Sharon Page: Blood Curse

“They are beyond sore!”

He sighed. “I am an assassin, Lady Ophelia. You have seen an inordinate amount of kindness from me. More than I’ve shown anyone in a long time.”

“A-an assassin,” she parroted numbly. Strangely, she didn’t feel any deeper fear at the word. It was as if she had reached the limit of horror she could comprehend and nothing more could go in.

“Can you sit up?” he continued, as if she had not spoken. She struggled to do so. He moved around her, careful not to brush against her. She pushed up, the covers falling away. Her hair was a mess, half-falling from her pins, hanging around her in a tangle of gold.

Her assassin dutifully tucked two pillows behind her back.

This was madness.

“After I’ve eaten, are you planning to kill me?” Ophelia truly didn’t know how she could speak so coolly. Exhaustion had settled on her. She’d been on a bed for hours, unable to sleep, starving, and the drug she’d inhaled still made her feel a bit dizzy. She was almost too tired to care if he tried to kill her.

“I do not intend to kill you. But you have to know I did not take you of my own volition. This is an assignment for me, and I was paid handsomely to do it.”

“Who paid you?” she whispered.

“I have no idea.”

She made a sound of frustration. “That makes no sense. How could you not know?”

He didn’t answer, and realization dawned. “You’re going to give me to this person,” she gasped.

“No, I am not.”

“What do you mean, you are not?”

“I’ve changed my mind.”

Should she be relieved? “Then what are you going to do?”

He shrugged in that languorous way of gentlemen. “I don’t yet know.”

He was a madman. “What will this unknown person do, since you are double-crossing him?”

“I assume he will attempt to destroy me,” Ravenhunt answered, as if he were speaking of the weather. “He would also come after you—or send someone else to do what I did not. That is the reason you have to stay with me. You will be safe with me.”

“No,” she said. Then stronger, for her head was clearing, “No, I am not going to stay with you. You are insane.”

He sighed, turning away from her and back to the tray. “You rescue a woman,” he muttered to himself. “The first woman you have ever bothered to save. Do you see any appreciation for your trouble?”

“Rescue me?” she sputtered. “Stop saying that! You took me prisoner—”

A plate thrust at her, the food almost toppling onto her chest. Surprise broke off her words. Her stomach ached at the anticipation of digging into ham, eggs, and potatoes. Abruptly he set it down on her lap, forcing her to grab the plate to prevent it spilling.

A slightly bitter, brewed scent filled the air. She glanced over. A silver urn flashed as he poured coffee in a cup. He downed half of it without any sweetening. Black. Then he grimaced. “Cannot drink this stuff,” he muttered. He spat it back into the cup and set the cup aside.

“I deserve to know what you are going to do to me!” she demanded.

A sardonic laugh left his lips. “I would tell you if I had any idea.” Then he sighed. He poured coffee into another delicate cup and held it out to her.

With her hands still a bit numb, she wrapped both around the warm china.

“This is the entire tale, Lady Ophelia. I agreed to kidnap you, an innocent young woman, which was unusual for me. Normally I am paid to destroy beings. But I was promised a fortune as payment, and I could not resist. As I said, I was to hand you over to my client.”

He paused, rubbing his chin.

The hot coffee was making her head wake up. Frowning, she said, “You promised me the entire tale. I think I deserve that.”

Broad shoulders moved in another languorous shrug. “The man knows about your power. I believe he wanted you to experiment on you—find out how your power works, how it can be controlled, if someone else could obtain your power.”

“No one could do that.”

Matter-of-factly, he said, “There are ways.”

“Who would want it? It’s a curse—”

“Not for someone who would want to be indestructible. I was to give you to him after I acquired you. Tonight I went and told him he’s not going to get you. Now, eat.”

Ophelia took a bite of her ham. “You speak as though you do know who paid you to capture me.”

When Ravenhunt said nothing, and she’d swallowed more bites of his delicious food, she added, “Can you give me any hints?”

“This is not a parlor guessing game, Lady Ophelia. This is serious. The only place I can be certain you will be safe is with me.”

“Why should you care to keep me safe?”

“You are young and you don’t deserve to die. Nor do you deserve to be cut open and studied.”

Her stomach rebelled. She turned and suddenly a chamber pot was in front of her and she lost every morsel of food she’d just eaten into its depths. Facing it, she whispered, “C-cut open?”

“It is what men of science do to try to understand people like you.”

Oh God. Her insides heaved again. Ophelia lurched over the pot he held. It hurt terribly for there was nothing left in her to come up.

She hated to be sick in front of him. She wanted to be alone. She wanted to be . . . home.

At least back at Mrs. Darkwell’s, which was as close to a home as she possessed. Never would she have dreamed that Darkwell’s prison would feel like a safe home.

Ravenhunt’s gloved hand moved toward her head. He stopped before he touched her and withdrew his hand. “Do you want a glass of water?” he asked.

She ignored the question. “Am I really supposed to believe the man who kidnapped me is actually my rescuer?”

“Yes.”

“I can’t. I don’t trust you. And remember, I do have the power to kill you.” She tried to look menacing. She lifted her hand toward him in a blatant threat.

Instead of retreating, he reached out. His hand gripped hers.

“What are you doing?” she cried. She tried to pull free. She could spare him if she broke the touch in time.

He would not release her. He moved his hand so he was holding hers. He threaded his fingers between hers.

Heat burned between their hands. This had never happened before. Her hand screamed with pain, but smoke rose from his fingers. His hand appeared to be burning . Terror grabbed her, strangling her voice.

Lifting their joined hands, Ravenhunt watched the smoke with detached fascination. How could he bear the pain? It was as if it were happening to another man, not him.

Finally he drew her hand toward his chest.

“No.” She fought to pull back. “That will kill you and I won’t do it.”

“I’m interested to discover if it will. There’s only one way to find out.” Prying her fingers open, he pressed her hand to the skin of his throat, above his collar points.

“It will kill you,” she said desperately. “Perhaps not right now, but it will. Why would you be so foolish if you know about my power?”

Smoke—or steam—poured out from under her palm on his neck. Fine powder, like dust motes, floated into the air.

“It appears your hand burns me,” he observed.

She could not do it . . . she could not knowingly kill him. “Yes, it is burning you. How can you stand such pain? Please, let us stop this.”

Thank heavens, the madman listened. Slowly he removed her hand. He tipped his head to expose his throat to candlelight.

Her hand went to her mouth, but it did not smother her cry of horror.

A large, red burn in the shape of her hand curled around his neck. Smoke still rose from it, and blood and fluid oozed out.

“Why did you do that? Why did you force me to hurt you?”