The butterflies, which had been fluttering in her stomach, danced. She hesitated, then extended her hand. “A kiss on the hand is considered genteel.”
“In that case . . .” He took her hand in his, bent over, and brushed his lips over her skin. It sent an electric shock through her. He straightened, then smiled. “Was that right?”
She didn’t know how she had come to be standing so close to him or how her hands got on his chest. She only knew that her lips were so close to his and that it would be a terrible shame not to kiss them. So she stretched up her mouth to his and brought her lips against his, and for a single, dizzying moment, the butterflies and warmth and electricity raced through her all at the same time.
His body trembled. His pulse pounded as his heart raced. His sudden gasp and the way his hands reached out and caught her waist and how rough his lips were made her want to pull him closer, to feel him in her arms, and to put her mouth on his neck . . .
She made herself step away from him. Then she turned and fled into the woods.
I almost drank him. I wanted to drink him.
THE NEXT EVENING, she ran even faster to find food. She chased down the deer herd, found a fawn, and jumped on it. The little deer started and tried to run. Ruxandra sank her talons into it. It screamed and kicked and squirmed. Ruxandra ignored all that and sank her fangs into its neck. She drank hard and fast, sucking the blood out of the creature until its life faded away. The brightness of its youth was not so surprising anymore. It just felt like food.
Is it enough?
She ran back through the woods. Her plan had been to rinse off and meet him at the pond, but she was scared. The night before had been so lovely. He’d been polite and hadn’t tried to make her go with him. It seemed like he liked her, and she definitely liked him. It all seemed to be going well.
Except the part where you almost drank him.
“Shut up.” Ruxandra cast her eye through the bushes. She spotted a rabbit hiding in the underbrush. She changed direction and pounced, catching the little ball of fur before it could move. She ripped open its throat and drank it down in a moment.
More. I should have more. More will keep me from hurting him.
“Yes.” She dropped to her haunches and sniffed at the air. Squirrels were nearby. They chattered above her. There were deer in the distance, but she didn’t have time for more fawns. She needed to eat, fast. She searched around, making sure he was nowhere in sight. Then she jumped.
Straight up she went, so fast that the squirrel didn’t have a chance to react before she grabbed it. She tore its throat out on the way down and drank it dry in seconds. She threw the small, furry corpse away, then ran again. She sniffed for prey as she moved through the trees. She found two more rabbits and flushed them out. She nearly tore them apart in her haste to get at the blood and had to drink fast before they died.
I must look awful. She needed to get clean but didn’t want to go near the pond in case he was already there. She went to the stream instead, downstream of the pond so no blood would flow into it. She found a two-foot-deep pool and stepped into it. She scrubbed and scoured, soaking her face and body to get all the blood off. Then it was back to her den and the towel. She patted hard to get dry. She dressed, then ran back into the woods.
She was full—more than full, she was stuffed. “Which is good, because I do not want to do anything bad.”
Then stay away from him.
“Don’t be stupid!” The words came out as an angry whisper. “He’s a friend. My only friend, and he is good to me, so shut up shut up shut up!”
There he was.
She stopped on the edge of the woods to straighten out her dress and to watch him. He’d set new logs in the fire pit, ready to be lit as the last of the light faded. He had a bottle with him and a small loaf of bread. To Ruxandra’s delight, a set of shepherd’s pipes sat to the side.
She stepped out into the open. “You play?”
A smile lit up his face and it made her knees tremble. “Oh good, you came.”
“Of course.”
“I was worried.” He looked away, embarrassed. “I mean, after you kissed me, you ran off so fast I was worried you regretted it.”
Ruxandra looked away. It took her a moment to get the words out, and she couldn’t meet his eyes. “I do not regret it at all.”
“Good.” He stood. “Because I didn’t regret it either. In fact, I enjoyed it. Very much.”
Ruxandra turned, and there he was, right in front of her. She gazed into his brown eyes. He cocked his head to the side. “I’ve never seen eyes like yours before.”
“Really?” Ruxandra didn’t think her eyes were any different than his.
“So pale blue. They’re almost silver. It’s amazing.”
“Thank you.”
Pale blue? My eyes are brown. My eyes were brown. They must have changed too.
“Your nose is very pretty too.”
Ruxandra pulled herself from her thoughts. “Is it?”
“It is. But not as pretty as what’s beneath it.”
Ruxandra managed to keep her eyes on his. “And what do you see beneath my nose that is so pretty?”
“These.” He leaned in close, and his lips pressed against hers. Shocks and butterflies raced through her body. Her hands wrapped into the fabric of his shirt, pulling him close. His arms surrounded her in his warmth. She felt her lips parting under his as they had done with Adela and Valeria. She barely managed not to put out her tongue.
I cannot have him think of me as a slattern. He’s too nice.
She pulled back and smiled. “When are you going to play for me?”
He stepped away, smiling. “Right after I get the fire started.”
She took a spot on the log and watched the fire come to life. When it was burning to his satisfaction, he sat on the log beside her, then raised the pipes to his mouth. He ran his breath up and down the openings a few times, then launched into a quick dance tune. Ruxandra’s smile grew even wider, and she began tapping her foot to the dance beat. He smiled back—not an easy trick to do while still playing—and stood. He danced quite well, considering he played the pipes at the same time. He turned and bent with the music, ending on one knee on the other side of the fire.
Ruxandra clapped. “Oh, very well done. Play another!”
He obliged, playing three more tunes, all fast and happy. Ruxandra jumped up on the second one and danced around him while he played. On the third, they danced together. Dancing had been part of the girls’ education at the convent—after all, they were to be married and had to entertain. They held hands and went through the steps of a courante as best as they could. He finished, bowed, and then began a new tune.
This one wasn’t a dance song. The notes from the little pipes soared, sad and sweet, into the forest around them. It was a song of longing, of reaching, and of remembering. The slow, measured meter and the soaring notes dug into Ruxandra’s soul. She sat on the log and watched him as he played, never missing a note.
When the song was over and the music faded, Ruxandra put her hands on either side of his face and kissed him. This time she did not restrain her tongue, letting it slip past her lips and onto his. His tongue met hers, and for a time, nothing else mattered.
It would be so easy to kiss his neck.
Ruxandra stopped the kiss and sat back. Neculai’s eyes opened. There was a question in them that Ruxandra was sure she couldn’t answer. She fluttered her hand like a fan in front of her face and pretended to catch her breath. “I have become a hussy in your eyes, no doubt.”
“No!” Neculai’s protest was loud. “Not at all. In fact, I consider you to be a lady above all others.”
Ruxandra rolled her eyes even as his words warmed her. “A lady doesn’t open her mouth so fast when she is kissing. In fact, a lady should never kiss any man except her husband.”
Neculai opened his mouth to answer, but Ruxandra put a finger over his lips. “Stop, before you say something
you’ll regret.”
Because you can never be my husband, and I do not want you to say it.
“I could never regret—”
“Oh, stop!” Ruxandra tapped his lips and pulled her hand away. Touching him was exciting her, making it hard for her to think. “My turn. You gave me a concert, so I should give you one.”
Neculai’s eyebrows went up. Then he nodded and stood. “Excellent. What instrument did you bring?”
“My voice.”
“Which is already as sweet as any bird’s,” Neculai declared. “Sing for me, my lady.”
“Flatterer.” Ruxandra thought for a moment. Most of the songs she knew were religious. The nuns allowed almost no secular music. Even so, there must be one . . .
So she sang a very old song from “Chartivel”:
“Hath any loved you well, down there,
Summer or winter through?
Down there, have you found any fair
Laid in the grave with you?
Is death’s long kiss a richer kiss
Than mine was wont to be—
Or have you gone to some far bliss
And quite forgotten me?
What soft enamoring of sleep
Hath you in some soft way?
What charmed death holdeth you with deep
Strange lure by night and day?
A little space below the grass,
Hour of the sun and shade;
But worlds away from me, alas!
Down there where you are laid.”
Neculai’s mouth hung open when she finished. “That was . . .”
When he didn’t finish, Ruxandra suggested, “Horrifying? Terrible? Enough to scare the birds from the trees?”
“Beautiful,” he said, his voice firm. “Very beautiful. But very sad. Do you know any happy love songs?”
Ruxandra cast about in her memory. There were others, she was sure. Adela used to sing them while they did the laundry or worked in the garden. In fact, there was one.
“Oh how I wish to see my love,
My love so far away.
He says he loves me, yet he goes
On journeys of many a day.
I have not gone with,
For my father raged,
And my mother quailed with fear.
For well they know I would give myself
To the one I love so dear.
So next time that my love goes,
My love so far away
I shall go with him,
And dance with him
And enjoy many a day
And when my father comes after
To drag me from his bed
I shall not go
I shall not go
For we two shall be wed!”
Neculai laughed and applauded. “Beautiful!”
Ruxandra curtsied, sinking low in front of him. “I thank you, kind sir.”
He reached out before she could rise, catching her hand and her shoulder and guiding her forward to sit on his lap. “Yet even the most beautiful song cannot be more beautiful than you.”
Ruxandra looked away, smiling. “You said that to get kissed again, sir.”
Neculai pretended to think a moment. “Did it work?”
As a reply, she pressed her lips to his, and for a brief moment, nothing else mattered. There was only the warm, delicious boy, and it was so much better than with Adela and Valeria, and she was happy.
The hunger stirred.
It was not the desperate need she had felt when she drank the old woman, nor was it the terrible madness that had caused her to kill her father, but it was there, strong and powerful and craving. She found her lips leaving his to kiss his cheek, his forehead, his ear. Then lower, to kiss his neck.
To linger on his neck.
To gently suck at the skin of his neck.
To—
NO!
It took effort this time to pull her lips away. She could feel her mouth shifting, feel the fangs preparing to come out. She sat back and smiled, though she kept her lips together.
He smiled back. “I have not enjoyed anyone’s company so much and so well for such a long time.”
“I see. How many others’ company have you enjoyed?”
She was rewarded with a flush that started at his chest and went all the way up. She caught his chin in her hand. “Tell me their names. All of them.”
“All of them?” Neculai’s eyes widened until he looked the perfect picture of innocence. “Why do you think there is an ‘all’? Perhaps it is just one. Or none.”
“Liar.” Ruxandra arched a brow. “You are strong and tall and handsome, and if you haven’t bedded a full hand of women, I’ll be surprised.”
“Then be surprised.” He grinned back. “Because I have not bedded five women.”
“Six then.”
“Two.”
“And were they pretty?”
“Not as pretty as you.”
“Liar.” She pulled his hair, giving it the gentlest of tugs. “Tell me the truth.”
“They were pretty,” he said. “One was the miller’s sister, who bedded me to spite the man she loved. He married her. The other—”
Ruxandra broke the silence. “The other?”
“Was Daneila.” His voice had changed. The teasing and happiness had vanished. He looked into the fire. “She was lovely. She had blonde hair and brown eyes. I would bed her in her father’s fields, and she loved me with all her heart.”
He fell silent. Ruxandra felt like an intruder, a thief stealing his memories. “You loved her.”
He nodded.
Ruxandra bit her lip. “And then?”
He shrugged. “She died. She cut herself harvesting the wheat. It didn’t heal and grew red, and in the end . . .”
Ruxandra wrapped her arms around him again, pulling his head to her breast. “I am so sorry.”
He shrugged. “Death is unkind. But it comes to us all.”
He might have been trying to make the words casual, but they held so much pain, so much heartbreak that Ruxandra had tears coming to her eyes. She lowered her face to his, kissing him again and again. He didn’t respond at first, but as more of her kisses landed on his lips, his arms came tight around her, and his lips pressed hard against her. His hands moved up and down her back, and her fingers tangled in his hair. She wanted so much to comfort him, to make him happy and take away his pain.
Forever. I can take it away forever. The thought jolted her. She pulled her lips away and caught his arms. He froze.
Gently, ever so gently, even though she wanted to throw off his arms and run away deep into the forest, she pushed his arms from her and rose to her feet. She leaned in and kissed him on the forehead. “I must—I must go. Before tonight . . .”
“I understand,” he said. His voice was rough with passion and pain. “I do.”
“I know.” She backed away from the fire, into the darkness. “I will see you tomorrow. I promise.”
“I’ll be here too.”
She backed away until she was in the tree line, then she turned and ran back to her den as hard and as fast as she could.
RUXANDRA TORE OFF THE dress when she reached the den. She hurled it at the bed. The chemise followed a moment later. “I am so, so stupid!”
She kicked the wall, denting it and sending dirt raining down.
“How could I want to drink him? How could I want to hurt him like that?” She kicked the wall again. “I am not a beast. I’m not!” She fell to her knees, tears rolling down her face. “I want him so much.”
You want to drink him.
“I want him!” Ruxandra screamed. “I want to be with him! I want to touch him! I crave touching him! What is wrong with me?”
She grabbed her breasts hard as if the pain of her nails digging into the flesh could drive away the desire. But all it did was inflame it. “Oh God, I want him!”
You’ll kill him. He’ll die. It’ll be your fault.
“Shut up!” She sq
ueezed her breasts harder. One hand slipped off, driving down between her legs. Her sex was wet and ready and desperate. She howled in frustration and rammed three fingers inside of herself. It hurt, and it felt good, and she did it again and again until she hit climax, and still, it wasn’t enough.
“I want to be with him. I need to be with him!”
Why?
“I don’t know!” Her shout shook the dirt from the ceiling of the den and echoed so loud it made her ears hurt. She slapped her face a dozen times, trying to shake off the desire. When that didn’t work, she used her fingers again, hitting climax after climax until the sun began to warm the den. She fell back, exhausted and crying. She should have been relieved, should have felt better, but all she could think of was touching him.
Drinking him.
She crawled under the cloak and rolled into a ball. “I just need blood. That’s all. More blood so I can be with him. So I will not hurt him. And I will get as much as it takes. I swear I will. I just need more blood.”
There’s the village nearby.
“No.” The word came out as a whisper. “No, I can’t.”
Why not? You’ve done it before.
“No, no, no, no, no!” Ruxandra turned her face to the wall. “It’s his village. I cannot kill people he knows.”
So you’re fine with killing people he doesn’t know?
“No!” She pulled the cloak tighter around her. “I do not need to kill people. I can control myself. I’m not a beast. I’m not a beast.”
She pulled the cloak over her head and muttered the words again and again.
She dreamed of the angel. The touch of a fingertip to a fang, the silver blood that fell onto her tongue—the blossom of pain that was, in the dream, no longer pain but a terrible pleasure, a gateway to life and power. She felt herself grow bigger, more understanding of life and death, though there were no words to describe what she understood—the idea was too big for words. When she awoke, it was gone. But there had been something . . .
When night fell, she slipped out of the den. The sky above was dark gray, and the smell of moisture filled the air. Ruxandra closed her eyes and sniffed, searching for a smell past the threat of rain.