on her trousers, another pair that had once belonged to a man but fit her skinny frame better than the other options for women. “And I could not obey a man like that even in my worst nightmares.”
Almost two weeks had passed. They were no closer to attaining Calder’s blood.
Fiske blinked at her, seeming to have not understood, and yet he closed the phone and slipped it into his shirt pocket, sliding to his bare feet. He came over to Sonya’s chair and snatched her hand, turning it over so he could draw something in her palm—a letter, or perhaps a rune, done too quickly for Sonya to figure out. He closed her fingers into a fist and mimicked biting and swallowing something. Bemused, Sonya raised her arm and pretended to eat whatever he’d written on her—and was shocked when a pleasant tingle of seidr touched her skin.
Inspection of her hand and arm turned up no anomalies, her limb just the same as ever. “Hmm. I’m not sure what you did, but thank you.”
Fiske patted her head, and Sonya watched the seemingly young draugr make his unbothered way from the sitting room. He passed Gudbrand at the raised threshold, and the larger man stepped around him, eyes on Sonya.
“Anton’s returned,” he said. A grim note rested in his voice, spiking worry in her heart. “He is in his room. You can go find him there.”
“His room?” Sonya knew where it resided but hadn’t visited before; Anton had described it as a storage room, a place where his possessions had been relocated after his incarceration and the fall of his Jarl. “Oh. All right.”
She stood—and stumbled, blood rushing in her ears as the floor swayed. Gudbrand showed remarkable speed in stepping to her side, placing a steadying hand under Sonya’s elbow.
“I’m okay,” she told him with a half-hearted chuckle. “I rose too quickly is all.”
He slanted his mouth in rueful disbelief yet nodded and let go. Sonya wondered if Anton had told him about her passing out before and hoped he hadn’t. “Right. Go on, then.”
She went, one hand on the wall as a precaution, and paused outside a thick, rough-hewn door in a colder section of the house. Sonya knocked, and Anton’s voice bid her come in.
The room looked much as she expected, perhaps aside from the candles lit here and there and the tidy double-bed in the far corner with its thick white duvet. Boxes and crates cluttered the dusty corners, and weathered curtains had been drawn over the small, circular window where the cold sept inside. Anton himself sat in an armchair that had seen better days, the carved designs on the arms worn to nothing, the stuffing as flat as a pancake.
Between his hands, he held a large earthenware cup.
“Hello,” she greeted, confused. “Gudbrand said you wanted to see me?”
“Close the door, please.”
The confusion grew, but Sonya let the door’s weight close itself, the latch flopping against the wood.
“I need you to drink this.”
The ominous tone of the situation and his quiet utterance didn’t lend much credence to Sonya’s hope of it being fruit punch in that cup. He stood and stepped nearer, pressing the dish carefully into her unsteady grip. The liquid sloshed—and the bitter aroma reached her nose, red highlights glinting like leering eyes where the surface caught the light.
Dear God , Sonya thought, because the blood was hot and still brilliant in hue, and Anton had only just returned from an errand he wouldn’t discuss. Rainwater still spotted the shoulders of his buttoned shirt. Jesus Christ.
“B-but why? I’m not—.”
“You’re not human, dear girl,” he said, solemn, hands cupping hers over the dish’s surface. “You know this, and you know what the draugar must drink.”
“But—.”
Anton ignored her. “It’s only a bandage for our current situation, not a cure, but it will help. The weakness will only worsen if you don’t feed yourself properly.”
All Sonya could think of was the faces of her classmates and the heat of the liquid in her hands, knowing someone had died so very recently to put it there. Someone who might have been like Sonya before her unfortunate Scottish excursion, going about their daily life, puttering around their house or visiting friends or taking a jaunt to the local chippy. Some damned soul who fell into the hands of Viking vampires and had bled for the pleasure.
Sonya almost laughed, hysterical, because it was either that or weep.
“I—I don’t know if I can,” she stuttered, the blood rippling as she shook. A sob built and throbbed in her chest, scrabbling like a living thing under her ribs. “Oh, Anton, I—. What if I can’t do any of this? What if I’m not strong enough?”
“Shh.” Anton had his hands over hers still, bearing most of the cup’s considerable weight. “No need to fuss. Every draugar who has come before you had to start somewhere, and you wouldn’t be the first to struggle with the…dietary needs.”
“Did you?”
“No, not as such. But I had years to make my decision, and I matured in the culture of the draugar. Seeing blood consumed was not uncommon or odd to me.”
Miserable, Sonya nodded, unable to look into his lovely face. She wanted to be logical about this; every organism on their planet needed to eat, even half-ghoul creatures like Sonya. Still, disappointment welled at her own irrational panic, and despite her efforts to raise the cup, to close her eyes and pretend she drank tomato juice or sour wine, she could not make herself move.
After a minute, Anton took the vessel, sliding it from her fingers.
“I’m sorry, I—.”
Easy as could be, he placed the rim to his lip, winked, and tipped his head back, downing the blood. Sonya watched in startled fascination, the apology forgotten as Anton gulped several times, never losing a drop, drinking until the cup was empty.
“Ah, very nice,” he praised with an inhale, chest swelling. “An excellent vintage.”
“Now you’re just being gross for my benefit.”
“Perhaps.” He set the cup aside and began to unbutton his shirt.
Again, Sonya startled, squawking like a bird whose tail feathers had been yanked. “Wh—do you always get nude after a cuppa?” she sputtered.
“I’m not getting nude , though I’ll take your suggestion under advisement. Sounds refreshing.” Each button undone revealed another inch of pale chest, and when he tugged the tails free of his trousers, he yanked the shirt off without ceremony. Sonya blinked and her mouth dried as she averted her eyes from his bared skin—though not before stealing a lingering glance. Perhaps more than a glance. He returned to the vacated chair and sat down, making himself comfortable. “I didn’t want to ruin the shirt.”
“Ruin the—?”
A switchblade snicked open, forcing Sonya’s gaze back to the half-naked man—and the small blade now in his hand, leveled at the side of his neck. He pressed down, and Sonya shouted.
“Anton, what the fuck ?!” she cried, rushing forward only to be ensnared by his free hand. “What are you doing?! ”
“Relax, relax,” he cooed as he finished creating the small incision and tossed the switchblade onto a crate. Blood oozed in a lazy river, collecting in the dip of his clavicle before it welled over. “It’ll heal completely in a few minutes.”
“Why would—?”
“Because you need to drink , silly girl, and I’ve just fed. Come, Sonya, you must have some, and you won’t be hurting me.”
“Aside from you have to cut your own neck open!” she huffed, dragging a hand through her hair. “You’re not giving me much choice here!”
“No, no choice at all, dear.” He grinned—the proverbial cat who got the canary. “Do hurry. I think I might expire if you don’t kiss my wound better.”
Sonya smacked his knee, irked by his subterfuge and relieved he’d be just fine. The blood glittered on his skin as it dripped, almost transparent where it stretched over the swell of muscle, making a line downward toward his black trousers. She swallowed.
“Sonya.” His tone grew more serious, urgent.
Tentative, she placed her hand on his unbloodied shoulder, and Anton acquiesced by tilting his head back and baring his bleeding neck. His own hand rose to find hers, his fingers looping around her wrist, stroking from her forearm down to her palm and back again, her bones seeming so small and delicate under his gentle touch. His other hand came to rest on her hip when she stepped nearer.
“Closer,” he whispered, and Sonya paused, her tongue darting out to lick her bottom lip as she considered what to do. Then, slowly, she lifted her knee and slid her leg over his own so she could partially kneel on the chair by his hip. This brought their chests closer, a low, content noise rumbling from Anton, the smell of copper tinging the air. It wasn’t a pleasant scent and shouldn’t have been one that evoked her appetite, and yet it made Sonya’s throat clench with thirst.
Anton’s hand trailed from her hip to the back of her thigh, tightened, and Sonya gasped as he pulled and lifted, her foot leaving the floor so she straddled his lap. “Much better,” he said, lips brushing near her cheek. “Comfortable?”
Sonya blushed, increasingly aware of how his body fit beneath hers, but nodded. Anton shifted his head back again, resting on the chair. “Go on,” he murmured. “Before the wound closes.”
The trickle of blood had already turned sluggish, and though scared and reticent, the last thing Sonya wanted was to make Anton cut himself open again. She shied from the sticky trail dripping over his chest and bowed her head—Anton’s fingers delving through her hair to hold it aside as Sonya’s lips parted and she breathed against his skin. Summoning her courage, she lowered her mouth and—.
It tasted like blood always did—like coins in her mouth, as if she’d bitten too hard on her own lip and her tongue kept worrying at the spot, the bitter and salty liquid seeping through her teeth. But something of her changing biology found the texture interesting, inviting, and as Sonya licked the warm cut, she found a new taste, something she couldn’t define, and she pulled more into her mouth unbidden, wanting to discover what it was.
Beneath her, Anton groaned. “Sonya,” he breathed, hands on her waist, fingers skimming under the hem of her jumper like a swimmer testing the water. Sonya’s blunt little teeth dug into his skin as she sucked, and Anton hissed, a shiver running through his body. “ Gods , girl.”
More than anything, Sonya felt the warmth fill her mouth—her throat, her chest, her heart—and wanted more of it. Wanted that feeling like swallowing the sun, like sinking into a hot bath, letting it enfold her, steal her breath. She clutched at Anton as closely as she could. The heat swirled through her middle until it sank, inexorable, between her legs, and Sonya ached.
She ground her hips into his, and the fingers at her waist squeezed, possessive, pulling her body tighter to his own. Anton’s breath poured across her skin as he snaked a hand up her back and gripped the collar of her jumper, tugging it to one side, pressing his mouth to her neck in mimicry her teeth in his skin. He didn’t bite, but the hard points of fangs skated over her pulse, chased by the warm, wet heat of his tongue, and Sonya writhed under the sensation. Feeling out of her mind, she moaned into his skin.
Suddenly, the chair was gone, and Anton’s large hands gripped Sonya under her thighs, keeping her aloft as he stood and her mouth broke from his neck. She barely had a chance to pant for air before his lips painted a scalding trail up her throat and over her chin, his tongue catching those few precious drops that had escaped her, his mouth reddened by his own blood.
Sonya sucked in a startled breath when Anton tipped her back, and she fell, landing on the mattress. He followed, hovering over her with his arms braced by her head, and Sonya stared into his eyes, the silver swallowed by the black of his pupils. In the candlelight, he looked surreal, the long, lissome lines of his pale body streaked in crimson like war paint on a brawler, the shadows deepening under every dip of his bones, the valleys formed by flexing muscle.
She didn’t know what had come over her. The divine haze over her thoughts dwindled, and Sonya cringed at her own behavior. He hadn’t given her permission to—to grind on him like that! Yes, he’d pulled her onto his chair, but ostensibly to drink, not wiggle about on his lap. Was he annoyed? Was he disappointed?
She took a breath to apologize, stuttering, “I’m sor—.”
He kissed her.
It was startlingly tender in contrast to the overwhelming heat of him. He held himself there, lips formed to hers, and Sonya’s worries dissolved, tension leaking from her body. He pulled back and gazed at Sonya, smiling. “Very well done,” he said, his thumb stroking her bottom lip. “Very well done indeed.”
Emboldened, Sonya pulled on his shoulders, and, at first, Anton held himself steady against her tugging, chuckling at the frustrated moue her mouth formed, but then he relented and kissed her again. Sonya’s mouth parted to his—and he tasted like toothpaste of all things, like mint and salt and the coppery lifeblood of a stranger now filling their veins.
His kiss trailed to her cheek, a low grunt of satisfaction puffing against her ear when she threaded her fingers through his hair.
“ Allfridr, ” he whispered. “ Allfridr brúdr. ”
“What does that mean?”
Anton pressed his lips to her throat. “ Beautiful woman. ”
His hips bore down on hers, knees braced, one hand trailing under her jumper—and then Sonya had her hands above her head, bumping the headboard as her jumper was yanked off. The front clasp of her bra snapped under Anton’s fingers, and Sonya didn’t have the chance to feel one way or another about the fabric pulling away from her breasts before Anton’s lips touched her sternum and trailed downward, his mouth as hot as a brand.
The cold of the room proved a heady contrast to the feel of his hands framing her ribs, then her breasts, Sonya arching into his caress, her thoughts in a whirlwind. Finally, his thumb swept over her nipple, and she shivered.
“Gods, you could drive a man to madness, sweet girl,” he groaned. He spoke into her skin, nuzzling the underside of her left breast. “Maybe I’m already there. Am I mad, dear Sonya? Hmm? Are you real? Or a vision come into my bed to sip the soul from my body?”
Sonya circled his hips with her legs, wanting him closer, wanting what else, she didn’t know. More . “Please, Anton.”
He sighed, placing a chaste kiss over her racing heart. “Yes, yes.”
Settling his weight firmly on top of her, Anton ground his hips down, and Sonya bucked under him. The softness of his mouth contrasted with the steely points of his teeth and the hard roll of his pelvis into hers. The pressure centered between her legs had Sonya trembling, wanting more friction, more of him, more of that unearthly warmth that radiated from his body like the heat of noon.
“More,” she begged, voice shaking, eyes squeezed shut. “M-more, please, I need—.”
He silenced her with another kiss, nipping her mouth as his hands gripped her by the waist and held her fast. She could feel how his fingers dug in, firm and possessive, needy. His movements increased in speed—hard, ragged thrusts causing the bed to creak, the clothing between them doing little to disguise the evidence of his arousal. It did little to impede the friction, and Sonya ached for it to continue, for him to go faster, for her bloody awful trousers to disappear so she could feel all of him pressing against her, pressing into her—.
“A-Anton,” she gasped as the quickening spiral in her middle tightened, threatening to break like a thread twisted too many times. “Anton, I—!”
Her words vanished the moment his lips sealed over her nipple.
The thread snapped. The tension quivered in Sonya’s limbs as the pleasure burst and burned through her, quick as a wildfire with Anton as the one wielding the lighter, grinning in satisfaction. Poor man, her sudden, piercing shriek must have deafened his ear, but he made no mention of it as he drew the last of the tension from her and Sonya slumped, boneless and panting.
Good God.
Heaving several long, satisfied breaths, Anton flopped onto his side, and Sonya went with him—being half-naked and cold without him pressed against her. Anton hummed as she curled into his chest, their legs still tangled, and he wrapped an arm around her to hold her in place. The smell of blood and sweat filled her nose.
Once her heart returned to a normal speed, Sonya couldn’t help but notice the rigidity in his trousers hadn’t faded, the definite line of his erection visible when she looked down.
Well, that’s not fair for him.
She dropped her uncertain hand to his waistband—and Anton pulled it away, tangling her fingers in his. “Not today, Sonya,” he said, kissing her palm. He sighed, and shifted his hips to be more comfortable.
“Are—are you sure?”
“Yes.” He settled his head more firmly against the pillow, his hair mussed by Sonya’s explorations, his cheeks still lightly pink from exertion. He made lazy circles on her spine and murmured, “Go to sleep, Sonya.”
“Anton?”
“Hmm?”
“I…I was being silly before about the blood, wasn’t I? In the end, still went to the same place.”
“No.” His lips brushed her brow, fond, his voice sleepy. “No, you were not.”
With a snap of his fingers, the candles went out.