Chapter 18
Jules
Warmth…wetness…gentle splashing…slowly these things make their way into my consciousness. I feel warm, silky water hugging every inch of me, lapping against my bare body, making me feel alive again.
I blink as I grow more alert. I open my eyes and look around…and realize I’m in a bathtub big enough to host a small yacht party. Also, the tub is filled with scented bubbles so even though I’m naked, at least I’m covered. Hooray.
The tub isn’t porcelain, it’s carved marble—dark gray with veins of wine-red, like someone took thunderclouds and froze them in stone.
The rim is wide enough to sit on, the interior scalloped, and the faucets—oh my God, the faucets—are swan-neck spouts in dark gunmetal.
Their beaked mouths are parted to pour water that smells faintly of something floral and sweet.
The walls of the huge bathroom I’m in are glossy black tile with inlaid silver filigree that curls into thorny roses—the light catches them and makes them glint like starlight. A chandelier of red crystal hangs from the ceiling, scattering ruby sparks through the steam rising from the bath.
Everywhere I look, there are decadent little touches—stacked fluffy towels tied with a velvet ribbon…cut-crystal apothecary jars filled with bath salts the color of crushed garnets…a tray of bath oils in crystal bottles that probably cost more than my rent.
So it’s definitely not my bathroom—it’s must be Lucian’s.
I turn my head and sure enough, there he is—the Prince of Darkness himself. Count Tall, Dark and Fangy.
Lucian has rolled his sleeves past his elbows. His suit jacket and tie lie discarded on the stone floor like he peeled off a skin he didn’t need. His shirt is crisp white linen, open at the throat. His forearms are as muscular and mouthwatering as I guessed they would be.
He has a sponge in one hand and he’s moving it carefully, methodically over my shoulder, washing away…oh. That black sheen I see on my skin isn’t just dirty water. It’s slime from the creature in the dungeon. Just delightful.
“What…what are you doing?” I manage to croak. My voice sounds like I’ve been gargling broken glass—probably from all the screaming and moaning I did while that horrible thing did its best to suck me dry.
“Cleaning you of the Wraith’s residue.” His tone is even, but his jaw is tight. “If it’s left on your skin, it will continue to leech heat…and life.”
“Just great,” I say faintly. “So this is the part where I wake up, right? Because I’m about a hundred percent sure I did not schedule ‘dungeon slime facial’ on my daily self-care routine.”
“This is no dream, lovely one.” His eyes flash red but this time with actual concern—not the scary red flare I saw the last time I sassed him. “You are in the Shadow Realm, with me. I was careless, letting you go—that won’t happen again.”
“Mm-hmm.” I stare past him at the chandelier because it’s easier than looking at his perfect face. “Right. I’m in the Shadow Realm being bathed by a huge Mafia Don Vampire in his luxurious marble tub because the Wraith thing in his dungeon slimed all over me.”
Wow, what a totally normal sentence! This is getting better and better. I look up at him.
“I suppose it’s five-star accommodations all the way? Next you’re going to tell me there’s also a concierge in the lobby and a maid to leave a mint on my pillow every night.”
“If a mint would please you, I will arrange for ten,” he says, dead serious. “Anything you want—anything that pleases you—you can have. All my wealth and power is at your disposal.”
I close my eyes because I do not have the bandwidth to deal with Vampire Daddy Warbucks at the moment. I’m going to think of something else, I tell myself. Something pleasant, like Book Club.
Instead, the thing in the dungeon rises to the top of my mind, like a dead body floating to the surface.
“What was that thing?” I ask, wishing my voice was steadier. “That thing you called a ‘Wraith?’ How did you—” I motion weakly at his hand. “—do what you did? How did you get rid of it?”
The big vampire is quiet for a moment. Then he sets the sponge aside, as if honesty requires him to have both hands free.
“My father wanted power,” he says at last. “Not the kind one earns. The kind one steals. He bargained for it—took into his flesh a relic called the Crimson Brand. It is older even than the Crimson Eye I used to find you. It is Cursed—it fused to him. When he died, it fused to me.”
He turns his palm and I see it—the obsidian shard, seated like a jagged jewel in his skin. Its edges glow faintly like a coal that refuses to die.
“With it,” he continues, “I can bind and command certain things that dwell in darkness. I can force them down. Cage them. But every command costs.”
I remember the blood dripping from between his fingers and the smell of burning flesh.
“Costs…costs what?” I whisper through numb lips.
He shrugs, his broad shoulders rolling.
“Blood…strength…sanity, if I am careless.”
“Wow…” I give a shaky laugh that comes out as more of a croak. “So your family heirloom is a portable demon-tamer.”
One corner of his mouth quirks upward.
“An inelegant phrase but not inaccurate.”
A shiver rolls through me hard enough that water laps over the tub’s rim.
“It…said things.” My voice is suddenly so low I can barely hear it. “About my Grandma…about my friends. It said it could see their deaths. It sounded so sure.”
“The Wraith feeds on despair,” Lucian says. He brushes a wisp of hair away from my face. “It speaks only to wound, little one. There is no truth in its words.”
“Tell that to my nervous system,” I say grimly. “My nerves feel like they’ve been through an industrial strength shredder.”
I wrap my arms around my knees and immediately regret it because my skin is still oily with the Wraith’s residue. The water’s gone lukewarm while we’ve been talking—thin comfort against the bone-deep cold I can still feel gnawing at me.
Lucian frowns down at me.
“You’re shivering again.”
“Because I can’t get warm.” I shiver harder—I can’t help it.
I’m hoping he’ll run more hot water but instead, he twists a valve and the drain opens with a gurgle. As the water drains, so does the lingering heat. I clutch my knees tighter and my teeth start to chatter.
“Wh-what are you d-doing? S-so c-c-cold!”
“I know, lovely one.”
To my surprise, He leans into the tub without hesitation and gathers me close to him like I’m not a walking biohazard. His shirt soaks through and gets smeared by the oily streaks of the stuff still left on my skin.
I want struggle—to tell him to leave me alone. But he’s giving off heat like a furnace and it feels so good—too good to resist.
I give up pretending I don’t need his warmth and fold myself against his broad chest because dignity is for people who aren’t currently turning into human popsicles.
My muscles unknot one by one while my brain stops chattering long enough to process the smell of him.
I wondered if I was imagining it down in the dungeon but no—he smells every bit as good as I remember.
I had expected the smell of old blood and dusty vault air—after all, he is a vampire.
Instead I get dark spice and smoke layered over cloves and clean skin with just a hint of leather.
It’s really unfair, I think, that he smells so good.
I mean, he’s keeping me here against my will—I should hate him.
But it turns out it’s really hard to hate such a big, handsome guy who smells like incredibly expensive men’s cologne and who looks at me like I’m some kind of gorgeous princess when in actuality I have probably never looked worse or more bedraggled than I do right now, still covered in an oily sheen of Wraith slime.
After the dirty water drains away completely, Lucian releases me and refills the bath. Steam rises around us and warmth slides back up my limbs like a tide returning.
“Relax,” Lucian murmurs. “You’re getting cleaner—we’ll rid you of the slime and bring you back to normal soon, my lovely one.”
“‘We’ implies teamwork.” I give him a pointed look. “You do realize this is not how most first dates go.”
“I am aware,” he says, perfectly grave. “Most first dates fail to include attempted soul consumption.”
“God.” I try to laugh but it comes out more like a sob. “Okay, you get a point for dark humor but I’m still cold.”
Which is true. Despite the heat of the bath, it’s like the core of me is frozen solid and I just can’t warm all the way up.
Lucian frowns.
“I was afraid of this—you were in the Wraith’s grip too long. Well, there is one other thing we can try.”
“What?” I ask apprehensively.
He doesn’t answer in words. Instead, he pulls a small golden knife from his pocket. The hilt is etched with vines and thorns. The blade, when he draws it, flashes in the ruby light from the chandelier.
“Hard pass,” I say immediately. “I feel like crap—you can’t drink from me now.
Or ever, for that matter,” I add for good measure.
It’s important to set some boundaries, since it doesn’t look like this is a dream, after all, and I won’t be waking up with Mr. Mittens beside me yowling for his morning wet food fix.
“I will not be drinking from you, lovely one. You will be drinking from me.” He draws the blade across his own wrist in a swift, clean line. Blood wells from the small wound, thick and dark. “My blood will help you recover. Only a little will do a great deal to heal you.”
“What? No!” I exclaim, my stomach turning into a fist at the thought of drinking blood. “Absolutely not—no thank you!”
Lucian doesn’t seem to hear me. He brings his wrist to my mouth and I try to push it away. Not that it does any good—it’s like pushing against a brick wall.
“You will drink of me, Julia,” he says, frowning sternly. “I won’t allow the Wraith’s evil to leech into your soul simply because you’re squeamish.”
“But I’m not like you,” I protest. “I’m a human—I can’t just drink blood.”
“You are cold to the marrow,” he says quietly. “This will heal you.”