Chapter 17 #2
Or what was left of them, because it looked like he’d been run through a meat grinder, passed over a hot barbecue, and dipped in seventeen flavors of holy old hell besides. The guck was layer-crusted in some places, steaming in others, and a great deal of it looked like blood.
Dried, and fresh. Along with multiple strata of other crap she couldn’t hope to identify.
He let out a weary sigh, one muscled arm curling over her shoulders, and she had to hope he wouldn’t fall straight down because he was a lot heavier than he had any right to be—certainly he outweighed her, by a long shot—and ending up under a heap of dead vampire was a terrible, terrible prospect.
They’re supposed to go poof and go grainy, though, aren’t they? The others did. He didn’t look dusty, though, which was a relief.
Sort of.
Max took two drunk-staggering steps away from the invisible curtain. Then he half-turned, threw his other arm around her, and went utterly still. Which ended up smooshing Layla’s cheek against his broad, filthy chest, his chin resting atop her head, his entire body curving protectively around hers.
He was breathing, at least. The ka-thump, pause, ka-thump was back, and she knew what it was now, beyond a doubt.
Layla was vaguely aware of babbling. “Oh no, no no no. You’re gonna be okay. You’re gonna be all right, Max.”
What the fuck? Have you forgotten what he did to you? But still, she couldn’t stop stupidly chanting comfort, her natural reflex to care for a stranger in need drowning nearly every other consideration.
At least until the invisible curtain got taken down. Would she ever see outside this stupid two-room prison again?
He repeated the sigh, and she realized he was sniffing her hair. Inhaling in great gasps, in fact, as a wave of shudders passed through his very large, very hard frame.
“What happened?” Muffled and frantic, she couldn’t move.
His arms had tightened just short of crushing; plus, even beaten to hell with his clothes reduced to dirt-crusted shreds, something hadn’t changed.
He still had a respectable hard-on, and it was shoved right up against her. “Max? Max, talk to me.”
“One moment, puella mea.” The last bit was a little slurred. “None of the blood is mine.”
Are you sure? She’d seen a lot of bravado while hanging out with vampire hunters, but this was in a whole different league. “You look awful. What the hell hap—”
“Pax, sweet Leila.” At least the near-drunken slurring eased up, though he didn’t let go of her. He’d turned into a statue. “Let me be reassured of my leman.”
Reassured? You absolute asshole. “I’m the one locked up down here if something happens to you.
” She couldn’t even wriggle away; the goop on him smelled awful, but the worst was the nasty edge to the thin, curling steam rising from several gaps in his clothing.
Had he gotten hit by a car-bomb, like the biter who took out Shawn’s crew?
“But I’ll bet you never even thought about that, did—”
“You have a lovely voice. Keep scolding me.” Did he sound amused?
For fuck’s sake. Now she was sorry she’d been worried, even in the slightest and for only a few heartbeats. The fact that she was about to read a goddamn vampire the riot act was somewhere between disturbing and justifiable. “You are a jackass.”
“And you are the gift of a goddess, turning me into a man.” He exhaled sharply; his grasp loosened—but only a fraction. “How do you feel?”
How do I feel? “Like I was left in a prison cell while you went off and did something stupid. I could starve to death down here; do you even care?”
And now she was certifiably nuts. She’d gone from being terrified he’d kill her to being worried about vampire impregnation, to absolutely wanting to shake a big dumb lug who—all things considered—reminded her a bit of Ackerman.
“I told you the seals would release upon my death. Not that you need worry on that count.” He drew himself up and very gently unwound his arms only to take her shoulders, pushing her back a step, two.
Then he examined her, his eyes glittering in a mask of crud, his curls full of sticky-looking grit.
“How do you feel? Do you thirst? I will feed you, and then—”
“Oh no you don’t.” Layla tried to pull away, achieved nothing, and settled for glaring up at him through strands of her own hopelessly tangled hair.
“You’re not getting me tripped out on monster blood while you’re all covered in guck.
Come on, right to cleanup with you. Do you have a first-aid kit?
” If he did, it was hidden so well she couldn’t find it; she’d been over every inch of the place.
“Unnecessary.” A short, sharp shake of his head, tiny glittery flakes dropping free of gleaming dark curls, and he let go of her—slowly, one finger at a time. “But very well.”
I am bossing around a two-thousand-year-old biter. How long had he left her down here? “Are you going to tell me what happened?”
“I found the battlefield, and somewhat more. You may be pleased to know there are many less sanguinant in this city now. Though that is a mercy of short duration, I am afraid.” His boots were scarred but whole, making soft whispering sounds as he turned away, gliding for the bathroom; there was a small cascade of ripping and the ruins of his sweater were torn free.
Muscle flickered in his back, deeply defined straps and shapes.
She also spotted glaring, livid stripes under the dirt. Layla’s jaw nearly dropped, and she hurried in the vampire’s wake.