Chapter 13 #3
Then, assuring herself that Woodmore would sleep—if not restlessly—for a bit longer, she left the chamber quickly.
Down the back stairwell she went, and then into the public room where it was crowded with people, noise, and smells.
Smoke and sweat were strong enough here to gag her, along with the layer of stale ale and old wine and a myriad of other aromas.
Nervously, she looked about and settled her attention on an old, fat man who was waddling unsteadily toward the door. He was well-dressed and clumsy with drink.
Narcise, who was thankful to still be dressed as a boy, kept her face averted and hoped not to draw attention as she made her way to meet her unsuspecting mark.
At the door, which fortunately led into a small alcove to keep the snow and rain from pouring into the pub itself, she met up with the fat man.
He was irritable, which made her feel even more justified in drawing him into a bit of her thrall whilst she relieved him of the wallet he held under his coat.
It was done more quickly and easily than she’d even imagined, and Narcise, flush with funds and a different sort of confidence that had nothing to do with swordsmanship or even her beauty, slipped back up to the chamber she shared with Woodmore.
But that seemed to be the most optimistic part of the day. When the physician arrived, he spoke French too rapidly for her to completely understand…yet the idea that Woodmore was in dangerous condition became very clear.
Narcise watched as the docteur used a sharp knife to cut into the swollen and infected wound, then scooped away the foul-smelling green pus that erupted from it.
He cleaned it and wrapped it and gave her a list of instructions that was only partly clear…
and then he left, taking a good portion of the fat man’s money with him.
Not long after he left, a knock sounded at the door, drawing Narcise’s attention abruptly from her patient. She quickly covered Woodmore with a sheet and then bade the servant to enter.
It was a young man who’d come to collect the tub and pails. He looked at Narcise, who’d just taken her hair down and whose shirt still clung to her body curves, and she saw a flare of interest in his eyes before he turned to gather up the items.
Her heart began to thump harder and her gums constricted. No, not here….but why not? You have to feed.
She swallowed hard and tried to ignore her increasing light-headedness and the gnawing in her stomach.
“Could you build up the fire again?” she asked, hearing the duskiness in her own voice. “It’s chilly in here.”
“Certainly, madame,” he replied, and set the pails on the ground. His gaze lingered as he walked past her, and she felt a little nudge in her center.
He’s willing.
He doesn’t know what it is you want.
She bit her lip, trying to keep from scenting the young man—who was lanky and blond and had an alluring, masculine scent laced with innocence. He couldn’t be much older than twenty.
No…
But yes. A streak of pain flamed over her shoulder and down the side of her back and Narcise gasped. The sudden filling and pulsing of her Mark was like a branding iron of Lucifer’s temper.
“Madame?” the youth asked, turning from the fireplace to look at her in concern.
“What is your name?” she asked, breathless with pain…and anticipation.
“Philippe,” he said, and she felt her eyes warm into a strong warm glow.
“Philippe,” she replied, stepping closer to him. “There is something else you could assist me with.”
His breathing changed, deepening and slowing, as her eyes burned into him. Oh yes. Narcise’s fangs erupted swiftly and she could scarcely breathe.
“Will you?” she asked, holding out her hand. Her heart beat savagely in her breast, and she could smell his desire, his interest wafting through the air.
He stepped toward her, his eyes heavy-lidded and his mouth full and sensual. “What is it?” he asked.
She could wait no longer; hunger and need drove her and she fairly flung herself at him. His arms went around her, his fingers pulling at her shirt, but she had hold of his shoulders and slammed her fangs into his flesh.
His gasped mon Dieu rang in her ears as the flood of ambrosia poured into her mouth.
Narcise clung to his shoulders as she forced him back against the wall, drinking and leeching from his warm, youthful flesh.
His hands moved over her, pulling at her clothes, dragging the shirt up over her back so he could touch her skin.
She felt the rise and swell of his cock against her, and the soft moans from the back of his throat as she swallowed and sucked deep drafts of lifeblood.
Pleasure and arousal, along with strength, rushed through her.
Her breasts tightened, becoming sensitive behind their loosened bindings.
Damp and heat pounded through her as she licked and drank, the young coppery blood filling her mouth.
His chest rose and fell against her breasts, and his hands moved around to cover them, sliding down over tight nipples to the swelling center between her legs, frantic and desperate for his own release.
Narcise might have gone on for too long if there hadn’t been a dull noise from behind her. The thump brought her back to the moment, to where she was, what she was doing…and that she and her victim had sagged into a heap on the floor, his hands tearing at her breeches.
She pulled her fangs away, breathing as if she’d been running, and felt her partner—for he wasn’t precisely a victim—shuddering against her.
He muttered something low and desperate in her ear, grinding the bulge in his trousers against her hip as his mouth found hers.
He was sloppy and warm, and the taste of his own blood must have excited him, for he pulled her closer, urgent and needy.
Narcise twisted her face away and returned to his shoulder to lick at the bitemarks she’d left there. It made the wounds heal quickly and cleanly, and helped the blood to stop flowing.
As she pulled back, a glance behind her indicated Chas Woodmore, completely naked and wavering on his feet, clutching the bed as if he were about to pitch over any moment.
The feverish light was in his eyes, but determination tightened his face, and she saw that he held a piece of splintered wood in his hand.
Their eyes met across the room, and she recognized horror and revulsion burning there…and yet an underlying layer of lust that was echoed in the lift of his own cock.
Her insides jolting in surprise and something else she didn’t understand, Narcise turned away and pulled herself and her victim to his feet.
He sagged against her and she propped him against the wall with one hand, much stronger now that she’d been nourished, and yanked his sagging breeches back up into place.
His cock still filled them out, but she had no interest in this young, lanky man.
The image of another male body—mature, muscled and powerful—had lodged in her mind.
Yet, the blind lust had eased and she was back inside her own control—if not fully aware of Chas Woodmore in a completely different way.
Another dull thump had her attention swiveling back to the vampir hunter, even as she restrained Philippe’s enthusiastic and insistent hands.
Woodmore had managed a step or two, then collapsed once again.
Narcise turned her thrall back onto Philippe with new intent, and coaxed him into her world. This time, she lulled him into a dreamlike state that would eliminate from his memory everything that had happened since she turned her thrall on him.
When she finally released him, he was back in front of the fireplace and she was sitting in the chair just as she had been. Woodmore, whose gaze burned in its own mortal fashion as he dragged himself back to his feet, had sunk weakly back onto the bed in a feverish stupor.
“Merci,” she told Phillippe as he gathered up the pails and tub. The marks on his neck were hidden by his shirt, and hadn’t left even a drop of blood on the pale linen. “Would you be so kind as to bring a new bath?”
“But of course, madame,” he said, his eyes still a bit feverish…as if he couldn’t quite remember what had happened, but sensed that something had.
She smiled at him and gave a little flare of glow in her eyes, then sent him on his way.
Then she turned her attention to Woodmore. His breathing was off rhythm, rough and ragged, and if anything his skin had become hotter. His cock had softened back into a relaxed state, and his eyes remained half open but unfocused.
Narcise’s trill of panic returned and she looked again at the wound on his hip. It was unclean and infected, and likely causing the fever. The swelling around it, and the stench…the physician had helped, but the smell told her that he’d not been able to stop the infection.
And then a thought struck her. It was so unexpected, and yet so logical she could hardly believe it hadn’t occurred to her before.
If there was bad blood there, gathering and clotting around the wound…she could take it away. She could draw the infection from him, and then use her lips and tongue to cleanse and heal in their own effective way.
It could work.
And, she thought, swallowing hard as she looked down at his tight, battered body…it would give her an excuse to taste him.
Something she hadn’t realized how much she wanted.