Prince of Twilight (18 page)

She nodded. But she wasn't really listening to him. She was thinking and trying construct her ar
gument. “I know your kind, Vlad. I know more about your kind than any mortal you've probably ever met. Some of my best friends are vampires. You understand?”

He nodded, though all she could see was the back of his head from her current vantage point.

“You're going to die before morning,” she told him.

He rolled onto his back and blinked up at her. “I don't think—”

“You're going to die. You've lost too much blood. Look at you. You can barely keep your eyes open. I stopped the bleeding, but you don't have enough to keep you going until dawn. I can see that.” She pursed her lips. “You won't make it unless you let me help you. Let me…do what needs to be done.”

His eyes sharpened slightly, plumbing hers. “You would do that for me? Even after…?”

“After you chose her over me? Look, Vlad, I know you'd rather it was her, here with you, helping you right now.”

“If it was, I'd be dead by now. She's…she's confused, Tempest.”

“She's insane. As I've been trying to tell you all along.” She closed her eyes, sighed. “We have to be practical. You need blood. I've got plenty. So let's just do this thing.” She turned her arm, palm up,
and stared at her wrist. Then, with a nod, she held it out to him. “Go on.”

“It will…it will create a bond.”

“You drank from me already, remember? And yeah, it did create a bond. It's how I knew you were in trouble when I got close to this place tonight. I felt it, your pain.” She bit her lip for a moment, averting her eyes. “Frankly, I don't think what I feel could get much stronger, anyway. I'm like a fly in a spider-web. But don't worry. I'm not going to let you destroy me.” She lifted her wrist toward him. “Go on, do it.”

Vlad ignored her proffered wrist, reaching up to cup her nape instead. He drew her downward, closer to him.

Halfway down, she resisted, and he stopped pulling her closer but didn't let her back away, either. Her face was only a few inches above his. And she wanted him so much it hurt. It hurt like nothing had ever hurt before.

“Not like this,” she whispered.

“Like this, Tempest.
Just
like this.”

Stormy closed her eyes and let him move her until her face was only a breath away from his. His lips brushed her cheek and then her jaw. She shivered in anticipation as his mouth slid to her neck. His fingers spread into her hair and caressed her
there, his touch as soft as a breath. He kissed her neck, and she sighed, because it felt so damn good. She stretched out her legs and lay there beside him, her chest on his, her throat resting against his mouth. Involuntarily, she arched her neck, wanting him,
needing
him, to take her.

He whispered her name against her skin, and then she felt his mouth open to suckle her there. And finally there was the shock of pain as he bit down. She gasped, but the piercing hurt was brief and delicious in a forbidden way. And then he was drinking her, and her body shivered its response.

It was like sex—every part of her alive with pleasure at the sensations of his teeth sinking deeper into her flesh, of his tongue caressing, of the gentle and then more aggressive sucking of his mouth as he fed at her throat. She couldn't bear it. The sensations built, and every muscle in her body coiled and tightened as she yearned for release.

And then he was moving, rolling her onto her back, his own body moving over hers. He was still feeding from her while his hand shoved its way down the front of her jeans.

“Vlad…you shouldn't move or…oh, hell.”

She stopped speaking, because his fingers were sliding into her. And he had to know then, if he
hadn't before, what he was doing to her. How hot and wet and hungry she was. For him. Only for him. He worked her with his hand, and she spread her legs shamelessly, craving what only he could give her.

Then he found the nub that pulsed and cried for attention, and rubbed it with his thumb. He bit down harder at her throat, and pressed and rolled that tender, aching bud harder at the same time, as his fingers slid in and out of her. She climaxed in an orgasm so powerful she thought it would melt the flesh from her bones.

On and on it went. She went rigid, then began to shake and spasm and moan. She arched her pelvis to his hand and tipped her head back until her chin was pointing straight up at the ceiling. And he was merciless. He was inside her, owning her body, his teeth in her throat, his fingers in her vagina. And he wouldn't let go. He just kept working her, making her come, the sensations going on and on and on. The intensity didn't fade. Rather, it built, until her body was jerking and shivering so much it hurt. She was literally thrashing on the bed as he kept pushing her, forcing the pleasure that was almost beyond endurance. And even the pain was good. But it was too much. Too much.

Still, he kept on, until she screamed for mercy.

Finally, finally, the sensations peaked and began to ebb. He withdrew his fingers and then his fangs from her. He stopped drinking and instead kissed her neck in a way that was almost healing in its tenderness. And then he eased onto his back again, keeping one arm around her and drawing her onto her side, so that she snuggled against him.

She was weak from the power of that orgasm. And perhaps from the blood he'd taken, as well. And she was still feeling the shivery aftereffects of the climax. She'd never felt anything like that before. It was beyond human. They'd shared blood before, but Stormy knew, despite her denials, that each and every time it happened, the bond between them would become more potent, more powerful. She was making all of this harder on herself. Everything she did lately was self-destructive and stupid.

And yet she loved it. She loved
him.

Lazily, Stormy reached down and drew the covers over them, and as she did, she checked the bandage. A little more blood stained it than had been there before. But not a lot, and she knew hers had replenished him. He would be all right.

But would
she?
Would she ever be all right again?

She felt dizzy, sated, weak and utterly compliant. He could do whatever he wanted to her tonight,
and she knew she wouldn't resist, not after that. He'd devoured her will along with her blood. Not that she'd had a hell of a lot to begin with, where he was concerned.

She lowered her head to his shoulder. “Thank you, Vlad,” she whispered. And then she fell asleep in his arms.

 

Elisabeta was confused and hurting when she left the house where Vlad was staying. She'd stabbed him—stabbed her beloved husband! She could hardly believe she'd done it. But he would be all right, surely. She had been angry, told him goodbye, but she hadn't meant it. And after all, he was immortal, a vampire. He would be all right.

She couldn't focus on any other alternative—she had more than she could deal with just…just
living.

She wasn't used to the intricacies, much less the full blown sensations, of being incarnate again. And she'd lost touch with how fragile life could be. Oh, she had felt the stuff of living several times since her death, but only briefly, when she'd managed to take control of Tempest's body. Now she was inhabiting a body all her own. Brooke was trying to take it back, but her efforts were pathetic, at best. She was no threat. Already she was weakening.

But God, the sensations!

That
tarva
Tempest had
hurt
her. Blood had spurted from her nose, and pain had exploded in her face. It hurt for a long while after their fight. She was not accustomed to physical pain.

And there were other things. An unfamiliar pang in her stomach rumbled until she realized it was hunger. But she wasn't sure how to deal with that. She hadn't had to make her own way in the physical world in a very, very long time. More than five centuries. But she had found that if she searched her mind, she could access the knowledge Brooke had acquired during her lifetime, just as she had been able to access Tempest's storehouses of information.

There was
money
in her pocket, Brooke's memory told her. There was a twenty-four-hour grocery store a mere mile and a half away. She could purchase food there.

It seemed a very long walk to Elisabeta. She was tired long before she made it there, and by the time she did arrive, she was almost too tired to want to eat anymore. And another urge had made itself known, demanding to be dealt with. Fortunately Brooke's knowledge included the finer points of public restrooms, and Beta was able to find and use the one within the small grocery
store. But it felt odd and disgusting. She'd forgotten some of the less pleasant aspects of physical existence.

She nearly jumped out of her skin when the porcelain bowl seemed to come to life all on its own the instant she rose from it. Water whooshed into the thing, then out the bottom with a rush of noise and pressure that left it as clean as it had been before she'd used it. She stared at the thing for a long moment, her hand pressed to her thundering heart.

And then she smiled, because she
had
a heart. A healthy, living, beating heart. And it was good. Surely she had experienced this kind of marvel before, while lurking inside Tempest's body. She simply hadn't paid attention.

Now she did. These bowls were called toilets, she knew that. And they were to be “flushed” after use. Apparently some of them flushed themselves. People today must be unbelievably lazy.

Finished with the nastiness of elimination, Beta washed her hands, enjoying the convenience and the feel of hot and cold running water, and the smell of the soap, which was nothing like any she'd smelled before. She even enjoyed seeing her reflection in the looking glass, after the shock of looking up to see a stranger's face. It wasn't a bad face. Attrac
tive, in fact. She ran her hands through her auburn hair and over the trim figure. It was a good body.

But weak. She wondered why.

Finally she returned to the grocery store's aisles, and wandered up and down them, searching the shelves for something she could eat. Most of the items looked inadequate: cans and boxes with pretty pictures on them that didn't seem to match their size, shape or weight. Surely the large round can marked “Crisco” could not possibly contain the golden brown fried chicken depicted on its label. It didn't shake as if it had fried chicken inside.

Disappointed, she returned the heavy can to the shelf with a sigh. If only she were already a vampire, she thought sadly. She could just bite some stupid mortal and be done with it.

Like Tempest. She would
love
to drain the life out of that evil, husband-stealing wench. And she
would.

For now, though, food.

She found some promising items behind a glass case in a section marked “Deli,” and she eyed them. There were dishes of many sorts. Some salads, and piles of thinly sliced meats.

“May I help you?”

She looked up at the woman behind the counter. She wore a white hat and apron, and she smiled.

“I'm hungry,” Elisabeta told her.

The woman's smile seemed to freeze, and her eyebrows rose a little. “We have sandwiches. They're pretty good. I have one myself most days, for lunch. Roast beef is my favorite. But the turkey's great, too, with provolone cheese and all the fixin's.”

Elisabeta didn't know what “fixin's” were, but since they came highly recommended, she didn't suppose they could be bad. “Beef. I'd like that.”

“Sandwich, sub or wrap?” the woman asked.

Beta frowned. “What's the difference?”

The woman tilted her head to one side. “Are you okay, hon?”

“Yes. I'm just…not from around here.”

“You're foreign aren't you? I thought I caught a slight accent, but honestly, your English is almost perfect. Where you from, hon?”

“Romania,” she answered, thinking it was really none of the woman's business, but deciding the salesperson was friendly, so she would try to be, as well.

“Romania! Imagine that. Well, don't you worry any. I'll help you out.” She proceeded to explain the differences between sand-witches, subs and wraps; then she made a sand-witch for her, wrapped it in
white paper, put it into a little basket, then added a bottle of something called “Coke” that looked like a very dark ale of some sort, and a shiny, small package of some kind of chipped potatoes. Then she led Beta to the front of the store, where another woman took her items from the basket and punched buttons on a machine.

Cash register,
whispered the knowledge inside her mind.

The woman at the machine took her money. She gave Beta some coins in return and put her sand-witch into a plastic bag.

She didn't need the bag, Beta thought. She was going to eat the thing right away. People today were not only lazy but terribly wasteful.

She left the store, painfully aware that she still had to walk all the way back to the house where Vlad was staying. Fervently, she hoped the other woman would be long gone by the time she returned. She needed to apologize to Vlad for hurting him the way she had. She needed to explain that he had made her angry, and that she had only reacted in response to that anger. He really shouldn't do that anymore—make her angry. And he needed to transform her into a vampire right away.

Brooke's body had seemed strong and fit when
she had first entered it. Why, then, did it get so tired and so sore from a simple walk?

Elisabeta unwrapped the sand-witch and ate it on the way. It was good. And eating was good, as well. The taste of the food on her tongue. The act of chewing. She almost choked several times before she mastered the rhythm of chewing and swallowing the food. But aside from that, eating was a pleasant experience. Only now did she realize how much she had missed it.

When she finished the sand-witch, she tossed the bag and white wrapper onto the roadside, and carried the package of chipped potatoes in one hand and the “Coke” in the other. She stopped long enough to open them both. The potatoes were terribly salty, but she enjoyed the crunch and flavor of them very much.