“I cannot fault you for attempting escape, with the greiben so insistent.” Every word edged, the monster enunciating carefully. Maybe because of the fangs, they had to be sharp. “But I warned you about self-harm, Beatrice.”
Hearing her first name was a nasty shock even if he accented it all weird, bay-ah-tree-cheh, very Italian. Had he been pretending not to know? She flinched, and the knifepoint jabbed hard against her pulse.
One little push. It wasn’t so difficult, all she had to do was make up her mind.
A thin hot fingernail traced down her neck. See? Just rip the bandaid off, Bebe. Her arm tightened.
The monster might even go for the blood like Snowball after a piece of dropped Havarti, and wouldn’t that be laughable as well?
Hilarious. You’re a very funny girl. “See you in hell,” she said, and stabbed.
Or tried to, because there was another of those skipping timestream-stutters, this time followed by a metallic clatter as the knife went flying. Her blanket-toga was ripped clean away, cloth shearing neatly. The monster hissed, a sharp indrawn breath, and her head lolled drunkenly as fangs pierced, driving deep.
Go ahead. Juicebox me, I don’t care.
Her shoulder rubbed hard against slick cold mirror, metal dragging briefly past her hip—the brass rail, useless because she was lifted, pressed against the wall. The elevator rocked; Bea let out a surprised little cry as her knees were pushed apart. Heavy warmth spread from her throat; for a moment she thought it was arterial spray and all her problems were over.
The monster growled again, biting down. It hadn’t hurt the first time; now the sensation was doubly odd, spreading warmth, the rest of her body just plain refusing to work. Her arms were stretched overhead again—he has a real thing for that, she thought, with slow, dazed amazement.
Rough, scorching fingertips slid up the inside of her left thigh. She realized he wasn’t going to stop just as they found what they sought, tender flesh parting.
Her lungs wouldn’t work. Tiny helpless sounds echoed against glass, mixing with a low insistent noise—the stop-elevator alarm, she realized, amazed her ears were still on the job. She was floating just outside herself, hearing a series of strengthless moans, and figured out it was her own voice just before he shifted, fingers withdrawing. Another faint sound, a tiny shhhip of zipper, and dear God, he was working on his pants with one hand while holding her against the elevator wall, pinning her wrists more firmly.
The pressure at her throat retreated, sharp intrusions sliding free of yielding flesh. Fire spread as his tongue moved, caressing the wounds, flicking a sweat-damp hollow. An insistent, scorching probe between her numb legs; her back arched, a last useless resistance.
Hot, hard, undeniable, the monster thrust into her. Bea tried to scream again, but his mouth was over hers, a narcotic sweetness filling tongue and throat. He growled again, a low chest-rattling sound, and surged forward a second time, then a third.
CHAPTER 10
Mortal-warm silk closed around him, her blood blazing afresh in his veins; he was hilt-deep before the snap of his control breaking registered. It was not what he had hoped for in a first time, certainly.
Yet mortals often took such pleasure after combat or disaster, affirming survival. Fear was simply another arousal, and she was soaked in it, nerves primed, so slick and wet he had no trouble imagining her willing or at least compliant. She writhed, instinctive protest against invasion merely seating him deeper, and exquisite glassy pleasure roared through every nerve, muscle, artery, and winding vein he possessed.
Something had sought to take her away; the animal crouching at the very floor of consciousness was enraged, restrained only by the sweet slack mouth he plundered with his own, only by the fact that he was in her, all the fragrant promise and thick honeyed musk drawn strangling-tight. It was like lingering at the threshold of mortal death, the heart stuttering with strain, a few final syrup-drops wrung from aching thunder—yet it was his own oblivion he pursued, driving hard enough to print himself upon her fragile, lovely skeleton.
First the bite, then the claiming. So many layers to the proverb, whether in making fledglings or taking a leman.
Now he knew what true-death felt like for his kind, an insect struggling as tree-sap petrified slowly into amber, suffocating by centimeters. Calcification’s bony, rigid grinning jaws had almost closed in his vitals, but a lamp in the night had saved him and he was fully, gratefully immolated. Invisible flame obliterated every remembered sensation—even the strongest, like the stinging moment he found himself first capable of walking in cloud-weakened sunlight, or the still-raw thought of his mortal passing.
Objectively, it did not take long to please her—a mere short eternity, her mortal body snatching release after agonizing terror. Her fascinating, trapped writhing stilled on the cusp; Lukas tensed, burying himself deeply as possible a bare moment before the crisis took her, concentric pulses shattering every universe so poor as to lack such a beautiful linchpin.
The temptation to allow his own release was undeniable, but that would be greedy. Not to mention dangerous; he could not afford the resultant temporary vulnerability.
Soon. He promised as much with a last lingering kiss, though she was far too mazed to respond. The noise was irritating—ah, the alarm for the elevator, hit almost as an afterthought. This is awkward.
Also, satisfying. His entire body protested another withdrawal, but it was done. She was claimed, the addiction holding his calcification at bay sealed. Her transition into the Gift could be accomplished in safe stages, bite by luscious, heated bite.
She was whole and relatively undamaged though trembling hard, fresh bruises rising on her shoulder and smooth, lovely thighs. The change and healing agents would be busy repairing and beginning alteration; she was in little danger. Still, his chest twinged internally once more as he set his clothing to what rights were possible, that wonderful if unpleasant sensation tugging at his old, obdurate heart.
All those centuries he had thought poets merely pretty liars; what they described, however imperfectly, was only stark truth. Lukas licked his lips, hungry for any remaining drop, and checked her slim, pretty neck.
Fresh but properly healing, bright as a brand, the fang-marks were pleasing indeed. He hadn’t even noticed the necklace, though the chain’s scintillation spoke of true silver.
He was no fledgling to flinch from that gleaming. Still, the emerald and its setting caused him a single long pause, its sly green gleam peering over the nightgown’s silken, plunging neckline. Naturally gems suited her, though the setting had pressed hard between her breasts, marking tender skin with pale divots he longed to kiss. And that enchanting little freckle, as well.
“I see,” he breathed. A greisoul. No wonder they are so insistent.
She could stand, though only barely, and when he spoke she swayed as if about to swoon. The quietus was not necessary; she seemed stunned, Danaë after a luminous visit or the Deer Girl waking to find the Sunwolf in her tent.
