Damned by Blood

Chapter Seven

She thought he’d passed out. The transition from his screams echoing off the walls to total silence unnerved her. His body, which had been sweat soaked and corded with frustration, was now soft and pliant.

Alya pushed her hair out of her eyes and wiped her mouth. No one had ever fought her so hard before. But she shouldn’t have expected anything else from him.

And he hadn’t just surrendered, he’d surrendered over and over, allowing layer after layer of resistance—all his training, all his natural defenses––to fall away. He’d given himself to the moment and made himself vulnerable. It made her domineering heart go pitter pat.

He could have struck out at her. Or made a joke of it. Or tried to change the rules. But he played her game with more heart than she’d ever seen. None of the princes she knew would have let it go so far. She couldn’t read his motivations.

Mikhail Faustin had grown up fascinating.

Leaving him there, she stepped over shotgun shells, broken glass, and hunks of plaster, making her way to the kitchen, where she grabbed a bottle of wine and two glasses. When she returned, he was still sprawled next to the settee he’d demolished.

While she was pouring the wine he stirred. “I figured you would kill me in some spectacular way.”

She warmed with pride to hear how raspy his voice was, and how lazy, too.

Nudging him with her toe, she said offered him a glass of wine.

He scowled at the offering. She took a sip out of her own glass, wincing as it stung the cuts inside her mouth.

“Purist.” She returned to the kitchen to get him a glass of water, remembering that his parents drank only blood, water and medicinal scotch.

His voice followed her down the hall. “Why would I play human? Why would I pretend to be less than I am?”

But even though Mikhail and his parents were old-fashioned, his brother Gregor ran a nightclub where vamps and humans mixed—and where no doubt many vamps drank unauthorized beverages. Alex Faustin, she heard, took it one step further. He cooked. She wondered if that was a source of tension in the family. Always searching for weakness, aren’t you, Alya?

Returning, she handed him the water and he drank it down thirstily, still sitting on the floor. She perched on a chair nearby.

The few swallows of wine she’d had were already going to her head. That meant she was dangerously weak.

“I need to eat. I’m going to call in a couple of feeders for us.”

He jerked his head her direction, a disapproving gleam in his eyes. “You shouldn’t use feeders. Hunting keeps you sharp.”

“It’s okay to hunt in New York, but not in LA. You have to drive around to find victims. The traffic is horrible. Then you have to park…” She waved her hand. “It’s easier to order out.”

“I’ll go. I’ll find someone and bring them to you.”

Alya folded her arms. Knyaz. Not only was he already trying to change the way she ate, he was also reminding her of another small fact. “How could I forget? You’re not hungry, are you?”

An unexpected flash of pink grazed his cheekbones. “I ate very well this evening.”

“I’m amazed you can meet my eye while you say that.”

“I went about it wrong, that I admit. But I can’t say I’m sorry I tasted you.”

He stood in one fluid motion. She knew his strength now. Intimately. But she let him close with her. Let him press her hand against the leaping pulse at the base of his throat. When he spoke, his deep voice vibrated against her fingers. “Tell me you’re not tempted.”

Alya swallowed hard, remembering his tongue on her wounds. What would his blood taste like? His sweat and seed were compelling enough. But she couldn’t sink into this madness. “The idea sickens me.”

He covered her hand with his. “You know how they live on inside us. After.”

After exsanguination, he meant. Yes. Her enemies were always with her.

“Imagine that intimacy with a living person. Live communication, soul to soul.”

Intimacy. Her favorite thing in the world. She turned away.

“You’re afraid you can’t bond like that.”

“Why would I want to?”

“You’re afraid…you’re afraid you don’t even have a soul anymore.”

She whipped back around to glare at him.

“I heard it in your blood.”

Knowing that made her feel soiled and far too tired. “I hope you enjoyed all your gorging and eavesdropping.”

He tilted his head, a bit puzzled, as if he were still reading her. “I like you more for it. And it’s not tr ue , by th e way. ”

Alya’s eyes stung. Were those tears? What the fuck? She brought her heel down on a chunk of fallen plaster, crushing it into powder. “I’m so relieved. Because that’s what I really care about. Whether Mikhail Faustin likes me or not.”

“You have a right to be tired.” He swept her knife from the ground and handed it to her with a bow. “Come, rest with me. We can fight later.”

She swiped at her face impatiently. Whether he saw her tears or not, they still made her weak, and stupid. And because she was weak and stupid, she let him lead her to the sofa. They stretched out on it together, Mikhail behind her. He gathered her against his chest. It was a familiar gesture, as comfortable and familiar as a pair of old jeans. But it was also disconcerting. No one had held her like that since she left him. She’d never been able to trust anyone that much.

Alya laughed to herself. And what, now I trust him? A marriage-minded Faustin who—so far this night—has Tasered me, tapped me and shot me?

She kept her knife clutched to her breast, just in case.

Mikhail said, “Sleep a little, and I’ll bring you food.”

“And then you’ll want to feed from me again.”

He didn’t answer.

“What happens to you now…now that you’ve really fed from me?”

“I’m no different than before.”

“You’re lying. I remember a story, a fairy tale about a bonded man who couldn’t feed.”

“Roland. Roland and Illysia.”

“That’s it. What happened to him?”

He sighed. “It’s a sad story.”

“I like those best.”

“I remember that.”

Mikhail swept the hair off the side of her face. The gesture reminded her of her mother. For a long time she’d resented her mother for being so delicate and forgiving. For dying young and leaving her alone in a house of men.

Going to live with her aunt in New York had saved her life, she was sure of it, and meeting Mikhail and his family had been a revelation. She’d never known a family could be so tight. For a magic space of time, she’d been one of them. Until she betrayed them all.

“Only angels and demons have no regrets,” Mikhail said.

“Can you still hear my blood?”

“No. I just know you’re sad.”

Alya closed her eyes. Being with him was too much like being flayed with a scalpel. It had to end, and as she’d told him, it couldn’t end well.

“Please, tell me the story.” Following old habits, she nestled her head in the crook of his arm.

“It’s a story from the Caucasuses.”

“Where the Faustins come from.”

“That’s right.” She heard the smile in his voice. “Long ago there was a powerful prince named Volchock who had a beautiful daughter, white-shouldered Illysia. All the young vampyr lords desired her hand in marriage, but Illysia’s mother had a prophetic dream. Her destined mate was a foreign lord named Roland. She told her husband of this dream, and he made her swear to keep the dream a secret from their daughter. He wanted to investigate the man first, he said.

“The truth was that he knew of this Roland. Roland had killed his brother. Over the years, he’d contemplated revenge. Now he saw his way to a perfect ending. He went to Roland and told him about the dream, that all was forgiven, that he was welcomed to the family. After all, they could not deny fate, could th ey?

“Roland was amazed, but pleased. He’d seen Illysia once at a tournament, and remembered her fine figure, and her skin like white rose petals.

“Volchok brought Roland home with him, speaking all the way about his daughter’s beauty and worth, but also her passion. How he was glad to get her married off safely, because she burned hot and flirted with his men incessantly. He even insinuated that while he’d tried to keep her a virgin, she might not be one still.

“By the time they came within sight of the castle Roland was on fire, thinking about this girl who appeared a lamb but was a vixen inside, a girl who’d been given to him by destiny, a girl who could not help but love him.

“‘And she knows about me?’ Roland asked.

“‘She knows all about you. She’s chomping at the bit. Mind you, she’s spirited.’ He winked at Roland. ‘You’ll enjoy putting her to saddle.’

“They arrived in the keep just before dawn. Everyone had retired to their chambers. Roland was crushed he could not see her until the next night.

“‘Nonsense, boy,’ said Volchok. ‘Go to her now. She’s yours by right. No need to wait for the wedding.’

“Roland rushed up the stairs to her rooms and threw her women out. He spoke the words, ancient even then, ‘I declare you mine by right of dream.’

“Illysia, of course, knew nothing of him, and didn’t believe him. Roland didn’t care, because once he was near her, he lost control.”

Alya rolled her eyes. “He raped her in fine old vampyr style.”

“More important—to the story, at least—he fed from her.”

“How many times?”

“I don’t know. The story says he sated himself on her in every way. Volchok ordered the household to ignore her screams. He knew his daughter well. A practical girl would turn the situation to her advantage, but sensitive, idealistic Illysia would never forgive Roland. Roland would be damned by her hatred, damned by her blood. She’d never feed him again, and eventually, he’d starve for lack of her. One daughter’s virginity was a small price to pay for Roland’s slow, painful death. What he didn’t understand was that his daughter was smart enough to figure out that her father had sacrificed her.”

Alya tensed, all too sympathetic with Illysia. “This is a horrible story.”

Mikhail hooked his leg over hers and began to caress her earlobe. No one else––no one alive, anyway––knew how well that calmed her. She was amazed that he remembered.

“When Roland finally slept, instead of going to her parents, she crept away and hid in the dark recesses of the castle. At first darkness she ran away alone, and on foot, telling no one where she’d gone.

“Roland woke up, saw the blood on the sheets, remembered what he’d done in his frenzy, and ached with shame. He searched the castle for her, and when she could not be found, saddled his horse and took off in pursuit of her.”

“How did he know which way to go?”

“By drinking her he’d forged a connection with her. He probably knew which direction she’d gone.”

“Could you follow me now?”

“I think so. Yes.”

Great. “But the one drop didn’t tell you where I was?”

“No. Let me finish.”

Alya nestled into his arm, yawning. A million years ago they’d curled together exactly like this in his room and listened to Leonard Cohen albums. Back then their days were endless. They wandered the city aimlessly. They made out for hours.

“Roland soon realized he was cursed. He was hungry, but all blood turned to ash in his mouth. He burned, but he couldn’t perform with other women. He was bound to Illysia. For two months he pursued her, slowly wasting away, slowly losing his mind.

“Always he was close to her, but always she eluded him. In that part of the world, huge, flat boulders litter the steppes. They call these rocks The Bed of Roland. Little blue flowers cover the grasslands in springtime. Those are called Illysia’s Tears.”

“Blue flowers…” Alya murmured. She couldn’t keep her eyes open. It would be okay to close them for just a minute, wouldn’t it? While he finished the story?

A second later, she woke to a roar.