by Kallysten
She did, she admitted to herself, then to him. If nothing else, she believed him. But she didn't know why he wouldn't.
"Rest, sweetheart. You're safe."
Catching the inside of her cheek between her teeth, she managed not to ask how he had known what she thought. She was quite sure she wouldn't be able to sleep, not in this bed that wasn't hers, not with a vampire lying with her, alongside her, his body slowly warming at her contact. Still, she decided to indulge him and pretend, closing her eyes to do so. Within seconds, she had drifted off. Her last thought before she did was to wonder again why he didn't want to bite her.
* * * *
Claire's heartbeat echoed in the room with the soothing regularity of sleep. It pulsed against Matthew's fingers where they rested at the crook of her neck. Rarely had he heard lovelier music or felt a more peaceful rhythm.
The brief thread of fear that had entered her scent before she had fallen asleep was long gone, having faded in the heavy smell of sex that hung in the room. Matthew was glad she had realized she had nothing to fear from him. After all he had told her, all he had explained and confided, he didn't know how he could have convinced her if she had needed more reassurance.
A sigh disrupted the quiet. Matthew's arms tightened, just barely, around Claire, but he didn't move further, despite his desire to glare at the intruder he knew had to be standing by the door.
"This changes nothing. We're still leaving tomorrow night."
Silence was his only reply to Diane's cool murmur. He adored his Sire, but these few words angered him further than they had any right to. She had known him for decades; she knew he needed no such reminder. That she even thought necessary to voice it was either insulting or cruel. In either case, he had nothing to tell her.
She left after a few more seconds, and Matthew listened to her steps through the apartment until he heard the small click of the latch. Then he closed his eyes, and tried to let Claire's heartbeat soothe him again. In the morning, he would find the words to say goodbye to Claire. Until then, her body cloaked him in warmth and softness like no other woman before her ever had.
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Chapter Sixteen
By the ambient light that the curtains failed to completely keep out, it had to be already morning when Claire awakened. A heavy arm was curled at her waist still, and she smiled even before opening her eyes. Her dreams in the past week had been torrid, but after a night with Matthew they paled in comparison. Waking up next to him and feeling the strength of the body pressed against her back was slowly stirring the flames of her desire again.
She almost woke up Matthew before deciding against it. He looked adorable in his sleep, his short hair curling to frame his face in shadows. She would let him sleep a little longer. As lightly and quietly as she could, she slipped out of his embrace and out of bed. Glancing back, she grinned then tiptoed out of the room.
She tried the first door on her right; it opened noiselessly. The tiles were cold beneath her feet when she walked into the bathroom and she wiggled her toes. As the light flickered on above her, she was taken aback at first by the black tiles on the floor and walls, then by the lack of a mirror above the sink. Both features made the spacious room appear smaller, more intimate. She regretted not having awakened Matthew, even more so once she stepped into the shower. The multiple jets shot instantly hot water, the pressure delicious as it struck and massaged Claire's flesh. In her mind, each touch of the water was suddenly from Matthew's hand. She noticed a bar of soap on a recessed ledge just in front of her. She picked it up and brought it to her nose, then sighed at the discreet scent. She only had to close her eyes, and Matthew was there with her, his lips playing over her skin in the wake of the soap as she ran it over herself.
Her imagination quickly ceased to be enough. Why should she content herself with daydreams when Matthew was just in the next room?
In seconds, she had rinsed off the soap, turned off the water and slipped on the heavy terrycloth bathrobe left hanging behind the door. It was much too large for her, with the sleeves falling over her hands and the bottom hem brushing against her calves. She left the robe open; she didn't intend to keep it on very long.
Stepping out of the bathroom, she noticed the lights were on in the living area. She had to have awakened Matthew. It was too bad he hadn't joined her, though. She followed the quiet noises, walking on tiptoes even if she doubted she'd surprise him.
She hadn't seen much of the apartment the previous night, too caught up in Matthew's hands and lips to try to pierce the darkness, but now that she had time to explore, she was a little surprised by what she found. The heavy drapes hanging in front of all the windows were, she supposed, a necessity, but the large mirror over the imposing fireplace puzzled her as much as the fireplace itself. What use would a vampire have for either warmth or a mirror that did not reflect him?
Matthew was nowhere in sight, but she could hear the buzzing of a microwave just past the corner. Supposing he was feeding, she decided to give him some time and continued looking around her, snooping without a thread of guilt. Matthew had done the same thing the night he had accompanied her home.
Apart from the fireplace, the rest of the room was bland, almost lifeless, with a nondescript sofa and armchair, a plain coffee table and a bookcase that held only a handful of books. On the same bookcase she noticed the picture Matthew had taken from her home. He had placed it in a simple silver frame, and Claire felt compelled to look away from Helena's soft smile. She had no reason to feel guilty, none at all. As she averted her eyes, she noticed the dozen or so leather-bound journals on the same shelf as the picture, and picked one up on a whim. Flipping through the pages, she was quick to realize that the handwriting was familiar; it was Matthew's. Something else was familiar and gave her pause. Every few pages, the writing began with a date, and the words “My dearest Helena."
Troubled, she paid closer attention to the dates. They covered a period of a few years nearly fifty years earlier, long after Helena had died. It appeared that Matthew had kept on his side of their correspondence even after her death. From bits and pieces that she read over the pages, she realized that, for the most part, he told of the lives of those he called ‘his girls', describing what he learned of them, or how he helped them when he could.
"I've been trying to make him stop writing to her for almost a century,” a voice suddenly said from behind Claire, and she jumped, startled.
She whirled around, the book still in hand. A woman came out of what Claire had thought was the kitchen. Claire needed a few seconds to recognize her. So far, she had always seen her in the pulsating lights of the club, shadows playing over her face when she danced, her body moving as though the beat of the music ran through her veins. She was the woman who had shown up with Matthew, night after night, but never left with him; the same woman Claire had once admired, and had been, just a little, jealous of.
"But that is one subject on which he refuses to heed me,” the woman continued, coming to sit on the sofa. She curled her legs under her, and Claire noticed she was barefoot. “He can be so stubborn, when he sets his mind on something. I'm sure you've noticed, already."
To see her here, looking very much at ease as though she were home, made the jealousy resurface in the surprised blink of Claire's eyes. The words came out before she could stop them.
"Are you Matthew's girlfriend?"
The woman laughed, a quiet but clear laugh that almost sounded like metal chimes in the wind. Claire felt a wave of cold slide down her spine and suddenly realized she hadn't closed the robe. Her cheeks flamed brightly. She hastily tied it off with the belt. The woman didn't even seem to have noticed.
"No, dear child, I am not his girlfriend,” the woman finally answered. “It's a bit more complicated than that."
Claire couldn't help looking toward the bedroom. The door was closed. She couldn't remember whether she had closed it behind her when walking out.
"Do you know you'
re the first woman he's ever brought here?"
The quiet question drew Claire's attention back to the woman. Still curled on the couch, she was looking at Claire with a very intent gaze. Claire shifted, tightening her arms around herself. She glanced toward the door again, then back at the woman. Part of her wanted to go to Matthew, but at the same time she was intrigued.
"You're a woman and you're here,” she pointed out. “So how do you know other women haven't been?"
The woman laughed again. “I just know, Claire. You'll have to believe me on that. He's not the kind of man to allow just anyone inside his lair. You're special."
Claire tried not to smile. She would have been much happier to hear this from Matthew himself rather from another woman, especially when she didn't know what her relationship with Matthew was, or how she even knew Claire's name.
"Who are you?"
The woman rose from the couch, graceful as she stretched like a cat just warmed from sitting in the sun. Smiling, she took a few steps to the side, coming just a little closer to Claire as she did. Unwilling to lose sight of her, Claire turned to keep facing her; she was a vampire, she knew that much, and having spent the night with a vamp didn't mean she trusted all of them.
"Why are you here? I thought this was Matthew's place."
Claire's uneasy feeling only grew with each of questions, with each step the woman took toward her. Yet, she couldn't manage to move, couldn't look away from the woman's clear eyes, couldn't raise her voice to call for Matthew.
"It is his lair,” the woman acquiesced, inclining her head. “But Matthew is mine, he was mine from the night he rose, and everything he owns, everything he touches, is mine too."
Claire's heart leapt in her chest as she slowly understood that the woman was referring to her.
"Shh ... no need to be afraid, child,” the woman murmured, smiling, and Claire swallowed hard when she caught a glimpse of elongating fangs. “All I want is to repair an old mistake. Everything will be just fine, you'll see."
Claire shuddered when the woman touched her cheek and brushed her hair back, but still she was unable to move, caught in her own paralyzed body and watching the scene as though through someone else's eyes.
It finally dawned on her that she had to have been hypnotized, or thralled, but it was too late now to do anything, too late to fight the hold of the woman on her mind, too late to cling to the robe when the woman tugged the belt undone and slid her hands beneath the collar, pulling it off Claire's shoulders. Her hand gently cradled the back of Claire's neck and drew her closer. She leaned toward Claire's bared shoulder, and her lips touched the curve where her neck and shoulder met.
A small whimper escaped Claire's lips when the fangs sank into her flesh, and she wanted to cry at the irony. A few hours earlier she had been ready to beg for Matthew to bite her, and now she couldn't do a thing as that woman took her blood, her life, in long sips that quickly made Claire lightheaded. The bite itself had been painful, but now all she felt was cold slowly descending on her, seeping into her skin through the woman's cold embrace.
She heard a shout and thought for a second that it was her own. It was too strong however; she could barely whisper Matthew's name as she noticed him, only a few feet away, his eyes wide and full of an angry fire. Her eyelids fluttered and everything turned black.
* * * *
In more than a hundred years, Matthew had accepted from his Sire anything she had demanded of him, even when his own desires would have led him to another path. He would have followed her to the end of the earth and back—actually, he had done as much a couple of times. He would have died for her, had she requested his heart on a platter. In all this time, he had never raised his voice or hand against her, nor had he ever dreamed of doing so.
He did both when he found her draining Claire of her blood.
He shouted first, a plea to stop, and a curse when she didn't and he saw Claire's eyes flutter shut. Then he stumbled to them, pulled Claire free from her arms, and slapped Diane. The look of shock and incredulity in her eyes when she touched the tips of her fingers to her cheek would have paralyzed Matthew if he hadn't been too shaken to care about what he had done.
"Why?” he pleaded, unsure whether he was talking to Diane or to Claire. He slid to his knees, cradling the naked body of his lover against his own. Her heat was slipping away too fast, her heartbeat slowing down with each passing second.
"For you,” Diane murmured, her calm completely at odds with Matthew's growing panic. “You know what you have to do. From your wrist will be best. Then you can take care of her for the rest of eternity."
Her words made no sense, and Matthew said as much with a shake of his head. She knelt down next to him, and gently took his hand in hers. Matthew watched her, not understanding why she would slash his wrist with her fangs. Then she led his hand so that the bloody cut rested against Claire's mouth, and things started to make sense.
"She did not ask for this,” he murmured, his eyes going from Claire to Diane and back again. “She will hate me for this."
Diane snorted softly. “You did not ask for it either. Did you ever hate me?"
Reluctantly, and without ever looking away from Claire's pale face, he shook his head.
"If she must blame someone,” Diane continued, “you can point her in my direction, I'll be more than happy to play scapegoat in this instance. But she will be yours, my Childe. I want her to be yours."
Her hand caressed his hair, light as though she feared he would reject her touch. He pressed back into it instead, and bit back the protests and accusations he wanted to throw at her. She had never understood his attachment to Helena's family, and his vow to keep them safe. It was useless to ask her to understand now that the last member of this same family was dying in his arms.
Claire's heart ceased to beat. Matthew could have sworn his own had stopped along with it. The pain was nearly physical, and nothing, not even the sight of his blood dripping into her half open mouth or Diane's free hand massaging her throat to make her swallow, eased his pain and sense of loss.
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Chapter Seventeen
Hunger.
Loud, powerful, all consuming hunger.
Claire wasn't completely awake yet, her mind still struggling to free itself from a sleep as deep, as dreamless as the darkest night, but despite her comatose state, the hunger was already there, overwhelming her and making it impossible to think beyond the pure need for blood.
She opened her eyes, and closed them again immediately at the sharp, lancing pain caused by a too bright artificial light. Something in her had expected darkness, and maybe even stars, and was displeased that it wasn't what she had found. A low growl resounded in the room, and it took her a few confusing seconds to realize that she had growled. Growled because she was hungry, because the light was too bright, she wasn't sure which; maybe both.
"Try again,” a quiet voice said, just inches above her. If she had been able to think, she might have realized that she had known someone was there. Not just someone, but him. Matthew.
Cautiously, expecting the light to burn her again but unable not to obey him, Claire opened her eyes again. Comforting darkness greeted her. That, and his face, leaning over her.
A word rose to her lips, pushed by a knowledge that felt older than she was but that belonged to her now. The simple word contained much more than she was capable to express at that instant; it held comfort and family, blood, love and pleasure.
"Sire."
Despite the lack of light, she had no trouble seeing his face, and the small smile that tugged at the corners of his lips thrilled her until she realized it was a sad smile. Why was he sad, she wanted to ask, but the hunger claimed her attention again, and she forgot the half formed question before she could voice it.
"Hungry, sweetie?” he asked, caressing her cheek with his knuckles, and she let out a quiet whimper as she pressed into his touch. “It's all right, I have exactly what you
need."
His hand slid to cup the back of her head and he pulled her up at the same time as he leaned down. Claire brought her arms up and around him, drawing him closer until her face was against his shoulder and the hunger became downright painful. His scent filled her, familiar already, even though it was the first time she had really noticed it. Soothing, also; it was the scent of Sire, of home. But with the need raging in her, his scent mainly hinted at blood, and relief, and she could feel another whimper rising in her throat. She wanted to take what he was offering, but at the same time something was stopping her.
"Go ahead,” he murmured. “Bite. Take all you need."
His words seemed to break a barrier in her mind, and what was left of the human in her was still wondering what he had meant by ‘bite’ while her fangs elongated and her mouth closed on the flesh at the crook of his neck. The first burst of blood on her tongue was bliss, and she started sucking eagerly, eyes closed in pleasure as the thick, rich liquid appeased the hunger that had made it so hard to think.
For long, wonderful seconds, she took in as much blood as she could, holding Matthew tightly to prevent him from moving away and robbing her of his neck and blood. He didn't try to pull back, though, and merely laid down next to her, shifting her body so that it was half draped over his own. The soothing embrace and blood he was offering Claire made her body thrum with a pleasure that hinted at much more to come. More than that, though, it filled her with the quiet and sure feeling that her Sire cared about her, and something in her was delighted in that knowledge, the same something that had known what to call him, or that had hesitated until he had granted her permission to bite him.
The pangs of hunger finally receded and she stopped pulling on his blood, starting instead to unhurriedly lick as it rose to the surface of the two slightly jagged punctures her fangs had created. Little by little, the wounds closed, and while she regretted that her feast had ended, the contentment that she felt was boundless. She had been so hungry, and her Sire had given her exactly what she had needed, what she had wanted without having the words to express it. She laid a simple kiss to his neck, right where she had bitten, thanking him. His hand slid over her hair, caressing, and she let sleep claim her again.
