Beatrice’s shoulderblades pressed hard against the wall. Of course, he could lock her down here to starve; she wished she’d had breakfast or more of the cheese platter, even if the thought made her stomach threaten to cramp.
“You must be a bit uncomfortable,” he persisted, in a soft, cajoling tone. How could a monster sound so comforting? “Lack of mortal food accelerates the process, and leman are so very sensitive.”
Go away. But he wouldn’t, she could just tell. So she coughed, clearing her dry, dry throat. Even hobbling to the bathroom to get a drink of water seemed like too much effort at the moment. “I thought you weren’t coming back.”
Good idea, Bebe. Play a few mind games in his direction, see what he does. It could even be a way to winnow out what was truth in this warped new reality.
“That will never be the case.” Did he have to sound actually contrite? It was goddamn unnerving. “I am sorry to have left you alone. I can help with the discomfort; will you let me?”
You’re asking, huh? That’s a big change. Had to be another trap. Bea stared at him, mutinously silent.
“So stubborn.” A slow smile, transforming his face; the humanity of the expression was enough to steal her breath, knowing what lay behind it. “Have pity on your poor suitor, Beatrice.” Drawing her name out, tasting each syllable.
Pity? My God. She longed to kick him, to find a weapon, to hit the door and run, run, run away from this place. Run until her heart exploded, until she dropped and they shoveled her, unidentified, into a quiet hole.
He rubbed his hands together, one-two, a brisk dry sound. The monster unbuckled his watch—it looked expensive, she tried not to notice—and laid it aside. He turned his left palm up, still balanced perfectly in a feline crouch, gracefully immobile.
“Watch.” He lifted his right index finger. The nail lengthened soundlessly, thinning and tapering to a wickedly curved point, also catlike.
The fear was back, an old friend, a truly renewable resource. Maybe her heart would explode, from sheer terror. Her lungs seemed to have forgotten their function, or there was no air left in this prison.
He set the point against his left wrist. “Your head hurts, doesn’t it. And you are a thirsty kitten, but neither for milk nor for ale. There is one thing you want, one thing you must have. The craving will mount unto agony and may be used to break a fledgling, though you will never know that unpleasantness.”
Bea had a dim idea what was likely to happen next, yet she still flinched when he made a swift, decisive motion, dragging the claw hard. The sound was like slicing into a very crisp apple, akin to driving the stake into his chest; nausea filled her to the brim, her eyes watering afresh and her throat giving a terrible rasping throb.
The edges of the cut separated, thick dark crimson welling. It didn’t drip or spray, simply swelled with its own surface tension. He didn’t even bleed right; the monster gazed at the wound distantly, his mouth a straight line and tiny red pinpricks lighting in his pupils.
Bea barely noticed. The smell hit her, strange mineral sweetness shifting confusingly through several different iterations—dark chocolate sprinkled with sea salt, a melting-well-done roast doused with her father’s homemade barbecue sauce, a brand of fizzy lemonade she hadn’t tasted since she was twelve, all mixed with a strange iron undertone. Good things, wonderful things, food-scents meaning safety, comfort, come and eat.
They reached right into her head, tugging at the human sense tied most deeply to memory, and the back of her throat felt funny because of the small begging sound vibrating there as she stared at the welling fluid.
“Smells wonderful, doesn’t it.” The monster extended his wrist, and the blood still didn’t trickle or ooze. It simply trembled at a standstill, as if he had control over that too. “Far better than mortal claret, though that is good enough for survival. I hunted well to feed you, my leman.”
Did he...had he killed people, sucked their blood, and now wanted her to…
Bea longed to retch, gag, scramble away; she longed to scream, to throw herself at the door until it gave or her skull broke. She wanted to—but her body wasn’t listening. It stared at the glistening cut, the smell shifting from one delicious, comforting memory to another. Fresh bread, her childhood favorite cherry Pixie Stix, a bottle of very good Cabernet once won at a work raffle, her college roommate’s homemade brownies with a thick central ribbon of caramel, all with that distressing salt-copper undertone that should have sickened her but made the rest all the more magnetizing.
He lifted his arm, a subtle offering movement. Patiently, like luring a frightened cat with tuna—it was only a matter of time, really. Hungry enough, any creature would eventually take a chance.
The moan mounted in her throat. Sweet liquid glistened, beckoning, just within reach.
No. I won’t. You can’t make me.
Except he definitely could, and almost as definitely would. Would she get as strong, as fast? In that case, it might be worth a shot.
I don’t want to be a monster. Though she’d stabbed a guy in the chest with a big ol’ wooden stake, hadn’t she? All the worrying over whether or not she’d been wrong, murdered a human instead of a?—
Her eyes overflowed, hot tears tracing a gentle trail on either cheek. Bea blinked, and the tiny movement was her biggest mistake.
The monster, balanced in his crouch, was not bowled over by her sudden scramble. The discarded comforter slid underneath her knee, her fingers—strangely cold, or his skin was oven-hot—seized his wrist, and he made a soft low sound as her mouth fastened on the cut.
A thick burst of heat against her tongue, the pain in her throat blotting out the world as the first thread of filthy monster blood stroked its immensity. Bea was vaguely aware of movement, of the monster staggering as he never did, her back braced against his chest instead of the wall. His other arm settled around her waist, glueing her in place, but she didn’t care because the cut was against her lips, his fingers absently stroking behind her ear as she drank.
Her eyes rolled back. The monster staggered again, a more-or-less controlled fall onto the bed taking her along just as it had in the elevator.
The fear vanished. Every pain in the world, from her parents’ absence to Jared’s murder, was gone. Her cheeks hollowed as she sucked, tongue working greedily, and the monster crooned softly into her hair, cradling her on a cloud. Blessed warmth started at her toes and fingertips, rapidly rushing inward, a skinwarm sea swallowing her whole.
It was so good. His wrist moved and Bea’s hands locked hard, attempting to keep the flow. The cut sealed itself, implacably; she licked for any possible remainder, uncaring of the source. Lovely, forgiving wellbeing filled her, exponentially bigger than the few tokes she’d sneaked as a teenager or more serious hit-the-bong games in college. And far, far deeper than the biggest drunk she’d ever had, that one tequila-soaked Truth or Dare party in the dorms her sophomore year.
