Chapter 20
The light from the flames was getting closer, bobbing bright in the dark.
From their hiding place under the stairs, he saw many shadowy figures holding burning torches surge into their front yard.
Holding her small hand firmly in his, he told Effie not to run, not to let go of him, not for a moment.
Crouched down low, they watched as his parents tried to barricade the door, but there were too many of them.
They were bashing at the wood with cudgels, chanting, “Kill. Kill. Kill.”
“Don’t move, Effie,” he whispered again. “Hold on to my hand, and whatever you do, don’t let go.”
“They’re going to kill us,” she whimpered.
“They can’t kill us, we’re vampires. We must be ready to fly when the door opens.”
She looked up at him, her eyes wide, frightened. “I c—can’t, my wings are stuck.”
“You can do this, just focus.”
He would carry Effie on his back if need be, but the only way out was through windows, or the door that was surrounded by humans.
With a loud bang, the door burst inward. The humans stormed in, shouting, their torches lighting up the room. It happened so fast, so very fast.
Horrified, he saw one man raise a huge stake, then heard his father howl as they staked him. Then his mother was stabbed through the chest. She collapsed like a rag doll, her chest spouting blood.
“Mamma! Mamma!” Effie screamed. He tried to grab her arm, tried to hold her, keep her safe, but she managed to escape his grip, and darted out toward her mother’s limp, bleeding body.
“There’s another one!” a human screamed.
‘Don’t let that evil vermin get away.”
“Stake it.”
“Stake the vampire.”
He heard the shouts but couldn’t move. The fear was so strong it froze the marrow of his bones, his muscles, his wings, all motionless.
He watched as they took Effie, writhing and screaming, and held her down.
And as they brought down the stake, somehow, he found his courage and shot forward from his hiding place.
And then… there was an almighty explosion, searing heat, screams, and everything imploded, the walls and ceiling caving in around him.
The next thing he knew he was being catapulted into the air, through the charred beams of the roof.
He burst out through the flames, his wings carrying him higher and higher into the cool night sky, until the burning house was nothing but a glow and his own anguished screams were lost to him, carried away on the wind.
Panic seized him. He paddled his legs desperately, using every bit of his willpower and strength to work against the momentum of his wings, but they only carried him higher.
He had to get back, had to save Effie…
Tears of frustration and grief streamed down his face, and he howled as he was carried further into the heavens…
And then suddenly, his wings collapsed and he was falling, falling, falling…
Oliver woke with a violent jolt, his body sheened with sweat, his throat parched.
The next moment there was a light. Oh dear gods, were the humans coming for him?
Would they finally stake him too, and put him out of his misery?
He cowered back, letting out a guttural sound out of dry lips. The next thing he heard were soothing words, telling him it was okay, that he was safe.
That she was here.
Finally, he registered that it was Clare. He fell back on the pillows, his whole body wracked with pain.
“Oliver, are you okay?”
She was leaning over him, the soft lamp light illuminating the concern in her eyes. The scent of her was heavenly, like balm to his tortured flesh.
He lay limply, watching her out of blurred vision. There was so much pain in his body, but in a way, it was better than the anguish of his mind.
“You were shouting in your sleep.”
“Just—a bad dream.”
“Very bad, by the sounds you were making.”
Sitting down next to him, she placed a cool palm on his forehead.
“You’re burning up,” she said, brows furrowed.
Oh gods, if she only knew how ironic those words were.
Suddenly something welled inside him, like a tide was trying to break the dam wall he’d built around himself for so long.
The need to just let go, to give in, to confess his dreadful past to her nearly overpowered him.
But that was where danger lay, wasn’t it? Soft and seductive, in the pulse of her blood, the softness of her touch caressing his skin. Opening up would feed his addiction, bring it back to life.
He had to get out of here.
Ripping back the covers, he struggled to get off the bed. Muttered some nonsense about going home. She put out a small firm hand and gently pushed him back onto the pillows.
“You are not going anywhere in your current state.”
He collapsed, exhausted already from that one effort, his body slaked with sweat from his nightmare and the painful throb of his wounds.
His breathing was fast and shallow, which he knew from experience meant an impending panic attack.
Desperately, he tried to stop his body from shaking, but to no avail.
Her face swirled in front of his eyes. He was powerless, the self-hatred bearing down on him like a dark cloud, suffocating him.
It took a moment to realize she had lain down alongside him on the mattress. Her arms gathered him to her breast and she held him while his body shook.
Was this real, or was he dreaming yet again?
“It’s okay,” she murmured. “It’s all okay. You’re safe now.”
He groaned, his teeth chattering inside his skull. Her scent overpowered his senses, lulling him against his will into submission, acquiescence.
“What would help?” she whispered.
Blood.
Her blood, but sweet gods, how could he even contemplate such a thing, let alone speak it out loud?
And yet… did he… maybe say that word out loud?
Because suddenly she sat up and rolled up her sleeve, baring the soft white flesh of her inner arm to him.
Oliver gulped down saliva in a desperate bid to resist. But in the light from the lamp, the delectable little map of blue veins stood out under the soft skin of her inner wrist, snapping every one of his defenses like flimsy twigs.
He felt his fangs descending through his gums.
“No!” he said harshly, turning his head away.
“You need this, don’t you?” she said softly. “To heal the wounds and calm your mind.”
Yeah, damn right he did.
He knew Clare’s blood would slake the pain of his horrendous memories. It promised sweet oblivion, if only for a few hours.
Still he kept his head averted, his lips pursed, for all the world like a recalcitrant child. Gods, she was peeling back the layers of his pain, exposing his raw underbelly, his hidden wounds.
“Please—just—leave me be,” he gritted out.
“Not until you have partaken of my blood.”
He groaned, but could not speak, the need to drink from her a great well of desperation and hunger inside him. And surely she knew, for she moved closer to him on the bed. “Neck or arm? Which is better?”
He let out a strangled sound, trying to control his fangs. A fruitless task, since he had so little energy left in him to fight with. His vampire would take what it needed.
Finally, hoarsely, he got out, “If… If I bite your neck, I will drain you dry.”
“Then take it from my arm.”
“I—must—not.”
But her arm was there, so close to his mouth now.
Finally, he took her hand in his shaking fingers and, barely knowing what he was doing, kissed the skin of her palm and heard her little gasp of surprise…
or was it pleasure? He glanced up through swollen eyelids to see her lips gently parted, the pulse in her neck fast and staccato, and the longing to reach up and bite her throat instead surged through him.
He resisted. If he drank blood from her jugular, it would also fire up his libido, and he would not be able to halt his dark desires.
And yet… he had to taste her blood. Had to…
Like a starving man, he bent his head to her vein.
“I will seal it when I’m done,” he whispered, the quietness of his tone belying the raging furnace inside him.
And then, closing his eyes, he plunged in his fangs.
She let out a little cry, and for one moment he managed to hold himself back enough to check in with her.
“Okay?” he asked, his thumb pressing on the vein to stem the blood.
“Keep going,” she urged.
Shame on him, he barely waited for her response.
And oh gods, his eyelids rolled up in ecstasy as the first mouthful of her blood hit his tongue. Like nectar to the gods.
And surely this was a thirst so great, he could never quench it.
Oliver drank deeply.
Almost immediately, strength surged back into his body. The pain receded. The memories no longer hounded his brain.
He heard her soft moan. Was it pleasure or pain? He couldn’t bear to hurt her but equally, he could not stop.
Just one more… mouthful. Just one…
He took another gulp, then—damn his lack of control—another, then with superhuman effort, he sealed the puncture wound with a firm lick of his tongue.
Laying back, every nerve ending tingled as her blood healed his body, his mind.
Finally, he dared to look at her. Her face was a little drawn, yes, but her eyes were bright and full of something so beautiful it seared him. “I think maybe you are feeling better already?” she queried softly.
Oliver breathed, a deep, full breath into ribs he’d been sure were broken but now felt completely healed.
He sat up. “Show me your wrist.” Even his voice he recognized again, strong and full of authority.
She held out her arm. Already the swell of the puncture wound was almost gone. He’d done well. He may not have fed off a human in two centuries, but he hadn’t lost his almost surgical precision in sealing a bite wound.
“Do you feel okay?”
“A little lightheaded, that’s all.”