Incubus Dreams - Laurell K. Hamilton [182]
Richard bounded across the stream, hitting the edge of it with one foot, as if he wasn’t quite steady. He began to run up the other bank, began to run with the night and the trees and the smells.
Edwin Alonzo Herman’s mouth locked around my wrist and began to suck. The wound had begun to heal more than I’d realized, because to get to the blood, he had to pull hard and tight on my wrist. It hurt, really hurt. Yeah, I liked teeth in the right situation, but this wasn’t it, and what might feel good during sex just fucking hurts during violence.
Richard was running full out now. I’d thought he was fast before, but he’d just been playing. Now, he ran. He ran so fast that branches slashed at him, that the earth didn’t give to him, and part like water. He was running, running . . . running from himself. I had a bright glimpse inside his head. The sensation of teeth in my wrist, of that forceful mouth on my wound excited him. Excited him as both man and beast. He could have accepted if it was just about food, but it wasn’t. The mixture of human and animal blurred the differences between food and sex. Blurred so many lines. Lines that Richard had never known existed, let alone wanted to cross.
He ran, and slipped in the leaves, and fell and was on his feet and running before his body had time to realize it was down. It was only in that moment that I remembered his injured shoulder, and the thought got me the memory, he’d shapeshifted, briefly, and healed himself. So much more powerful than he wanted to be.
The zombie had fallen to his knees, as if sucking at my wrist was the most exquisite thing it had ever tasted. It cradled my wrist against its mouth, and its tongue explored the wound.
My breath came out in a harsh word, “Shit!”
“Are you hurt?” Requiem asked softly.
I shook my head. It hurt, but I wasn’t hurt. There was a difference, but usually a zombie starts to slow down about now. This one was still sucking hard and fast, as if he were a baby that had been starved. Of course, I’d never raised anyone this long dead without an animal sacrifice. Maybe that was the difference? I hoped so, because anything else would mean that something had gone wrong, really wrong.
He shook his mouth like a dog with a bone, and I swallowed a scream. It wasn’t just that it hurt. That was way too much enthusiasm for a zombie. “Edwin, stop feeding.” My voice was clear, and he ignored me. Shit. I licked suddenly dry lips. “He’s had enough. Help me pry him loose,” I said, voice low. Mustn’t scare the clients. Mustn’t let them know that everything had gone wrong tonight.
Richard fell again, slid in the damp autumn leaves, slid until a tree stopped him, sudden, and abrupt and bruising. He looked up, and I saw those wide brown eyes, saw what he was running from. He wanted to be there on his knees, he wanted to lick my wound, taste my blood, maybe widen that wound with sharp teeth. The thought didn’t just excite him. The thought did it for him, just flat did it for him. What he wanted to do in the deepest, darkest, places in his soul gave a whole new meaning to oral sex.
He waited for me to be horrified, but I wasn’t. If there was anyone who could resist doing the great bad thing, it was Richard. I trusted his control, not always his temper, but his control—that I trusted without doubt or reservation. I whispered, “Just because you want to do something, doesn’t mean you will do it, or even that you have to do it. You’re human, Richard, you have a mind and willpower. You aren’t just your beast.”
“You don’t understand,” he said, and the moment he said it, I knew what he’d done, by accident.
“You can feel what the zombie is doing?” I said.
He hid his