“I hate to be the bearer of bad news, but you don’t look that fearsome right now.”
“Let me try harder.” He bares his fangs. It might have terrified me once, maybe even earlier this day. But now I snort softly. The expression almost makes me laugh. A smirk slips across his lips as well.
“Still sub-par,” I say lightly.
“Ah, damn.” He doesn’t sound like he means it. “Are you some kind of secret healer?”
“Unfortunately not. But I’ve seen my share of wounds.” Before he can object further, I have three clasps undone.
“You have quick fingers. You take armor off men often?” He arches his eyebrows.
The question catches me so off guard I can’t stop the blurt of laughter. “Something like that.”
“Quinn usually helps me.” He finishes pulling off the last bit of plate. The cotton clothes he was wearing underneath his armor cling to his skin, molded by the plate. It leaves very little to the imagination and I quickly look away, situating the heavy padding he had.
He sighs with relief. I imagine it would feel good to be out of all that heavy plate. Good enough that I briefly think of removing my armor. But I wouldn’t want to be caught vulnerable here… I just can’t tell if I’m more afraid of being vulnerable in front of the Succumbed, or Ruvan.
My wandering thoughts halt as he exposes the injury on his arm. Two semi-circles of holes left behind by the beast’s fangs line his flesh, still ugly and weeping blood the shade of pond scum.
“Why isn’t it healing?” I’ve always seen vampires heal quickly—so long as they’re not cut by a silver blade. But this wound is festering; the flesh around it is bubbled, like it has been burned. “Is it because of that magic you used?” I think of his blood swirling through the air, sinking into the creatures, and then how they went suddenly still.
“No, that was my innate gift of the blood lore. I can use blood to gain control of creatures, briefly.” He winces slightly. “Though, it took more effort than it might otherwise, thanks to the curse.”
“An innate gift. So only you can do it?” It sounds horrifying and is another reminder of just how deadly the man I’m with is…and an underscoring of just how much he could do to me but hasn’t. Stealing faces and thoughts, gaining bodily control…what can’t a vampire do?
Ruvan nods. “I can’t do much beyond the most basic magics of the blood lore, save for this.” The explanation jostles my memory back to what Callos said before. Blood lore is more than stealing life and faces.
“The way you talk makes it sound like it’s not terrifyingly incredible,” I murmur, glancing away.
“Vampir weren’t fighters, Riane. The gifts most revered weren’t our abilities to kill, or fight.”
“The ones you used during your moon festivals—the ability to see a person’s true nature, or their future,” I remember.
“You were paying attention.” He gives me a slight smile, one that looks proud, that almost brings a flush to my cheeks. We’re still achingly close and, for the first time, I’m seeing him more as a man than a vampire.
I focus on his arm. “If it’s not the magic you used stopping the wound from healing, then what is it?”
“The curse taints the blood. The Fallen—those monsters—are the next stage of the curse after the Succumbed. But their instinct is the same; they hunt fresher blood to try and replace the rot that is within their veins.” Ruvan leans back, tilting his head against the footboard. His eyes are glassy and distant. I’ve never seen him look so weak or tired. “When Fallen bite, they purge their cursed blood to make room for the new. Think of it like a poison.”
As he speaks I begin to notice how sunken his cheeks are, how much luster his skin has already lost. Even the whites of his eyes are beginning to dull and gray. More and more he looks like the monster I first met. Ruvan shifts, arms falling at his sides, one knee bent, the other straight. The mighty vampire lord is sprawled on the ground before me.
But I feel no satisfaction at it as I might have once. Instead, those emotions have been replaced with sympathy.
I tilt my head to meet his eyes. “What do you need?”
“Rest.” He blinks slowly; each time his eyes stay closed longer than the last.
“Don’t lie to me.”
“The irony of you saying that to me.” He reminds me of the conversation we were having right before we fell. The disagreement that got us into this mess.
I debate against myself, my better judgment, before I finally say, “You’re right. I’m not a hunter, not really.”
“And I’m going to owe Quinn a vial of blood for it.”
“What?”
Ruvan chuckles, the amusement wispy and as thin as his skin is becoming. “He suspected the truth well before I did. It’s why I tried to test you when we first entered the old castle; I needed to know how much I had to protect you.”
