Page 270 of Dragon Slayer

49

THE NECROMANCER

He’d shown her, briefly, through his projection, what he really looked like. Not the graceful, gleaming prince who’d lounged around her apartment, but his true body, trapped in a cell. Filthy, bedraggled, painfully thin. This version of him, the one holding her, the one whose shirt collar she pressed her nose into, was a few pounds heavier than that wraith she’d seen back at the barn, and he was clean; he smelled of the same lavender soap she’d used. But she could feel the press of his ribs through his shirt; the tiny tremors that wracked his frame.

Her arms tightened around him when she felt his knees try to give out for the third time. He should have felt lithe, and strong – impossibly strong, he was a vampire. But instead, he felt fragile; nothing but brittle bones held together by sheer force of will. As the initial shock and joy faded, as her pulse slowed to something only quietly frantic, she realized they couldn’t keep standing here like this – Val couldn’t, anyway.

“Hey,” she said, pulling back far enough to look up into his face. He was slower to retreat, his eyes still closed, lashes long and dark on his sunken cheeks. He breathed through his mouth, slow and shaky. “Let’s sit down, okay?”

His eyes opened, and they were so blue in person. Full of an emotion she didn’t dare name. “You’re here,” he said again. It was all he’d said. And then: “Oh, darling, you’rehere.”

It had seemed too good to be true on her end, an achingly sweet fiction.

She hadn’t stopped to consider that it had been the same for him.

“I am.” She reached up to touch his face, the sharp plane of his cheek cool beneath her hand. “Let’s sit down before you fall.”

He blinked a few times. “There’s only the cot.” Then he grinned, and his fangs were long and sharp. “Trying to get me into bed already?”

She laughed, but it wasn’t for the joke. Joy filled her, swelling impossibly bigger on each breath. “Sure, we’ll go with that. Come on, easy does it.”

She managed to walk him backward the few steps to the cot and get him eased down onto it, his back to the wall. She ended up going, too, though, because he hooked an arm around her waist and, even thin though he was, there was no shaking him off. Not that she wanted to – no, all she wanted in that moment was to fold her legs up and settle in against his side, one hand on his chest, the other at the back of his neck, on the warm skin up under his hair.

He tipped his head back, and the harsh light from the caged overhead bulbs slid down the sharp line of his nose, his lips, his chin; carved shadows in the hollow of his throat.

He was beautiful. Even like this. Maybe especially – because he was real, and his chest rose and fell under her hand, and if she leaned in closer, she could…

He tipped his head a little to the side, so he could look at her. “A hot bath, and a visit from a beautiful lady,” he said, voice rough. “Ithasbeen a remarkable day.” He attempted to smile…but it crumbled. His breath caught, and his lashes flickered. He whispered something low and pained in another language.

Mia bundled him in close as best she could; cupped the back of his head and drew him down so they were cheek-to-cheek, close enough that his quiet, hiccupping little sobs were buried against her neck.

All she could say was, “I’m here.” Over and over, a mantra. She held him, and shushed him, and hoped it was enough.

~*~

Fulk threw down his entire glass of port in one go and then poured another as he was trying not to choke. Of all the things that could be effectively chugged, port wasn’t one of them.

Behind him, Dr. Talbot paced back and forth across the Aubusson carpet, no doubt wringing his hands. Fulk’s skin prickled, hackles raised, in response to the doctor’s fretting. The energy in the room made him want to growl. He just barely restrained himself.

“You can’t really think he’d hurt her, doc,” Annabel said. She had that charming Southern way of calling a person an idiot while making it sound consoling. “Val’s crazy about her.”

“And what, Lady Strange,” he snapped, uncharacteristically severe, “would be at all relieving aboutthat?”

Fulk turned around and leaned back against the ornate sideboard, wineglass held in one hand, aiming a finger toward the man with the other. “I don’t like your tone.”

Talbot’s already flushed face colored further. “My daughter is alone with a madman! My tone is understandable.”

“Not alone. Vlad’s with them,” Annabel pointed out.

Fulk sent her a look.

She shrugged.

“Two madmen!” Talbot threw up his hands. “Wonderful!”

“So I’m a madman?” Vlad asked, tone mild. Fulk had heard and scented that he was approaching, and it was worth holding his tongue to watch Talbot yelp and spin to face him.

“You, uh, no, I–” Talbot sputtered.

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