by Michele Hauf
He couldn’t do this alone so he tugged out his cell phone. Searching the phone’s call list, Rev found a name he had recently added. They’d chatted daily since he’d been chained up to dry out and Rev had gained respect for the elf. He cared about Bree as much as Rev did.
He hit the call button and Erte answered on the first ring. “It’s Bree,” Rev said. “The wolves have been here. She’s been shackled—hell, it looks like iron. Her body, it’s stiff and her veins are purple.”
“Holy Herne in a hand basket, sounds like iron poisoning. Get those shackles off her right now.”
“All right. Hold on.”
He dropped the phone and lifted the cold iron banding her ankle. It was heavy and her flesh was dark, nearing necrosis. A twist of the lock mechanism gave free. Too easily. Rev decided the shackles hadn’t been designed not to be torn off, but more to intimidate and steal her power.
He made quick work of the other three shackles, tossing them to the floor. Bree didn’t stir at all from the commotion. He picked up the phone.
Erte said, “If her skin is blackening the iron must have entered her bloodstream. If you don’t get her ichor flowing quickly, she’ll die.”
“How do I do that?”
“You high on dust, buddy?”
“No. No, I’m clean right now. I can’t think to get high with Bree like this. Help me, man! I don’t want her to die. But I can’t touch her. I…I just can’t.”
“Dude, you’re going to have to. Get over yourself.”
“It’s not something I can control—"
“You can if you love her as much as I think you do. I heard you moaning her name the entire time you were chained in the basement. You got it bad, buddy."
"I do. So how do I help her?"
"Unless you drink her ichor the dust should be a mere nuisance. The craving will be a bitch, but which is more valuable? Your high or Bree’s life?”
The elf wasn’t stupid. Nor was Rev. This was all mental. Of course the dust was a mere facsimile of mainlined ichor. It tingled and pricked at the craving, but it wasn’t the master of his addiction.
He thought he had so much control? Now it would be put to the test.
“You’re right, I can do this. Bree’s life is top priority. What do I do? A warm bath? Will that do it?”
“No,” the elf said, “don’t submerge her in mortal water. It could be tainted with chemicals, which includes iron. Strip off her clothes, then start massaging every inch of her body. You’ve got to get the ichor flowing. Work slowly, methodically, and not so hard you bruise her. And when she starts to rouse, do her wings.”
“Her wings?” Now Rev saw they were exposed, crushed beneath her body. “They’re dry and so lifeless.”
“Her body first, then her wings, vampire. Got that?”
“Yes.”
“You know about faeries and their wings, right?”
“Uh, they can fly?”
Erte chuckled. “You’ll learn soon enough that touching a faery's wings is a sexual thing. That is, if you can bring her back."
"But I'm afraid to touch her, man. The dust."
"You got any oranges?"
"I'm not sure. Why?"
"Ancient secret of my ancestors—citric acid on your skin. Rub some on, let it dry. Repels the dust, at least until the juice rubs off. Now stop talking to me, and get to it, man. I’ll come after you myself if you let Bree die.”
Rev clicked off and tossed the phone. It clattered onto the floor. He tugged off his coat and crossed the room to close the door, heartbeats frantically hammering his ribs. He beelined to the fridge and let out a, "Thank you, Herne," when he saw the oranges. Taking all three, he found a knife in a drawer and cut them in half.
This was all his fault. He should have dealt with Fernando and been more intent on tracking the blood sport warehouses. Now the wolves were using Bree to retaliate against him. This wasn’t her fight.
He hated that her involvement with him had led to this.
Oranges in hand, he stopped before the bed and exhaled. Fingers working in and out of tight fists, he growled in frustration. Tilting his head side to side loosened his tense muscles as he prepped for his greatest challenge yet. He worked the juice into his exposed skin on hands and face.
“Chill out, Rev. Focus. It’s up to you. You can do this. And you won’t get high in the process."
Maybe. The elf didn't know everything. How long would the orange juice last? And what if it only worked on elves? Too much skin contact with dust would eventually work its way into his system, and then? Watch out.
But Bree was worth another plunge into oblivion.
"Massage?” He looked at his big, calloused hands, dripping with juice. The touch of her skin had communicated with his very soul when he'd been imprisoned in the warehouse. Even swimming in the depths of addiction, he’d used that memory. It had spoken to him.
And it had killed him.
If he took too much dust into his flesh would he lose focus and bite her?
“She has no dust right now,” he muttered. “Her ichor is turning solid.”
And even if there was a little dust, it was poisoned by iron. It wouldn’t have the same effect on him. He had to count on that being true. He wasn't her Intended by mistake. They were meant for one another, and he wouldn't let her down.
He stripped the dress from her body, taking care at the back, though the neckline swept under her fragile wings. He didn’t want to touch them for fear of tearing the parchment-like webbing.
Bowing over her, he kissed her forehead and smoothed away the hair from her cheeks. “I love you, Bree. It shouldn’t have come to this. Hell, we're the worst thing for one another. And the best. I’ll make it right.”
Hands shaking as he held them over her bare body, he decided to start over her heart. Wouldn’t that be the most important area to get the ichor flowing? Softly he stroked her skin, cringing at the coolness of it. As if lifeless. Damn those wolves. He'd rip the heads from each and every—
No. He had to focus on Bree. Anger wouldn't make his touch gentle. He kneaded over her heart and under her breast, not too hard, as Erte had cautioned. The air sweetened with the smell of oranges and his nervous anxiety. After minutes he felt Bree's flesh warm beneath his touch. He couldn’t be sure if it was merely from contact with his skin or if his motions were affecting the flow of her ichor.
He continued over her shoulders and down her arms. Every portion of her flesh was lifeless, so cold. And yet, the shimmy of dust came to his palms now and one of her fingers moved.
“Bree?”
No reply. He quickened his efforts, working methodically down her other arm and then rubbing down her torso and belly. The juice, warmed by their contact, worked like massage oil, and made his movements slick and smooth. He kissed her stomach, testing the warmth of her skin. Faint, but yes, he did sense she was warming. Rising from a darkness he wished she had never had to experience.
Down each leg he worked, massaging gently around her feet and ankles and her slender thighs. That he'd never had the fortitude to resist her dust, and instead make love to her, killed him now. They should have been lovers. He should have indulged in her body and passion instead of feeding his greedy hunger. He kissed her toes, each one of them, making it a blessing he prayed she could accept.
Bree moaned. Her fingers trembled.
“Good girl,” he whispered.
An hour passed. He feared rubbing her skin dry and abrading it, but it did not grow rough, only warmer and moist with the subtle oils from his skin and the oranges.
“I love you, Bree. Damn it, you’re the best thing that’s ever happened to me. Come back to me, and I promise I’ll never bite you again. I can do that. I will do that.”
The moon had risen in the sky, and it bathed her pale skin and revealed her gorgeous sparkle. His palms, now dry of the last drops of juice he'd forced from the orange rinds, sparkled with dust, and they tingled, but he resisted the urge to lick them clean.
Don't need that danger. You need her alive, those bright violet eyes smiling up at you.
Easy enough to resist the temptation when the promise of Bree's smile waited. He lifted her limp body to hug to his chest, her head wobbling against his shoulder. Drawing his palms down her back he worked slowly along her spine, testing each knobby bone until he touched the base of her wings.
Save her wings for last. You’ll learn soon enough, vampire.
Erte had said something about it being sexual. So had Bree. Yes, he recalled a few times when he'd taken a faery for the dust and she'd begged him to touch her wings. He never had, because then the dust had been all that he'd craved.
He tucked his head into her hair and kissed the tip of her ear.
“Rev,” she whispered. "Oranges?"
“Don’t speak. Your ichor stopped flowing from iron poison. You’re getting better. Let me touch you everywhere.”
“My arms…cold.”
He moved his gently massaging grasp along her arm. Dust had permeated his skin and entered his bloodstream. He was getting a contact high now that the juice had dissipated. That meant the iron must be purging from her system. Great for her; not so good for him.
Focus, Rev. It’s all about her. You’ve endured worse. Let it ride through you. Use it.
Use it? Hmm… The sensations the dust produced lightened his body and made him think he could fly. It softened his strokes and made them longer, more sweeping.
Bree moaned appreciatively. He must be doing something right.
She curled up a leg and snuggled closer to him. That she was moving and making sounds meant his clumsy touches were actually improving her condition.
He stroked his lips across her temple. Warm there. Sweet, like flower-stormed meadows. Her fingers clung to his shirt, pulling, grasping for strength.
She tilted her head to meet his mouth and he brushed his lips across hers like wings softly dusting the air. He touched her breathy gasp and moved away, and touched again. The teasing appeal of it redirected his intentions. He stroked a hand, exploring the base of her wings.
“They’re so dry,” he murmured. “Roll onto your stomach and let me see if I can bring them to life.”
She coiled onto her side and violet eyes flashed up at his. “Do you know what you’re doing, vampire?”
“No. But if it restores the sparkle to your eyes, it’ll be worth discovering, eh?”
She smiled. “Sparkle. Mm, yes.”
Kissing her mouth, longer this time, tasting her weakness yet, he then straddled her hips and glided his fingers along the delicate architecture of her wings. Pale violet and blue, they were scaled like a butterfly’s wings, and yet, the slightest breath from him moved through the gossamer fabric of them and they appeared liquid.
Seeing his breath warmed the color brighter on her wings, Rev bent and hushed an exhale across her wing, following with a careful trace of his forefinger. Touching lightly he broke contact, but never for more than a microsecond.
Bree curled her fingers into the pillow and murmured in satisfaction. It reminded him of a woman in the throes of passion, but that couldn't be right. She was still so weak.
He'd never give up on her.
To trace the many striations of color moving beneath his breaths fascinated him. And there, around the edges of the violet and blue wings, they glowed red.
To touch her, a slight tickle from his smallest finger, stirred her spine to arch. Wings curled backward and the fine filaments edging the curves tickled his cheek as if a kiss. He was dazzled by the sensation.
Spanning his hand out across a brilliant violet wing, he then laid his head between them and drew in the delicious scent of Bree. Captivating. Free. Decadent. Wondrous.
"Mine," he whispered. "I want you to be mine. I don't deserve you, though. What can I do to deserve you?"
“Rev,” she sighed deeply, and followed with a desirous moan. “Yes.”
And he realized his touch aroused her as if she were going to climax.
“This turns you on?”
“Touching my wings… It’s the most intimate touch of all. We can bond. You've never touched a faery's wings when you…?”
“No. I've only bitten your kind. Really? This feels good?”
“Oh, Rev, that’s amazing. Don't stop.”
“What about the iron poisoning? You’re weak yet.”
“My ichor flows freely now. You massaged all the iron away. I’m weak, but your touch makes me stronger. You make me want… Need. Oh…”
Sitting upright in a languorous glide, Bree slowly tugged Rev's shirt off and unbuttoned his jeans. She wanted him desperately, be damned the dangers. He'd brought her back to life, now she wanted to give him a life beyond addiction to dust.
Spreading out her wings behind her, she bent to tickle her tongue down his chin, his neck, over the hard ridges of his chest and down the slope of his abdomen. Pushing him back across the bed, she mounted him and teased her tongue from hip to hip, then dashed lower and slicked along the length of his shaft. Solid, rigid and heavy in her hands, she slid up and played the head of his erection against her moist folds.
Rev groaned and clutched the sheets. When he met her gaze, she saw something in them she wanted to know forever. Trust. And love.
"Yes," he murmured desperately. "Put me inside you."
She swept forward a wing and stroked it along his cheek and he nuzzled into the sheer fabric of it. She could feel his heart beats in that touch, and in the pulse of his hard shaft begging for entrance. They belonged to one another, for good or for ill.
Everything would be good from here on; she felt it to her very wingtips.
Settling onto his shaft, she took his thickness inside her, clutching his arms as the heady sweet torture of joining filled her with a brightness she wanted to own.
He rocked his hips, working in and out of her, and she moved in tandem to increase their rhythm. The vampire and the faery had finally come together, and this night they would form an everlasting bond. Her body shuddered above him. Rev sat up and held her against him as she slid up and down, increasing the friction, working them both toward an edge.
So close, she would not resist the fall into bliss. A burst of red violet light shimmered out from Bree's wings and she closed them about her lover's body. Wrapped within her gossamer embrace, Rev surrendered to an orgasm of dust, touch and sensation. They two, together, fell. Deeply, endlessly, flailing through time and belief and everything else that complicated this realm. This climax was pure and bright and like nothing she had ever known. They bonded, skin to skin, pulse to pulse, trust to trust.
They both cried out and then wrapped themselves tight about the other. The world fell away. Two heartbeats reigned.
“I didn’t know that would happen," he said. "The elf implied, but didn't explain. Hell, Bree, that was better than…”
“If you had a choice,” she whispered against his mouth, “would you rather get your high from dust, or from making love to me?”
“You have to ask? Bree, I love you. I want to make love to you every day. But touching your wings? Who would have thought?”
She wrapped her wings about his shoulders. “Thanks for bringing me back, lover.” She kissed him deep and long and forever. “We’ve got to stop doing this.”
“Rescuing each other?”
“Seriously. It could get old after a while.”
“Not if it means coming back to life to be in your arms. It’s like you pulled me through the craving and beyond to something so amazing.”
“We’ve only begun, lover.”
"Does that mean we bonded? That I'm yours?"
"If you'll have me."
"You don't even have to ask."
"Maybe when a vampire bonds with a faery he loses the vicious addiction to dust? It has to be. The world would not give me my Intended if he were bad for me. I have to believe that."
"So I could touch you and not…? I'd give anything for that."
> "I'm not sure about you drinking my ichor though."
"I'll be good," he said and kissed her neck. "Mortal blood from here on out. I promise. So long as you take me in your arms every day and make love with me."
"That's an easy promise to make. I love you, Rev."
"I love you. We did it. Together. ”
Rev entered Creed Saint-Pierre's office. Fernando Degas stood beside the desk, arms crossed high over his chest. Tension spiked up Rev's neck at Fernando’s castigating glance.
“Glad you could make it,” Creed said. “The informant has been useless?”
“On the contrary,” Rev stated.
Fernando fixed him with a steely stare.
“Though some may find her more useful than most.” He shot daggers back at Fernando. “She’s was compromised by one of our own. Was attacked by werewolves as a result. But I'm afraid the reason she stopped informing wasn’t because of the werewolves but because of one of the Rescue Project's agents. Care to tell us about it, Degas?”
“He’s a dust freak,” Fernando said. “He doesn’t know what he’s saying. The faery refused information—"
“So you threatened her with your own brand of torture—dust removal by force.”
Creed shot Degas a castigating stare.
“How many faeries do you destroy, Degas, to get the dust you sell to the freaks like me?”
“You took the assignment,” Creed said to Rev, “knowing you were incapable? Under the influence of dust?”
Rev wasn’t surprised Creed did not understand. “Truth? Those months I needed to recover from captivity? I was stoned out of my brain on dust. I’ve been clean now, for…” Less than a few hours. “I struggle with the addiction daily.”
“And we sent you to interrogate a faery? Revin, you should have said something sooner. You were no man to be put on this case.”
“Fact remains, the faery didn’t stop talking because of the wolves. Degas wanted to drain her dry as he’s done to dozens of other faeries.”
“They’re worthless rabble,” Fernando argued. “What’s one dead faery now and then?”
“You’re dealing dust?” Creed beat the desk with a fist. “Fernando, I expected better of you. You’ve compromised this mission and the integrity of tribe Nava. Now we’ll never get a lead into the sporting matches.”
