Burnt Offerings - Laurell K. Hamilton [58]
I felt his heart, caressed it and it was cold, dead. “I am master of your heart, Damian,” Jean-Claude said. “I will it to beat.”
“We will make it beat,” I said. My voice sounded distant, strange, not like my voice at all. Power breathed through me, through Damian, into Jean-Claude. I felt it spreading outward and knew that every corpse in the place would feel the rush.
“Now,” I whispered.
Jean-Claude looked at me one last time, then turned all his attention to Damian. He yanked the blade out in one harsh motion.
Damian’s essence tried to follow the blade out, tried to slip away through the wound. I felt it sliding away. I called to it, pressed it into the dead flesh, and it wasn’t enough. I moved my hand over his heart. The sliding blade sliced my hand. Blood, fresh and warm and human, flowed over the wound. The thing inside Damian hesitated. It stayed to taste my blood. It was enough. I didn’t caress his heart. I smashed it, filled it with the power that crawled over us.
The heart thudded against his chest so that I felt it in my bones. His spine bowed, raising him out of my lap, throwing his head. His mouth opened in a silent scream. His eyes flew open wide. He slumped back into my lap.
He stared up at me, wide-eyed, frightened. He grabbed my arm. He tried to talk and couldn’t speak past the thundering of the pulse in his throat. I could feel the blood in his body, the beat of his heart, the rush of him.
He reached out to Jean-Claude, grabbing the sleeve of his jacket. He finally whispered, “What have you done to me?”
“Saved you, mon ami, saved you.”
Damian slumped suddenly. His body began to quiet. I began to lose the sense of his pulse, the taste of his heart. It slid slowly away and I let it go. But I was almost sure I could have held it. I could have kept the feel and rush of his body. I could have made it rise and fall to my touch. I was almost sure.
I ran my hand through his thick red hair and knew temptation, and it was only slightly tinged with sex. I raised my still bleeding hand where I could see it. It wasn’t much of a cut; two, three stitches and I’d be fine. It hurt, but not enough. I ran the still bleeding hand through his hair. The thickness of his hair slid across the open wound, abrading it. The pain was suddenly sharper, aching and nauseating. Enough pain to bring me back to myself.
Damian stared up at me, afraid. Afraid of me.
18
“MY HOW TERRIBLY impressive.” I turned, Damian still in my lap. Yvette was stalking down the hallway towards us. She’d lost the mink stole, and the white dress was very simple, very elegant, very Chanel. The rest of the scene was pure Marquis de Sade.
Jason, werewolf, flunky, sometimes voluntary appetizer to the undead, was with her. He was dressed in a cross between black leather pants and skintight chaps. Bare skin showed at his thighs, and what looked like a leather thong covered his groin. Around his neck was a metal-studded dog collar with a leash attached to it. Yvette was holding the leash. Fresh bruises marched down his face, neck, arms. There were cuts on his lower chest and stomach that looked like claw marks. His hands were bound behind his back, arms pulled so tight to his body that that alone had to hurt.
Yvette stopped about eight feet from us, posing. She shoved Jason hard enough in the back for him to let out a small sound, forcing him to his knees. She drew the leash tight so he was almost hanging.
She smoothed her hand through his yellow hair, adjusting it, like he was about to get his picture taken. “He’s my gift while I’m here. Do you like the wrapping?”
“Can you sit up?” I asked Damian.
“I think so.” He rolled off my lap, sitting up carefully, as if everything wasn’t working quite right yet.
I got to my feet. “How you doing, Jason?”
“I’m okay,” he said.
Yvette jerked the leash tighter, so he couldn’t talk. I realized that the inside of the collar had metal spikes on it, a choke collar. Great.