Chapter 13 #2
Sleep sounded great. Even, perhaps especially if she never woke up again.
The vampire brushed at her tangled, sweat- and steam-damp hair. “Tilt your head back.” His voice rumbled against her back, and she suppressed a shiver.
I don’t want to. But she’d said she would cooperate; if she didn’t, would he find Pete again and do something horrible? It didn’t seem outside his abilities at all.
Her chin tipped up. The back of her head fit almost exactly in the hollow between his shoulder and collarbone. It was even… restful, she supposed, and her tired muscles all let go at once. “Are you going to hurt me?” She sounded very small and very frightened, even to herself.
“No.” His hand paused. He shifted slightly; it was almost, almost soothing to be held, buoyed by warm water and enclosed by someone so much taller, broader, stronger. “I remember this was pleasant enough, in its own way.”
Something pushed against her lips. Startled, Layla tensed, but the edge of his wrist was under her top teeth, and a warm numbness filled her mouth.
His other arm had snaked across her bare chest, pinning her shoulders, and even as she tried to pull away she realized what the fluid had to be, what he was doing.
She had no choice but to swallow.
A hot smooth hit like good tequila though lacking any alcohol sting, and the liquid seemed vanish halfway down her throat.
Another gulp followed; Layla was caught between struggling and the promise to cooperate, between utter exhaustion and the consciousness of fucking vampire blood trickling down her chin, burrowing into her esophagus.
Then the heat dilated, a soft irresistible scorch eating all physical pain. A smooth burn like expensive whiskey on an empty stomach, hazy cotton filling her skull, and she was floating.
Wow. A slow, dazed thought. Like the headrush after taking four shots and sliding off a barstool to hit the dance floor, like the first draw of really good weed through a freshly cleaned bong. She’d never done anything harder; this left both spendy booze and Humboldt Gold in the dust.
Now it tasted like the tangerines Meemaw Cathy brought home sometimes after her monthly check, bought from the roadside stand at the southern edge of town.
Always child-Layla’s favorite things; she could just about eat herself sick on small sweet-tangy fruit.
Then it changed, between one mouthful and the next, into a bang-on taste of her grandmother’s famous chow-chow with the spicy, peppery edge nobody else on earth could make, filling her eyes with tears and making her poor scratched-up broken heart leap as if so many years could be erased and she could hug Meemaw again.
That’s my girl, her grandmother would say, and for a moment all would be right in the world.
The persistent scratching in her throat was soothed, the deep unpleasant rumble-pain of bruising retreated.
For the first time in what felt like years a sense of complete physical wellbeing poured through Layla, all discomfort vanishing along with the constant torment of anxious uncertainty.
It kept changing, from just-baked dinner rolls to dark clover honey, from tea sandwiches to sweet tea itself—good things, wonderful tastes meaning comfort, safety, a refuge from all fear.
The vampire eased his wrist free of her lips.
She couldn’t even wonder how he’d cut himself, she was too busy struggling with the urge to grab his arm, clamp her mouth to the wound, and get another dose of memory-laden painkiller—even if she was always scared of eating too much, and sometimes had lain in her childhood bed at night wishing she wouldn’t grow out of her shoes or clothes, since they were so expensive and Meemaw only had the monthly check plus a few pennies from taking in sewing work.
If she got greedy now, what might happen?
The thought drifted away. Blessedly, the warmth didn’t quit, settling behind her breastbone and expanding like a balloon, pushing down her legs, along her arms. Finger- and toe-tips tingled; she blinked hazily, managing to lift her right hand.
The bruises on her forearm were shrinking in fast-forward, their edges turning yellowy green instead of deep fresh red-purple.
Scrapes on her knuckles now seemed days old instead of livid and fresh.
Golden light from incandescent bulbs, hazy and wonderful, stroked her wet skin; when her fingers twitched slight rainbow dazzles followed the motion.
Christ have mercy, I’m stoned on biter blood.
The urge to laugh returned, nearly overwhelming. It wasn’t the screaming-meemies but genuine amusement, however drugged or disconnected. A giggle bubbled in her throat; she forced it down, licking her lips for any remaining trace. Holy cow.
“See?” His voice was deep and soft, a tiger’s purr vibrating along her bones. “No pain, little Leila. Let it work.”
I ought to be scared. But the floating, numbing relief was too intense, wiping away fear-twinges almost before they could begin. There was still something she wanted to know.
“Why are you doing this?” She had to concentrate to form the words; at least she didn’t sound drunk, just sleepy.
“You need healing.” Water lapped as he shifted, smoothing her hair once more, finger-combing as if he had some experience with the operation. “And this will render you stronger, more durable. I feared the worst, finding the car.”
Oh, crap. She’d almost forgotten crashing the Volvo. “I’m so sorry about—” she began, a sudden sharp spike of unease very nearly managing to break the flood of warm forgiveness, of pure relaxation.
“No, you did as you should.” As if he forgave her. Which was great even if conditional, as all male forgiveness tended to be. “It served its purpose. Better the chariot than my leman.”
Was he calling her a broken-down car? This was fucking confusing. “What’s with you and the lemons, huh?”
“Leman.” More careful enunciation—much less stilted now, the ghost of a strange accent merely hiding behind the words, not poking through every syllable. “It means beloved, and companion. You are a gift of the gods.”
Man, are you in for a surprise. “That’s not me.” Maybe she should have kept her mouth shut, but all this was just too confusingly hilarious. Beloved? Who the hell even used that word anymore?
Another rumble in his chest, turning into words. “You do not compass your own value.”
I’m a fuckup, sir. My own mother didn’t even want me. This was why she avoided weed and too much booze; not only did it let bad thoughts out of the barn but it was a good way to get hurt by any male in the vicinity.
Every woman knew that danger on some deep level. Just part of living in a world made for men, that was all.
Still, the cascade of sparkles around every movement was fun to watch.
She lost the thread of hurtful memory and when he moved again, she barely noticed.
Quiet encouragement in a deep, soft voice—lift your arm…
tip your head back, good… close your eyes—as soap slid against her skin, as water spoke in its own liquid language, as for once simply existing wasn’t painful but almost kind.
Helluva drug, she thought, hazily, and gave up wondering when the agony of living would start again.
She was too tired to care.