Evie Burne - Bound by Blood

Faustin clambered over her and started shouting at the cabbie. Less graceful, Maddy crawled out on her hands and knees, and stood swaying in the freezing night air, trying to remember her name, her social security number, the basics. The world became a little clearer when she found her glasses tangled in her hair and returned them to her face.

Passersby took in the argument, and no doubt thought she, and probably Faustin too, was drunk. Particularly because he had the remains of her hot dog—ketchup, relish, bits of grease and bun—smashed all over his left shoulder.

Maddy twitched and ached between her legs, but the magic moment was over. It was just as well. Fucking Gregor Faustin would have been a bad idea on so many levels. She ought to send Mr. Patel flowers for saving her from her own hormones. Distracted by these thoughts, she did not see the argument end. All of the sudden there was no cab, just Faustin standing alone on the sidewalk.

He scratched his head like a confused kid, and in that moment she wanted him all over again, good idea or not. Pivoting on his heel, he paced a short distance away and paused, his hands on his hips, his expression grim. He thought they’d made a mistake too, and that hurt her more than she should have let it.

“Look, Madelena—”

“Don’t say it, Faustin. I’m disgusted enough with myself.”

As she walked away she hoped he wouldn’t discover the hot dog on his shoulder for a long time.

Gregor watched her march off. She walked with the idiotic lunch box tucked under her arm like a football. An oversized tweed sports coat belonging to some long dead, fashion-challenged old man covered her to her knees, hiding her fantastically curvy body. A body he was getting better acquainted with each time they met.

What would happen if he ran after her? Would she tell him to get lost, or would she accompany him to the nearest hotel? His eyes closed as he imagined the two of them naked in the cool anonymity of a hotel room, a place with no meaning, no promises, and most of all, no rules. She’d beg, and he’d deliver—but bit by bit and in good time—until she was soaked in sweat and screaming and dizzy with blood loss. He’d put her through her paces, and when it was over she’d never want to fuck anyone else. Ever.

Gregor’s eyes flipped open. Damn good thing he wore a knee-length coat too, or he’d be arrested for public indecency. Madelena had vanished into the crowd on the avenue, but he was downwind of her, and her scent still played in his nostrils. If he wanted to, he could find her easily. But he didn’t.

If he went after her, he’d be lost, and he had no intention of bowing to this insanity. The chemistry between them was powerful, sure, but what about the rest of it? What about the slight problem that they couldn’t stand one another? That she was an annoying geek? Buffy the Goddamn Vampire Slayer could kiss his ass. And so could all the powers of vampyr prophecy. He liked his life exactly as it was.

Gregor sniffed the air one last time, and caught a fading thin thread of her scent. That was it. He’d never see her again. The desire for her would fade, and he’d be back to himself soon enough. In the meanwhile, Mikhail was waiting for him. He began to search for another cab, contemplating the unfamiliar taste of ketchup in his mouth.

Mikhail met Gregor at his office door with a slap on the back. “You’re late. What happened to you?”

He withdrew his hand with a grimace and sniffed it. Gregor twisted, trying to see what was on his back.

“Let me guess,” Mikhail said, wiping his greasy hand down the front of Gregor’s coat. “You got in a brawl with a hot dog vendor?”

Gregor cursed and slipped his coat off to see the damage. “Something like that.”

Always fond of mysteries, Mikhail stepped closer, his fine-cut nostrils flaring as he circled Gregor, probing for clues. Mikhail was disgustingly attractive, so much so that he didn’t pass for human. His skin was eerily flawless, his fair hair too bright, his eyes too predatory. Among humans he had to dull down his appearance or keep to the shadows. Whenever he walked into Tangiers he caused a stir, so he didn’t do it much. It was pretty clear who in the Faustin family got the vampyr lord genes, and who got the Russian peasant dregs.

“Who’s this woman I smell on you, what was she doing with a hot dog, and why are you so frustrated?”

“We’re here to talk about security issues, not my sex life.”

Mikhail was designing the security system for Elixir. That was his job, contrary to appearances: security consultant, not therapist, not bloodhound.

“But this is so much more interesting.” His cold eyes sharpened with interest. “You look drawn. When did you last feed?”

Gregor brushed Mikhail’s hand off his arm and threw himself in a chair to put an end to the hovering and sniffing. “I don’t know. I think I grabbed a bite yesterday.”

The truth was that somehow the bitter, stale blood in Madelena’s ankle had tainted the taste of all blood for him. He was starving, but couldn’t eat much. This queasiness crossed over into the realm of sex. Something about her had managed to put him off sex with other women, but that sure as hell wasn’t going to be a permanent state of affairs.

Mikhail lifted one exquisite eyebrow at him, questioning, amused.

“You got something to show me or not?”

“Testy, testy.” Mikhail pulled out the floor plan of Elixir, rolled it out on a worktable and secured the corners with polished onyx weights. “Is this woman I smell on you your intended?”

“Goddamn it, Misha.” Gregor ran his fingers through his hair and gave up. Mikhail had the patience to badger him until the end of time if he didn’t submit. “Yes.”

Mikhail’s lips stretched in a slow smile. “She’s human. Does she please?”

“No. She does not please. Not at all. This prophesying bullshit—it doesn’t work.”

“I’d say it is working quite well, by the looks of you. Let me guess, you’ve tasted her but not consummated?” When Gregor would not answer, he continued. “Why are you fighting it? You’re bound to her already. No other woman will ever please you again.”

“Fuck!” Gregor leapt out of his chair. “Don’t say that. What, just because I tasted her?”

Mikhail inclined his head in acknowledgement (the bastard never said “uh-huh” like a normal person) and produced a bottle of scotch and two glasses from a drawer. The Faustin cure-all for every disaster.

“Goddamn it!” Gregor brought both hands down on the desktop, toppling a pencil cup. “Fucking nice of one of you to warn me about that little rule.”

Mikhail held out a glass of scotch, which Gregor ignored, so he put it on the desk in front of him. “I would think you’d know. It’s common knowledge. Remember the tale of Roland and Illysia?”

“No, I do not fucking remember Roland and fucking Illysia!” Gregor put his hands to his head as a sharp pain pierced him from temple to temple. He hadn’t even known her name when he first tasted her, when she lifted her hair up and showed him the scrape on her brow. He remembered how that taste shot through him. It had been an impulse to kiss her clean, nothing more. Would that impulse dictate the course of his life?

It would not.

He took a deep breath and let it out. Then he pounded back the scotch in one swallow, slammed the glass back on the desk, pointed an accusing finger at Mikhail and let fly.

“I might have skipped a lot of reading growing up, but I remember one thing for certain. We are free creatures. Pop taught us that. My free will is sacred, and it will not be bound by anything. If I marry, it will be the person of my choosing. I will not be forced by fate and I damn well won’t be tricked into it by my family.”