Chapter Sixteen
“She is remarkable.” Cordon thumped his head against the back of the leather chaise in his billiard room and stared at the wood paneled ceiling through a haze of cigar smoke. “I have never tasted blood as sweet. Yet she is not my betrothed.”
Cordon’s nest brother Jonathan sitting across from Cordon in an identical chaise, twirled an unlit cigar in his hands, using the same dexterity that had made him one of Europe’s most accomplished art thieves. “You’re certain the human didn’t notice your bite?”
Cordon rubbed the space beneath his eyes with his thumb and forefinger.
That was the question that had plagued him since leaving Kitty’s side.
He wasn’t sure. The night had started pleasantly enough with her melting beneath his touch but then had unraveled when he’d realized how far the rash Dr. Rysel had noticed had spread.
It was difficult to focus on pleasure when he was preoccupied with his impending death.
Even the prospect of drinking Kitty’s delicious blood again hadn’t been enough to shake his worry, although he’d done his best to keep Kitty from noticing anything.
“You should consult Marcus.” Jonathan flicked the cigar in the air, then caught it in his other hand. The man seemed to always be fidgeting with something. It was a miracle Cordon had convinced him to visit twice in one week.
“I see no reason to inform our brother,” Cordon said. “Kitty is hardly a threat.”
Jonathan leaned forward. “‘Kitty’? This human must be important to you.”
Cordon squeezed his hands on the leather armrests.
This was why he didn’t enjoy confiding in his nest siblings.
They were close and had been since their maker’s death half a century prior, but that didn’t mean they weren’t incapable of frustrating him.
Jonathan’s teasing, in particular, never failed to kindle his temper.
His brother was far too flippant about such a serious matter. Cordon didn’t know what else he could do to express the severity of his situation. He was going to die. Not today or tomorrow, but soon.
“Miss Carter is a pleasant distraction,” Cordon said. “I admit it was foolish to think she might be the one. That is Marguerite’s influence.”
His maker had urged him to never give up searching, but he’d tried everything. The hope that had once burned brightly in his chest had faded to a flicker. Marguerite would have been so disappointed.
“What do you mean, her influence?” Jonathan asked, his voice tight.
Cordon sighed. His brother was so sensitive about their maker. Discussing her would only cause a fight. “I was only thinking Kitty is much like her: stubborn—and feisty.”
“I have my eye on a feisty human myself,” Jonathan said, waggling his eyebrows.
“Man or woman?” Cordon asked. Cordon himself had only been attracted to women for as long as he could remember, but Jonathan and Marcus were far less discerning.
“A woman,” Jonathan said. Then he removed a deep-red handkerchief from the breast pocket of his dark-brown suit and coughed into it before balling it up and shoving it back. “Do not change the subject. Something is still bothering you. Tell me, brother.”
Cordon stared at his hands, which were stained at the nailbeds with blood. “I fear mate atrophy is catching up to me.”
Jonathan scoffed. “You don’t believe that old fable?
” He shoved his cigar in his pocket. “Our maker only told you those tales to keep you from straying from her side. I mean, the very idea that drinking only animal blood of all things is required to find your supposed ‘fated mate.’” He scoffed.
“She knew you would never do it. Before she made me, you were the wildest.”
Cordon ignored the jealousy in his brother’s voice. “It’s more than a fable.” He unbuttoned and removed his coat, then did the same with his shirtwaist before peeling back his shirt to reveal a red splotch along his chest. It had spread from his thigh and didn’t hurt, but it itched terribly.
Jonathan’s face paled. “T-That could be anything.”
Cordon restored his clothing before he indulged the urge to scratch. “Believe what you will, but I will not sit idly by and wait for death.”
He had to assume the rash represented a worsening of his condition, which meant it was time to arrange his affairs.
He was running out of time.