Alexandra prodded the body of the bogle with one nail, and sighed at the lack of response. Well, at least it had been some sport, and had given her a chance to actually work for a kill.
The bloodrage eased enough for her to realize that she was kneeling in a pool of blood and offal, drenched in the former, some of it her own.
She started to rise, and swayed a little; Christian joined her swiftly to slide a steadying arm around her, not flinching from the blood.
“How badly are you hurt?”
“Not very.” She licked her lips in satisfaction. It would have been better if it had lasted longer. Every instinct screamed at her to revel in the bloodrage's high, to do anything to prolong it.
One small voice in the middle of the cacophony, one she'd never heard before, whispered, Chris trusts you.
Her witch was in danger. From the one direction he would never watch for it: from her.
She couldn't allow that. Even if the temptation ran as deep as lamia evolution. Even if months of careful control and frustration had just overflowed. She could fight anything, including herself.
“Here.” Christian made sure she had a pole at hand for balance, and avoided the mess on the floor on his way to the sink beside the washer and dryer. There was a roll of paper towel there; he tore off a handful, wet them in the sink, and returned. Alexandra docilely allowed him to gently clean away the blood, nipping playfully at his fingers a couple of times. “Will this much mess disappear the normal way?”
“It's just like anything else liminal,” she said dismissively. Now that it was dead, it held no further interest for her.
“Can you manage the stairs?”
“Yes.” She doubted the bloodrage would fade enough for her to really feel her wounds anytime before she got home. The trick would be to control herself.
“Good. They couldn’t see the bogle so they presumably won’t be able to see its blood, which is a massive relief. But they can see yours.”
“Jacket.”
He fetched it for her; she pulled it on, and changed it back to the long latex coat she’d been wearing earlier. With a thought, she gave it a hood, and drew that up over her head. She adjusted the gloves to cover her hands completely, and made the sleeves long enough to extend halfway over them.
“Good thought, that covers pretty much everything. Just stay with me, Lexa, we’ll get home as fast as we can, okay?”
“Mmhmm.” Every second thought had to be a reminder to herself to stay in control, not to let go and indulge. Her witch would probably die if she failed.
Christian stayed close beside her, protectively, on the stairs. Witch-power rippled gently around them—concealing the rest of the blood, probably, including what was all over Christian's clothes from touching her, with whatever kind of illusion he could whip up despite that being a low skill for him. It was much too fast to be his clean-up spell for clothes or skin, which under these conditions would probably have taken several minutes.
“What was all that noise?” the woman asked, her face pale. “And why couldn't we open the door?”
“The noise was your problem dying,” Christian said. “You won't have any trouble anymore. You couldn't open the door because you would only have been a danger to us and yourselves if you'd interfered. I would suggest you stay out of the basement for at least twenty-four hours, just to make sure that there’s nothing nasty for you to see, but if you really have to take that chance, the consequences are on your shoulders. After that long, any trace will be gone. That'll be a hundred dollars.”
“Why a hundred?” the man said sharply.
“Given what it just took to kill that thing, I'd ask for more if I thought you could afford it.”
“There can be worse problems,” Alexandra muttered, but it was halfhearted—Christian would be angry if she terrorized them.
The woman started chattering about the immorality of asking for mere money for such a thing; Alexandra tuned her out entirely as background noise. It would take so little, while the bloodrage still sang in her veins, ecstatic siren-song, to trigger it into further violence.
Christian said simply, “We need to eat too.”
Slowly, the man nodded, and took five twenties from his wallet. “It'll be worth it and then some if we can have some peace.”
“It's quite thoroughly dead,” Christian said. “But obviously, if there's any further trouble, you know how to find me.”
They waited outside for the taxi that Christian called. Alexandra stayed quiet and obedient until they got home. If she let her witch make the decisions, she could keep more of her attention on controlling herself.
The cat flattened his ears back and fled, vanishing into the shadows almost as skilfully as a liminal. Smart creature.
“Come on,” Christian said. “I want to get you in the shower so I can see how much of that blood is yours. You aren't acting like you at all. How badly did it hurt you?”
“Drew blood twice, neither serious, and I'll have a headache.” She simply shifted all the molecules of her clothes to one side, so they fell in an abandoned heap next to her, once again Mark's prosaic jeans and the like. Bare skin made it easier for her to do a quick check all over. Already healing, now that she wasn't diverting energy into action. The scrapes from the floor were hardly visible at all, and the bruises were turning livid; soon they'd be yellowish. She let him usher her upstairs to the main bathroom, all senses still heightened into hyperawareness of every draft, the roughness of the bath mat, the scent of the bogle's blood and her own, Christian's still slightly rapid heartbeat and the scent of strong arousal that wasn't her own. Fascinating, that last was. The water thundered against the porcelain as Christian turned it on, and she revelled in the heat and force of it as she stepped under it.
Christian stripped himself and joined her, washing away the blood efficiently.
Too efficiently. She pinned him against the wall, and kissed him fiercely.
He only returned the kiss and pushed her back gently. “Let me finish first.”
She frowned, and pinned him again, more securely. “You don't command me.”
“I know I don't. If anything, I belong to you. Please, Lexa, let me get us both clean, then I'm yours.”
She considered that, and decided that for Chris it was a tolerable compromise, though a dull ache was creeping up on her from both wounds and her head, and that only strengthened the deep longing for the other hunger that would drive it all away.
Both clean, she didn't even wait for towels, simply drew him to her room. Impatiently, she pulled him down on the bed on top of her, wrapping legs and wings around him, tangling one hand in his hair to hold him for a savage kiss.
Far from resisting, he responded eagerly, almost feverishly.
That small voice, the new one, tapped her shoulder to get her attention; it said simply, This is Christian, not prey, and melted away again.
She released him instantly, and drew back.
“What's wrong?” Christian asked.
“You aren't prey. Under any conditions.”
He smiled and leaned forward to kiss her. “It's okay.”
“Hurting you is not okay.”
“Sometimes it is.” He nuzzled at her throat, and chuckled. “Gods, there has to be something incredibly twisted in getting so turned on by knowing how dangerous you are, but right now, I don't care. Right now, I'm prey, lover. Hurt me.”
“Kinky little yummy masochistic witch.”
“Mmhmm.” He nipped her throat, hard enough to sting; she growled, low and warningly, but it only made his heartbeat speed up a little more, the arousal-scent strengthening.
So she released the hunger—mostly. Nails raked skin, drawing scarlet drops of blood for her to lick away, while Christian writhed and whimpered—but drops only, shallow scratches only, not the killing wounds she could easily have left. Sharp teeth left marks, but never broke skin, leaving only shallow bruises. He trusted her enough to consent, and she absolutely refused to violate that.
They both knew what she could have been doing. Christian had for some time at least in theory, but the sight of it in practice appeared to have affected him as much as the whole battle had her.
Somehow, from her feeding at other times, Christian had learned. At the instant that he climaxed, her teeth in his throat, she didn't take, he gave: the gathered power of his pleasure/pain, the richness of his own gifts from deep inside, the energy of climax, his unwavering trust in her, everything he could without harming himself.
And it was enough, she realized, releasing him. The particular mix he gave completely satisfied even the fierce post-bloodrage hunger.
Christian snuggled against her and pulled her arm over him, hugging it against him; sweat sheened tawny skin scored by countless scratches, but his heartbeat and breathing were gradually slowing, back to normal. “My scary mistress,” he said contentedly.
She cuddled him close, spreading a wing over him possessively, and kissed his bare shoulder. “My kinky witch,” she retorted, and yawned.
“Catnap now?”
“Catnap sounds good.”
* * *
Christian opened his eyes on silver moonlight.
Considering its angle and the quiet outside, it had to be past midnight. They'd slept a long time. Through supper, the rumble of his stomach reminded him.
The livid clawmarks on Alexandra's upper arm had faded to seamed white scars, the scrapes gone altogether and the bruises just shadows barely visible in this light; he smiled to himself, all the more sure that he'd guessed correctly. It had to take power to heal like that, which at least partially explained her behaviour.
Not that he minded... although his own reaction to watching her kill was a bit disturbing. How much was the thrill of danger, being so close to a deadly predator, safe only because she made that choice? How much was fascination with the power and savagery and grace of the hunter? How much had been anger at the bogle for what it had been doing to the house residents?
His own feelings were, admittedly, mixed: he’d asked her for help with something he couldn’t possibly deal with, and she’d done so successfully, but only by taking some significant injury. He hated that, but he was pretty sure she’d see it differently, and that she wouldn’t hesitate a heartbeat the next time he got in trouble and needed help. And when that day came, he was going to have to ask, even knowing she could get hurt.
His grandfather and mother had made the original bargain with Alexandra, found him the ultimate protector, but Christian remained unsure whether they had expected him to willingly and literally embrace the more personal aspect of the partnership. They wouldn’t have done any of it without knowing what they were doing, it would go against everything they had taught him, but it still seemed unlikely overall. There were missing pieces there, he was certain of that.
“I'm glad you're here,” he whispered. “I can't even imagine living without you anymore.”
Black-lined yellow eyes flickered open. “Good,” Alexandra said, and yawned. “'Cause I wasn't planning on going anywhere. Are you okay?”
“A little stiff in a couple of places, nothing important. You?”
She stretched lazily, quite an appealing sight, and folded back the shadowy wing that covered them both, so she could check her leg. “Almost as good as new, thanks to a certain witch. Won't even be marks in a couple of days.”
“Good.” He ran a hand lightly down her thigh, felt the ridged scars and winced, but they were better by far than the wounds he'd watched her take. “The way you were acting wasn't shock, was it.”
“It wasn't,” she agreed.
“You were trying not to pounce me right there in the basement.”
“More or less.”
“That's not enough of an answer.”
She stretched again, and rolled onto her back to look up at him. “Has it ever occurred to you that there might be questions you'd be happier not asking?”
“Has it ever occurred to you that I don't ask questions unless I'm prepared to hear the answer?”
She shrugged. “All right. There's a lot of pleasure in fighting, it's the other half of what we evolved for. That was the first really satisfying kill I've had in quite a long time. Most things just die before I hardly get a chance to start. It's not a controlled or rational state—it's something like being drunk, except that my reflexes really do get better, and I can still think, as long as it's about how to kill. I knew I was hurt, but I couldn't really feel it—adrenaline and endorphins and such go sky-high, and I think it triggers a massive serotonin release, assuming that show on brain chemistry I watched a while back was accurate. The temptation to do anything necessary to stay in that state is fairly strong. Sex is reasonably close, especially since I needed to feed to help my body heal, but if I'd gone after you there, with the blood-scent of a kill all around, the chances of you surviving it at all would've been fifty-fifty, let alone surviving without serious permanent harm.” She wriggled closer against him, and closed her eyes. “You're my witch, I'm not going to do something like that to you.”
Christian leaned down and kissed her gently, wondering whether she knew how easily these days he could hear what she didn't say. Caring so much terrified her, the queen of hunters afraid of something she knew could hurt her and she couldn't fight it. But she stayed, and for that he was proud of her.
Maybe that's why I can't be scared of her.
“That's pretty close to what I'd guessed. Do you want me to stop checking out houses?” He was sure he knew the answer, but it was only fair to ask.
Startled, she opened her eyes. “Why on earth would you do that?”
“To keep this from happening again.”
She chuckled. “You just proved that you're very good at handling a blood-drunk lamia. As long as you can deal with the consequences afterwards, I will happily fight anything you ask me to, silly witch. The meaner the better. However, no more excuses, we really need to spend serious time working on combat magic and strategy for you, not just a few games of tag. Well. You have to be starving. There are burgers in the freezer that'd be pretty fast to fry. Faster than takeout.”
“Sounds good to me.”
Alexandra prodded the body of the bogle with one nail, and sighed at the lack of response. Well, at least it had been some sport, and had given her a chance to actually work for a kill.
The bloodrage eased enough for her to realize that she was kneeling in a pool of blood and offal, drenched in the former, some of it her own.
She started to rise, and swayed a little; Christian joined her swiftly to slide a steadying arm around her, not flinching from the blood.
“How badly are you hurt?”
“Not very.” She licked her lips in satisfaction. It would have been better if it had lasted longer. Every instinct screamed at her to revel in the bloodrage's high, to do anything to prolong it.
One small voice in the middle of the cacophony, one she'd never heard before, whispered, Chris trusts you.
Her witch was in danger. From the one direction he would never watch for it: from her.
She couldn't allow that. Even if the temptation ran as deep as lamia evolution. Even if months of careful control and frustration had just overflowed. She could fight anything, including herself.
“Here.” Christian made sure she had a pole at hand for balance, and avoided the mess on the floor on his way to the sink beside the washer and dryer. There was a roll of paper towel there; he tore off a handful, wet them in the sink, and returned. Alexandra docilely allowed him to gently clean away the blood, nipping playfully at his fingers a couple of times. “Will this much mess disappear the normal way?”
“It's just like anything else liminal,” she said dismissively. Now that it was dead, it held no further interest for her.
“Can you manage the stairs?”
“Yes.” She doubted the bloodrage would fade enough for her to really feel her wounds anytime before she got home. The trick would be to control herself.
“Good. They couldn’t see the bogle so they presumably won’t be able to see its blood, which is a massive relief. But they can see yours.”
“Jacket.”
He fetched it for her; she pulled it on, and changed it back to the long latex coat she’d been wearing earlier. With a thought, she gave it a hood, and drew that up over her head. She adjusted the gloves to cover her hands completely, and made the sleeves long enough to extend halfway over them.
“Good thought, that covers pretty much everything. Just stay with me, Lexa, we’ll get home as fast as we can, okay?”
“Mmhmm.” Every second thought had to be a reminder to herself to stay in control, not to let go and indulge. Her witch would probably die if she failed.
Christian stayed close beside her, protectively, on the stairs. Witch-power rippled gently around them—concealing the rest of the blood, probably, including what was all over Christian's clothes from touching her, with whatever kind of illusion he could whip up despite that being a low skill for him. It was much too fast to be his clean-up spell for clothes or skin, which under these conditions would probably have taken several minutes.
“What was all that noise?” the woman asked, her face pale. “And why couldn't we open the door?”
“The noise was your problem dying,” Christian said. “You won't have any trouble anymore. You couldn't open the door because you would only have been a danger to us and yourselves if you'd interfered. I would suggest you stay out of the basement for at least twenty-four hours, just to make sure that there’s nothing nasty for you to see, but if you really have to take that chance, the consequences are on your shoulders. After that long, any trace will be gone. That'll be a hundred dollars.”
“Why a hundred?” the man said sharply.
“Given what it just took to kill that thing, I'd ask for more if I thought you could afford it.”
“There can be worse problems,” Alexandra muttered, but it was halfhearted—Christian would be angry if she terrorized them.
The woman started chattering about the immorality of asking for mere money for such a thing; Alexandra tuned her out entirely as background noise. It would take so little, while the bloodrage still sang in her veins, ecstatic siren-song, to trigger it into further violence.
Christian said simply, “We need to eat too.”
Slowly, the man nodded, and took five twenties from his wallet. “It'll be worth it and then some if we can have some peace.”
“It's quite thoroughly dead,” Christian said. “But obviously, if there's any further trouble, you know how to find me.”
They waited outside for the taxi that Christian called. Alexandra stayed quiet and obedient until they got home. If she let her witch make the decisions, she could keep more of her attention on controlling herself.
The cat flattened his ears back and fled, vanishing into the shadows almost as skilfully as a liminal. Smart creature.
“Come on,” Christian said. “I want to get you in the shower so I can see how much of that blood is yours. You aren't acting like you at all. How badly did it hurt you?”
“Drew blood twice, neither serious, and I'll have a headache.” She simply shifted all the molecules of her clothes to one side, so they fell in an abandoned heap next to her, once again Mark's prosaic jeans and the like. Bare skin made it easier for her to do a quick check all over. Already healing, now that she wasn't diverting energy into action. The scrapes from the floor were hardly visible at all, and the bruises were turning livid; soon they'd be yellowish. She let him usher her upstairs to the main bathroom, all senses still heightened into hyperawareness of every draft, the roughness of the bath mat, the scent of the bogle's blood and her own, Christian's still slightly rapid heartbeat and the scent of strong arousal that wasn't her own. Fascinating, that last was. The water thundered against the porcelain as Christian turned it on, and she revelled in the heat and force of it as she stepped under it.
Christian stripped himself and joined her, washing away the blood efficiently.
Too efficiently. She pinned him against the wall, and kissed him fiercely.
He only returned the kiss and pushed her back gently. “Let me finish first.”
She frowned, and pinned him again, more securely. “You don't command me.”
“I know I don't. If anything, I belong to you. Please, Lexa, let me get us both clean, then I'm yours.”
She considered that, and decided that for Chris it was a tolerable compromise, though a dull ache was creeping up on her from both wounds and her head, and that only strengthened the deep longing for the other hunger that would drive it all away.
Both clean, she didn't even wait for towels, simply drew him to her room. Impatiently, she pulled him down on the bed on top of her, wrapping legs and wings around him, tangling one hand in his hair to hold him for a savage kiss.
Far from resisting, he responded eagerly, almost feverishly.
That small voice, the new one, tapped her shoulder to get her attention; it said simply, This is Christian, not prey, and melted away again.
She released him instantly, and drew back.
“What's wrong?” Christian asked.
“You aren't prey. Under any conditions.”
He smiled and leaned forward to kiss her. “It's okay.”
“Hurting you is not okay.”
“Sometimes it is.” He nuzzled at her throat, and chuckled. “Gods, there has to be something incredibly twisted in getting so turned on by knowing how dangerous you are, but right now, I don't care. Right now, I'm prey, lover. Hurt me.”
“Kinky little yummy masochistic witch.”
“Mmhmm.” He nipped her throat, hard enough to sting; she growled, low and warningly, but it only made his heartbeat speed up a little more, the arousal-scent strengthening.
So she released the hunger—mostly. Nails raked skin, drawing scarlet drops of blood for her to lick away, while Christian writhed and whimpered—but drops only, shallow scratches only, not the killing wounds she could easily have left. Sharp teeth left marks, but never broke skin, leaving only shallow bruises. He trusted her enough to consent, and she absolutely refused to violate that.
They both knew what she could have been doing. Christian had for some time at least in theory, but the sight of it in practice appeared to have affected him as much as the whole battle had her.
Somehow, from her feeding at other times, Christian had learned. At the instant that he climaxed, her teeth in his throat, she didn't take, he gave: the gathered power of his pleasure/pain, the richness of his own gifts from deep inside, the energy of climax, his unwavering trust in her, everything he could without harming himself.
And it was enough, she realized, releasing him. The particular mix he gave completely satisfied even the fierce post-bloodrage hunger.
Christian snuggled against her and pulled her arm over him, hugging it against him; sweat sheened tawny skin scored by countless scratches, but his heartbeat and breathing were gradually slowing, back to normal. “My scary mistress,” he said contentedly.
She cuddled him close, spreading a wing over him possessively, and kissed his bare shoulder. “My kinky witch,” she retorted, and yawned.
“Catnap now?”
“Catnap sounds good.”
* * *
Christian opened his eyes on silver moonlight.
Considering its angle and the quiet outside, it had to be past midnight. They'd slept a long time. Through supper, the rumble of his stomach reminded him.
The livid clawmarks on Alexandra's upper arm had faded to seamed white scars, the scrapes gone altogether and the bruises just shadows barely visible in this light; he smiled to himself, all the more sure that he'd guessed correctly. It had to take power to heal like that, which at least partially explained her behaviour.
Not that he minded... although his own reaction to watching her kill was a bit disturbing. How much was the thrill of danger, being so close to a deadly predator, safe only because she made that choice? How much was fascination with the power and savagery and grace of the hunter? How much had been anger at the bogle for what it had been doing to the house residents?
His own feelings were, admittedly, mixed: he’d asked her for help with something he couldn’t possibly deal with, and she’d done so successfully, but only by taking some significant injury. He hated that, but he was pretty sure she’d see it differently, and that she wouldn’t hesitate a heartbeat the next time he got in trouble and needed help. And when that day came, he was going to have to ask, even knowing she could get hurt.
His grandfather and mother had made the original bargain with Alexandra, found him the ultimate protector, but Christian remained unsure whether they had expected him to willingly and literally embrace the more personal aspect of the partnership. They wouldn’t have done any of it without knowing what they were doing, it would go against everything they had taught him, but it still seemed unlikely overall. There were missing pieces there, he was certain of that.
“I'm glad you're here,” he whispered. “I can't even imagine living without you anymore.”
Black-lined yellow eyes flickered open. “Good,” Alexandra said, and yawned. “'Cause I wasn't planning on going anywhere. Are you okay?”
“A little stiff in a couple of places, nothing important. You?”
She stretched lazily, quite an appealing sight, and folded back the shadowy wing that covered them both, so she could check her leg. “Almost as good as new, thanks to a certain witch. Won't even be marks in a couple of days.”
“Good.” He ran a hand lightly down her thigh, felt the ridged scars and winced, but they were better by far than the wounds he'd watched her take. “The way you were acting wasn't shock, was it.”
“It wasn't,” she agreed.
“You were trying not to pounce me right there in the basement.”
“More or less.”
“That's not enough of an answer.”
She stretched again, and rolled onto her back to look up at him. “Has it ever occurred to you that there might be questions you'd be happier not asking?”
“Has it ever occurred to you that I don't ask questions unless I'm prepared to hear the answer?”
She shrugged. “All right. There's a lot of pleasure in fighting, it's the other half of what we evolved for. That was the first really satisfying kill I've had in quite a long time. Most things just die before I hardly get a chance to start. It's not a controlled or rational state—it's something like being drunk, except that my reflexes really do get better, and I can still think, as long as it's about how to kill. I knew I was hurt, but I couldn't really feel it—adrenaline and endorphins and such go sky-high, and I think it triggers a massive serotonin release, assuming that show on brain chemistry I watched a while back was accurate. The temptation to do anything necessary to stay in that state is fairly strong. Sex is reasonably close, especially since I needed to feed to help my body heal, but if I'd gone after you there, with the blood-scent of a kill all around, the chances of you surviving it at all would've been fifty-fifty, let alone surviving without serious permanent harm.” She wriggled closer against him, and closed her eyes. “You're my witch, I'm not going to do something like that to you.”
Christian leaned down and kissed her gently, wondering whether she knew how easily these days he could hear what she didn't say. Caring so much terrified her, the queen of hunters afraid of something she knew could hurt her and she couldn't fight it. But she stayed, and for that he was proud of her.
Maybe that's why I can't be scared of her.
“That's pretty close to what I'd guessed. Do you want me to stop checking out houses?” He was sure he knew the answer, but it was only fair to ask.
Startled, she opened her eyes. “Why on earth would you do that?”
“To keep this from happening again.”
She chuckled. “You just proved that you're very good at handling a blood-drunk lamia. As long as you can deal with the consequences afterwards, I will happily fight anything you ask me to, silly witch. The meaner the better. However, no more excuses, we really need to spend serious time working on combat magic and strategy for you, not just a few games of tag. Well. You have to be starving. There are burgers in the freezer that'd be pretty fast to fry. Faster than takeout.”
“Sounds good to me.”
