Chapter 13 #2
A handkerchief was thrust into her face, and she took it blindly, gratefully—and at the same time, ashamedly. She’d been through so much…why, now when she was happy, did she have to show such weakness?
The cloth smelled like Woodmore, of course, but dense and thick—rough with blood and sweat and pain and the pleasant smell of his skin and hair, too. She dried her eyes and lifted her face to find him watching her with a detached expression. “Thank you.”
“I have three sisters,” he replied with a shrug. “Sobbing females don’t unsettle me in the least. And I suspect you have more of a reason to cry than Angelica did when her favorite yellow gown was stained with ink.”
Narcise gave him a wavery smile and wiped her nose again. “I cannot remember the last time I cried,” she told him. Not even ten years ago.
Another knock came at the door , and Woodmore answered it this time.
She noticed the way his feet scuffled a bit when he went to open it, as if he could hardly lift them.
He held onto the door while a half-full tub was brought in, followed by five huge pails of steaming water, and she suspected that he was doing so in order to keep his own knees from collapsing.
There was a drawn tightness in his face and around his eyes.
But now that she’d become fully aware of his scent, Narcise found herself noticing his bare torso, half illuminated by the glow of the lamp.
He was tall and the skin of his chest and ridged belly was as dark as that of his hands and face.
He had dark hair trailing down his stomach, into the sagging waistline of his breeches, and up to a full expanse of it over his chest. His arms were rounded with muscle, scarred and marked, but powerful nevertheless.
Her eyes started to heat when she thought about the texture of his skin and the essence of his lifeblood, and she had to look away. It was a reaction she couldn’t completely control, but she could hide it, for it didn’t mean anything.
After the water came the maidservant who’d brought the food; and this time she was carrying a pile of cloth and a small pot of unguent. These she left near the bath, and Narcise realized it was for Woodmore’s injuries.
When the door was closed once more, and they were alone, Woodmore turned to her. He seemed even more unsteady, and she thought he actually swayed on his feet. “I don’t expect you have delicate sensibilities, but if you do, you’ll either have to leave or close your eyes.”
“I don’t have anywhere else to go,” she said quietly.
He gave her an inscrutable look and turned away. And then all of a sudden, he made a sort of half-turn, as if to grab for the chair, and he began to sink.
She heard him groan a low curse just before he hit the floor with a dull thud.
Narcise rushed over to kneel next to him on the ground. “Woodmore?” she said, and went to shake him by the shoulders…but stopped when she realized that would mean closing her fingers over two ugly burns.
She saw the red oozing from his arms and the sides of his torso, recognizing Cezar’s handiwork with the metal spikes, and wondered how he’d managed to do what he’d done—fight her, carry her, run and slay and even pick a pocket—with these sorts of injuries.
At the same time, she felt a wave of remorse that she hadn’t noticed how badly he was hurt during their fencing match. Of course, she had been a bit distracted…but she should have at least gauged his weakness as her rival if nothing else.
“Woodmore!” she said more urgently, still hesitant to touch him. But when he still didn’t move, she had to, and was shocked to find his skin flaming hot. He moaned, rolling his head to the side as her fingers brushed over his shoulders.
He couldn’t remain on the floor. Narcise picked him up awkwardly—he was long and loose-limbed, and heavy even for her—and got him to the bed. And then she began examining him in detail.
She’d had enough injuries of her own, inflicted by Cezar or any number of his friends, to recognize all of the different manifestations of burns, piercings, cuts, and bruises.
She’d also had some experience in caring for them—although she wasn’t certain whether washing and cleaning injuries on mortals would even help, since they died and she, of course, wouldn’t.
But she did the best she could, using the warm water and the dubiously clean cloths that had been brought in with the unguent to wash away blood, sweat and grime.
Narcise even immodestly stripped away his breeches, leaving him fully naked, so that she could examine him for other wounds.
A particularly nasty one, which had been hidden by the trousers near his right hip, had her sucking in her breath in alarm.
Even in the faulty light, she could see that whatever had gone through his skin, and out the other side, had taken the fabric of his breeches with it like a needle and thread. The injury was rough and dark, and little frayed threads and pieces of cloth decorated the opening.
And it smelled. They all smelled of course, but this one had a wrong scent to it.
An ugly, thick, roiling sort of stench that was so unpleasant it didn’t arouse her bloodlust, even as undernourished as she was, and succeeded in masking some of the other enticing scents as well.
She cleaned it carefully, probing to get the remnants of thread and wool from inside, and knew she was doing a good job when he flinched and moaned in his fever.
But the injury would bear watching, for it might not heal at all.
The rest of them, ugly as they were, evil and dark, were painful but should heal. This one on his hip…perhaps not.
By the time she finished, the sun was rising and casting yellow beams through the window. Dangerous to Narcise, but at the same time, she hadn’t seen the sun for more than a decade.
So she stood at the window, carefully to the side, and watched as the golden glow painted the rooftops and buildings clustered around this dingy little public house—so crude and dirty and simple compared to her previous residence, but so welcome.
She couldn’t see much aside of the walls across the street and down the alley, for the buildings were close, but just the glint of yellow made her chest expand with pleasure.
No, she couldn’t walk out into it, she couldn’t bathe herself in its rays nor pick flowers on the mountainside as she’d done with Rivrik…but at least now she could see it. And she could smell the warmth as the beams baked the edge of the cotton bedding or heated the wood of the window shutters.
And perhaps…if she were brave…she could walk out into it with a cloak over her head and shoulders, thus allowing the rays to seep through and warm her through the shield.
She watched from the window for a long while, simply observing the way the shadows changed, shortening and then disappearing, and then beginning to fall toward the east…
how the light changed the scene of busy Paris, the carriages and barouches, the merchant carts and the shops’ awnings from dull shades of gray to every color imaginable.
She was weak and hungry still, but she couldn’t leave in search of someone on which to feed. And she couldn’t go down to the public room of the house and lure someone up here…could she?
So Narcise ignored the insistent waves of weakness and lightheaded moments and watched from the window, wishing for her paints or at least a pencil.
When Woodmore groaned, drawing her attention from the scenery, she went to his side. He opened his eyes, but they were dull and feverish, and his skin was still hot despite the fact that the fire had long subsided into glowing coals.
The water from the basin was cool, and she used it to dab at his forehead, uncertain what else could be done for him. His glassy gaze didn’t seem to be able to focus, and his lids fluttered as he moaned and muttered things she couldn’t understand.
Narcise felt a stirring of panic when she checked the worst of the wounds again and saw that it was puffy and foul-smelling still. The blood crusting and oozing its edges stank and she knew something had to be done, or the infamous vampir hunter would die—and in such an inglorious fashion.
At first, she simply didn’t know what to do. She couldn’t leave during the day to go in search of a physician, nor did she have any funds to pay for one. The pouch he’d lifted from the nabob who’d taken their taxi was empty.
And aside from that, she was feeling weary and nauseated herself, from lack of feeding and sleep.
Very deep inside her, Narcise was also terrified that if she left this sanctuary, Cezar or his men would find her and take her back to the hell she’d been living.
She looked at Woodmore, who, despite his fever and the shuddering breaths he was taking, still appeared capable and intimidating—even with his eyes closed.
He was so dark and exotic looking next to the undyed linen sheets, his overlong, thick hair tumbling over his forehead and clinging to his neck from the heat of his skin.
But his face was tight and flushed and his pulse thumped erratically, its sound seeming to fill her ears.
But…she had to do something.
She was a Dracule, she had the ability to enthrall even if she couldn’t go out in the daylight. How foolish of her to waste time when she did have the means to do what had to be done!
It had been so long since she’d been on her own, making her own decisions. More than ninety years. Still, to have stayed hidden and helpless like a trembling rabbit was not admirable in the least.
Unwilling to leave Woodmore alone for too long, she rang for one of the servants. A young woman came and Narcise gave her instructions in her imperfect French: she needed a physician immediately for her companion.