Chapter 10 #2
A moment later, a black rectangular object drifts through the doorway and toward the bed.
“Yes!” I grab it out of the air as Andrew bolts upright, fangs out and hissing.
“What? Where?” He scans for danger, only relaxing when he’s assured himself that we’re alone. “What time is it?” He lies back down, scowling at me, then blinks. “Is that the remote?”
I wave it excitedly. “Yep. I just brought it in here telekinetically!”
That wakes him up, and he sits up again. “Really? Without having to see it?”
“That’s right. Because I am awesome .”
He snorts. “Sure, baby, whatever you say. I wish you hadn’t tried something new while I was asleep, though. How are you feeling?”
A rush of emotion I don’t want to identify floods through me. Ignoring my feelings and putting on my responsible hat, I think about it before answering. “Fine. It took a little more effort than I expected while I was doing it, but I’m good now.”
He studies me carefully, eyes flitting over my face and coming to rest at the base of my throat—where my pulse point is. He’s listening for my heart rate, I can tell, and I roll my eyes and hold out my wrist. “Just do it the normal way.”
Grinning, he grabs my wrist, fingers pressing to the right spot while he counts off.
“All good,” he says finally, lifting my wrist to his mouth to lick it—and is that a graze of fang?
I shudder in helpless arousal, my heartbeat speeding up.
“Whoops, maybe I’m wrong. It seems like you might have overexerted yourself,” he teases, and I yank away, making sure to smack his face as I do.
“Dick.” To my horror, the word sounds almost affectionate.
Who am I kidding? That rush of emotion before? That was affection. Andrew might piss me off sometimes—okay, a lot of the time, even if it’s not as much as before—but it seems I’ve got some fond feelings for him after all.
Not sure what to do with that.
And I’m kind of disappointed that I’m not going to experience hate sex after all.
“What are you thinking about?” There’s a half-fascinated, half-horrified look on his face. “You look like you’re about to lay an egg or something.”
I grab the remote from where it’s fallen to my lap and throw it at his head. He’s sitting too close for any sort of momentum to build, but it still hits him, which is satisfying.
“Vicious human,” he scolds, rubbing his forehead. “Now I won’t rest until you tell me what you were thinking.”
“Fine,” I concede, because I have more important things to do today—like testing this new skill. “I was thinking that it’s a shame we didn’t really get to hate fuck.” It’s part of the truth, at least.
He pulls a slight face and nods. I’m glad he doesn’t try to convince me that it was hate fucking or tease me about not actually hating him.
“We can always pretend,” he suggests. “I’ll be the conquering warlord, and you can be the village’s virgin sacrifice, sent to appease me even though you’d rather stick a knife in my guts. ”
What.
Just…
“Please don’t tell me that’s a scenario you’ve ever lived out in reality.” Because let’s face it, he lived during a time when conquering warlords and virgin offerings were aplenty.
He sighs. “No.” It almost sounds regretful.
“It’s a great role play fantasy when everyone has a safe word, but the real-life version is just creepy.
But,” he adds, brightening a little, “a scenario I did live out in reality was when the murdering rapist warlord was forced to bend knee to the heroic vampire liberator. Lots of hate there, but no sex. The role play version would probably benefit from sex.”
I can’t deny that I’m interested. I want to be the liberator, though.
“Let’s put that on the list of things to talk about later,” I suggest somewhat regretfully.
“It would be better with costumes anyway. And maybe swords. Hey, do you know how to use a sword?” That’s something I wouldn’t mind having him teach me, purely so I can say I know how.
I doubt it’s used as a form of self-defense much these days.
He shrugs, and the diffuse light peeking around the edges of the curtains ripples over the sleek muscle of his torso. A man in his ninth century should not look that good naked. Isn’t there a rule or something?
“It’s been a while, but I know several styles of swordsmanship with several different types of swords. If you want to learn, I can look into finding us a practice space and some equipment.”
And there go the feelings again. This could get old fast.
“Sure, that could be fun.” I try to sound casual, but he laughs, so… “Anyway”—time to change the subject—“I want to try this blind telekinesis again. What’s an object in the other room?”
He purses his lips in thought, and I push away the urge to lean over and kiss his puckered mouth. “It’s got to be small and portable, right? Not too heavy, either.”
Blinking and looking away from his lips, I shrug.
“Portable, definitely. Nothing that would need to be unplugged, either. Not sure about weight. I’ve been doing okay with moving heavier items over short distances like this, but I guess it might be harder not being able to see it?
The remote was. It should probably also be something that’s in a set location I can visualize. ”
“What about the key bowl? That only ever gets moved for cleaning, and it’s not heavy. Bonus points if the keys are still in it when it gets here.” His trademark smug smirk is just as annoying as always, seeming to challenge me.
“No problem,” I boast recklessly. Truthfully, based on the remote, it should be easy. The distance is approximately the same. The weight of the keys might make it a bit heavier, but not too much so. And he’s right that we never move it. I can easily see it in my mind’s eye.
I plump up a couple of pillows and prop them against the headboard, then wiggle into position and lean back.
I’d be more confident if I was lying down and able to focus every bit of concentration on what I was doing, but I’m in the mood to show off and rub this in Andrew’s face—which is stupid, because I have no doubt that he wants me to succeed almost as much as I do.
Maybe he wants me to flub the first try just so he has something to tease me about, but ultimately, I know he wants me to do it.
That doesn’t stop me from wanting to flaunt my power a little.
And the pillows will support me enough to get it done.
Taking a deep breath, I focus my gaze on the wall above the doorway and let the magic slither over me as I build an image of the key bowl.
It’s metal—pewter, I think—hammered thin and in a kind of freeform shape.
About three inches high and four in diameter, it sits on the corner of the console table closest to the front door.
I push the magic toward it, and a second later feel the strain of effort. Okay. Good. Next, I imagine the bowl rising—slowly, because it’s easier to manipulate a mental image that way—and moving toward the hallway.
There’s a crash from the living room, and it’s all I can do to hold on to my visual of the bowl.
“What was that?” The bed shifts as Andrew moves, but I don’t dare look at him.
“Uh…” It can’t be the bowl, because I can still feel the effort of holding it. What— Oh. “I may have forgotten about that freaky metal statue on the console and tried to bring the bowl in a straight line.”
“ What? ” His voice hits a pitch I’ve never heard from him before. “That ‘freaky statue’ is a priceless artifact!”
My concentration is seriously faltering.
I’m not even moving the bowl anymore, just trying to hold it stable while Andrew yammers on about playing dice in some barracks somewhere to win that statue—which is ugly, in case you care.
I need him to shut up so I can get the bowl moving again, but he’s really hit a rhythm with his story now, and this bowl is starting to feel really heavy, and I just want it here right now —
I have just enough time to feel the sudden weight in my lap before the world spins in a dizzying rush and I slide sideways to the sound of Andrew’s shout.
This time when I wake, the ache isn’t pleasant. I hurt all over, the way I imagine being hit by a truck would feel. And my head is throbbing so much, it takes me a few moments to hear the hushed voices. But when I do, I decide they’re too loud, so I moan to get their attention.
Talking is definitely too hard. I’d have to move my lips and tongue, maybe take a slightly deeper breath. That’s just not happening.
The moan must have been enough, though, because the conversation breaks off and the bed moves.
“Noah?” That’s Andrew, and he sounds worried. “Noah, are you awake? Can you hear me?”
I moan again. Why does he have to be so loud? Can’t he tell my brain hurts?
“Noah?” This voice is quieter, calmer—David. I must have been out for a while if he’s had time to get here. “If you can hear me, moan again, please.”
Will it make them go away? I manage another moan.
“Great. Can you talk? Andrew, back off a bit and give him space.”
The sound that comes from me this time is closer to a sob than a moan. Just the thought of talking makes me hurt.
“Okay, so I’m guessing you’re in a bit of pain.” No shit, Sherlock. “Can you feel the magic? Use it to ease the pain a bit? Not too much,” he adds quickly. “Just enough so you can talk to us.”
Huh, that’s not a bad idea. The whole burns thing proved that the magic is better for pain relief than ibuprofen will ever be.
Gingerly, I reach out to the magic. It responds as quickly as always, but its touch seems tentative this time. I visualize my need— less pain —and within seconds, the sharp ache eases and the pounding in my head stops. It’s just a little niggle of a headache now.