Chapter 11
She was in the church basement again, the monster’s growl filling her skull, a man on her back doing what men inevitably did, the rattle of handcuffs as her wrists flared with hot slicing agony, the teeth in her flesh, champing and tearing.
The smell of rotting cardboard and damp concrete, the strobe-flickers as her eyelids fluttered, the deep sickening knowledge that she was about to die but even worse, what if she didn’t?
And the things… the other things the monster had done…
Someone was talking, low and gentle. “—jane delam, all’us well, nothing will harm you. Nothing will e’er hurt you again, I promise, little leman, atashe delam, jeegaram, you must feed. Feed, and all will be well.”
Which was strange, because she wasn’t hungry, and the monster in the church basement hadn’t spoken. Just growled, and bit, and hurt—
“Light o’ my eyes, little darlin’, shh, feed. You must feed.” More strange rolling words, but there was something in her mouth now.
A trickle of heat against the back of her throat.
The taste—flaky golden buttermilk biscuits, fresh and dripping with honey.
Then it was hot chocolate, the cheap kind with crunchy marshmallows administered after a skinned knee on the playground, and how long had it been since she’d thought about that?
“Very good,” he whispered, almost crooning. Fever-hot skin slid against hers, scorching; it was strange to be held on someone’s lap like this. Almost enclosed, almost… safe? “Just like that, m’darlin’. I hunted well to feed ye, take what y’ need.”
Her mouth was full. She swallowed, automatically, and instinct took over. Her body knew what it wanted, fastening upon what was offered. A sweet piercing almost-pain as bones moved, the fangs springing free and sliding into flesh, biting hard. Did that make her like the monster?
But there was no screaming, no ragged pleading, none of her own voice echoing against bare walls, cries rising to an uncaring God.
No insane, world-shaking growl of a rabid nightmare thing as it gnawed her flesh.
Just that voice, and the supernova explosion of warmth in her midriff, a wave of heat pushing outward into cold fingers, numb toes.
He was stroking her hair, too. Slow, comforting touches, fingertips occasionally pausing to smooth the almost-curls she’d despaired of all her life, neither one thing or the other.
Just waves, stubbornly resisting any changing fashion.
But it was nice to feel someone playing with the strands. An intimate touch, really.
Along with the heat came relief. Her muscles unknotted, hurtful tension loosening.
A great dark wash of relaxation slid down her back, her shoulders softening for what felt like the first time in decades.
She twitched, dreamily, settling her fangs deeper as he inhaled, a soft hiss through sharp teeth.
The steady whisper didn’t alter, though now it was all in English, far more crisply pronounced. “Beautiful girl, little leman… good, keep going. All is well, you are safe. Nothing will hurt you, I swear it on my Blood. Take more.”
How often had she longed to be held, told such sweet lies?
The world was a hurting machine; no matter how you tried to protect anything, existence itself simply chewed and spat.
But it was so warm, so soft, and the relaxation was like two Xanax and a glass of wine.
A lake to float in, silken buoyancy, and she realized she was not exactly sober the moment her fangs slipped free of hot flesh.
Enough, her body said, that’s all you need, stop now.
The blood bags were never like this, flat and metallic, always leaving a trace of that terrible, mind-consuming thirst. She’d learned early and well not to let the dryness get too bad, which would have been easy if she’d had access to this fountain.
He kept stroking her hair; she was sitting crossways, cradled on the lap of a lean, iron-strong frame.
The persistent poking against her hip was interesting, she supposed, but couldn’t be meant for her.
Not even the new Simone in a body thirty years younger, clear-eyed and vampire-strong.
She moved, testing—yeah, that was what she thought it was, and with her eyes firmly shut and the incredible swimming lassitude weighing down every limb, she couldn’t help but wonder what the cost for this sudden reprieve might be.
Lips pressed to her temple, soft kisses. The caressing hands stayed gentle, careful but more urgent, skating over her cheek, her shoulder, one curving around her waist, rubbing gently. He didn’t grab, thank goodness, but his fingers were certainly roaming, and her legs loosened as well.
Someone was moaning, softly, as gravity changed its hold on her and she spilled sideways, nearly boneless, the hands suddenly strong and sure, easing her down.
A rough almost-scrape down her back—carpet, and there was a mouth on hers now, wickedly distracting as her knees spread and a hot, insistent finger probed between them, slipping in honeythick moisture.
No, not a finger, because the hands were in her hair now, a body curved over hers blocking out the pain, the memory, the fear.
Sometimes, in a bubble bath with the door securely locked, she’d fantasized about this very thing—her hips beckon-begging as her spine arched, her palms skating iron muscles under warm skin, a mouth leisurely feasting on her own with absolute possession, and the first exquisite thrust.
She broke free, shaking her head, hair tangling in carpet, lips parted on a strengthless gasp. Tiny begging sounds as the dream settled into fucking her, almost lazily, each stroke strong and sure, stopping at the crest to tickle her clit with a skin-warm, insistent probing.
Wait a minute, just hold on, I’m not—
She wasn’t sober, not by a long shot. The lassitude made it so hard to think, sensations cascading and rippling everywhere, a faint scratch of stubble as his cheek lay next to hers and the voice continued, raggedly, promising her safety, repeating darlin’, telling her she was beautiful, wanted, that she belonged.
Was this what other vampires felt? Maybe being psychotic with bloodlust wasn’t so bad after all.
The thought was ice water flung into a hot oven, a burst of fierce cold fighting with the coiled tension low in her belly.
Frantic squirming didn’t help, only intensifying the flood of sensation, and orgasm hit before she was ready, slamming like a runaway semi into solid cement retaining wall.
Thrown out of herself, spun and tossed onto sharp rocks, she screamed over and over, high trailing cries.
A coughing roar answered, lionlike, nearly swallowing her own noise. Another monster was above her, head thrown back, throat bared, and Simone was so far gone she didn’t care. All that mattered was the blessed, furious release swirling through her along with that warm forgiving painlessness.
Good God, she thought, pointlessly. Again on the floor. Then a brief spangled darkness swallowed her.
For a short while she drifted, deliberately trying not to think or remember; it was easier, she decided, being high on blood. Except she hadn’t had this reaction to the red stuff before, had she? Confusing, how the rules kept changing.
One thing was for sure: the old vampire had found her again, somehow, and had fucked the life out of her on what felt like carpet.
She’d barely managed a glimpse of blue-and-yellow drapes, striped wallpaper, and a spindly pseudo-antique table before he’d caught her and…
pushed her against the wall? Yes, that was what had happened.
Where on earth was she now? Where the holy hell had he come from? She hadn’t felt him following at all, except for the faintest sense of an invisible gaze two or three times while going about her business last night—easily attributable to her usual paranoia, which was now bound to escalate.
So how? Where? What the absolute fuck?
He exhaled, a long shaky breath, and sagged atop her.
Sounded like he’d gotten what he was after, except his cock also seemed strangely swollen, lodged deep and pulsing.
Simone tested her fingertips, her toes—her legs aching a bit even through the warm analgesic flood, postcoital haze mixing with whatever in his blood had gotten her so zoned out.
Or maybe she was simply going insane. That was a definite possibility.
He nuzzled at her cheek, more strange almost-intimacy—of course, this was about as intimate as someone could get, no matter that they were complete strangers.
“Why are you doing this?” Dozy alarm spilled through the heavy sedation, because she sounded nearly drunk, the words spaced-out and dreamy. “You just have a thing for floor sex?”
“Hm.” He sounded almost human, a low, amused near-grunt. “You are so delicious, I cannot resist.”
A nice compliment, maybe, but Simone wasn’t sure she liked it.
She shifted, attempting to ease the pressure on her hips; he tensed, nipping lightly at her earlobe.
At least he wasn’t using fangs—those were really sharp.
And she should know, having bitten her own lip to flinders once or twice during a bounty fight.
If anyone had offered a price on this vamp, she wouldn’t have taken it. No way, no day. “Look, can you just… Can I get up? Please?”
“Not for some short while.” His movement was arrested; something was definitely stuck. “You see?”
“Oh, God. Is that… is that normal?” I cannot believe I am having this fucking conversation with a vampire. Literally.
“Yes.” At least he didn’t sound irritated by simple questions. “At least, once a sanguinant reaches Elder status, the physical changes—wait. Are you uncomfortable?”
Sanguinant. The term was vaguely familiar, especially the way he used it. “You mean vampire.”
“If you like.” Indifferent, but still not angry. A faint stilted cadence, the drawl vanished and clipped precision replacing its blurred edges. “How is it possible, that you do not know such things? The one who made you, how did they die?”
Screaming in a patch of sunshine, after I tore a few boards off the windows and dragged him to where I knew the light would hit. The blood-sedation was so intense Simone could think about the whole event almost calmly.
Almost.
A shiver slipped down her back. She’d passed out at sundown, tucked in a safe dark corner, pretty certain she wouldn’t be disturbed—how the fuck had she ended up here? “Badly,” she heard herself say, in that distant, bitchy tone that warned Barry she didn’t want to talk about it.
You’re due in Denver Friday night. Start working on that.
Great advice. But she couldn’t seem to scrape together enough brainpower to begin.
She hadn’t even been this distracted after the divorce, when the depression made it hard to focus on more than getting through one more lawyer’s appointment, one more hearing, one more day, one more endless stupid hour.
“Your Maker had no time to teach you, then?” Soft and persistent, almost cajoling. This vamp certainly didn’t sound crazy, which was also sort of comforting. Maybe she could get some information?
That sounded dangerous as all hell, but what choice did she have? “He didn’t say a single word,” Simone kept her eyes firmly shut; the woman using her voice sounded tired, colorless. Distant. “Just growled and b-bit me. It hurt.”
“Then I am glad he’s dead.” Quiet and level, each word weighed carefully. “I will allow nothing to harm you, little leman.”
So, he has a thing for floor-fucking and also for…
lemons? Leee-mons, is it some kind of foreign word?
Or maybe his crazy just doesn’t show at first blush.
“I don’t understand any of this.” Simone’s voice remained a flat monotone; she was just too high on old-vamp blood to care about much of anything at the moment.
Whatever he wanted, he’d lose interest before long. She could wait—or so she hoped.
And, as the final indignity, she felt a hot trickle from the corners of her eyes, and realized vampires could cry after all.