Circus of the Damned - Laurell K. Hamilton [111]
“One kiss and I’ll let you up.”
I stared into his midnight-blue eyes from inches away. I couldn’t talk. I turned my face away so I wouldn’t have to look into the perfection of his face. “One kiss?”
“My word,” he whispered.
I turned back to him. “Your word isn’t worth shit.”
His face leaned over mine, lips almost touching. “One kiss.”
His lips were soft, gentle. He kissed my face, lips brushing down the line of my cheek, touching my neck. His hair brushed my face. I thought that all curly hair was coarse, but his was baby fine, silken soft. “One kiss,” he whispered against the skin of my throat, tongue tasting the pulse in my neck.
“Stop it.”
“You want it.”
“Stop it, now!”
He grabbed a handful of hair, forcing my neck backwards. His lips had thinned back, exposing fangs. His eyes were drowning blue without any white at all.
“NO!”
“I will have you, ma petite, even if it is to save your life.” His head came downward, striking like a snake. I woke up staring at a ceiling I didn’t recognize.
Black and white drapes were suspended from the ceiling in a soft fan. The bed was black satin with too many pillows thrown all over the place. The pillows were all black or white. I was wearing a black gown with spaghetti straps. It felt like real silk and fit me perfectly.
The floor was ankle-deep white carpet. A black lacquer vanity and chest of drawers were placed at far corners of the room. I sat up and could see myself in the mirror. My neck was smooth, no bite marks. Just a dream, just a dream, but I knew better. The bedroom had the unmistakable touch of Jean-Claude.
I had been dying of poison. How had I gotten here? Was I underneath the Circus of the Damned, or somewhere else altogether? My right wrist hurt.
There was a white swathe of bandages around my wrist. I didn’t remember hurting it in the cave.
I stared at myself in the vanity mirror. In the black negligee my skin was white, my hair long and black as the gown. I laughed. I matched the decor. I matched the damn decor.
A door opened behind a white curtain. I got a glimpse of stone walls behind the drapes. He was wearing nothing but the silky bottoms of men’s pajamas. He padded towards me on bare feet. His bare chest looked like it had in my dream, except for the cross-shaped scar; it hadn’t been there in the dream. It marred the marble perfection of him, made him seem more real somehow.
“Hell,” I said. “Definitely Hell.”
“What, ma petite?”
“I was wondering where I was. If you’re here, it has to be Hell.”
He smiled. He looked entirely too satisfied, like a snake that had been well-fed.
“How did I get here?”
“Richard brought you.”
“So I really was poisoned. That wasn’t part of the dream?”
He sat on the far edge of the bed, as far away from me as he could get and still sit down. There were no other places to sit. “I’m afraid the poison was very real.”
“Not that I’m complaining, but why aren’t I dead?”
He hugged his knees to his chest, a strangely vulnerable gesture. “I saved you.”
“Explain that.”
“You know.”
I shook my head. “Say it.”
“The third mark.”
“I don’t have any bite marks.”
“But your wrist is cut and bandaged.”
“You bastard.”
“I saved your life.”
“You drank my blood while I was unconscious.”
He gave the slightest nod.
“You son of a bitch.”
The door opened again, and it was Richard. “You bastard, how could you give me to him?”
“She doesn’t seem very grateful to us, Richard.”
“You said you’d rather die than be a lycanthrope.”
“I’d rather die than be a vampire.”
“He didn’t bite you. You’re not going to be a vampire.”
“I’ll be his slave for eternity; great choice.”
“It’s only the third mark, Anita. You aren’t his servant yet.”
“That’s not the point.” I stared at him. “Don’t you understand? I’d rather you let me die than have done this.”
“It is hardly a fate worse than death,” Jean-Claude said.