She held her breath, waiting. Still praying to any power that might listen. Mama Lovelie had said on two occasions that the goddess—the Angel Israfael—was with her, but Oksana had spent hundreds of years blaming the angel for her trials. If Israfael had not weakened, if she had not ceded the cosmic battle of Light and Dark to Bael, how much suffering could have been avoided?
Please, Angel of Light, Goddess of Love… grant me this one thing and I will dedicate my life to your will, she bargained. Just this one thing—this one, tiny thing.
For long moments, nothing happened. Even Duchess’s formidable strength was fading, and Xander had nothing left to give except the unspoken support of his presence. Mason’s life force dimmed, then flared brighter, flickering in fits and starts.
“Mason,” she whispered, “please come back to me. Please. Don’t leave me alone in the dark again.”
That energy sputtered, but then blazed higher. Mason’s jaw moved, his throat working weakly under Oksana’s numb fingers. Duchess sucked in a sharp breath, and Mason’s shaky hand lifted to grasp her forearm, holding it to his mouth.
“That’s it, Docteur,” Duchess said, relief loosening the tight line of her shoulders. “Have it all. Take everything you can pull from me—I’ll get more later.”
He drank with single-minded focus until Duchess wavered, and finally slumped against Oksana’s side. Mason still seemed dangerously weak as well. He did not open his eyes or move again once Duchess’s arm fell away from his lips.
But he was alive… albeit, sentenced forever to the same shadowy half-life the rest of them were. Oksana held Duchess with one clumsy, heavily weighted arm, and Mason with the other. Xander’s weak grip still clasped loosely around her leg.
“Thank you,” she murmured to the dark sky above her, and the vampires at her side. Tears shook free of her body, her chest hitching, but she didn’t fight to stop them. “Thank you so much…”
They lay together, exhausted, the first indigo wash of predawn prickling against Oksana’s back.
“Dawn’s coming soon,” she rasped. “We’ll have to get under cover.”
There was a beat of silence.
“That… may actually be a bit of an issue,” Xander said.
She tried to drag her tattered composure together enough to take stock. “You and Duchess could still feed from me. Would poisoned blood be better than no blood?”
“Perhaps,” Duchess whispered weakly, “but if we’re all poisoned, there’s no one to feed Mason when he wakes.”
“There’s no one to feed him now,” Oksana pointed out with growing worry. “You’re both bone dry.”
“Anel’s still here, looking after the children,” Xander said.
As if on cue, an engine coughed into life in the distance. Moments later, the sound changed, growing further and further away until it faded to nothingness.
“Ah,” Xander corrected himself. “Anel is not still here with the children. Because that would be too easy, apparently.”
“He’s probably gone to get help,” Duchess murmured.
Oksana forced her mind back into gear, knowing decisions had to be made. “Xander, drink from me. My body is already fighting the poison. Between us, we’ll get the others under cover, somehow. With luck, Mason will sleep through the daylight hours, anyway. And if no one has come by dusk, we’ll… I don’t know. Look for some animals for Duchess to drink from, I guess. I heard dogs barking in the distance earlier.”
“Dog blood? Be still my undead heart,” Duchess mumbled. “I can hardly wait.”
“I’m open to alternative suggestions,” she replied pointedly.
Since there were none, Oksana eased Duchess and Mason to lie flat, then scooted around to offer Xander her wrist. He took it, and a moment later, she felt the puncture of fangs and the deep, drawing sensation as he drank. When he was done, he dragged the back of his hand across his mouth. She could see that the torn flesh of his wrist was already starting to close over.
“Ugh. No offense, luv,” he said, as he carefully eased into a sitting position, “but that shit in your blood is truly foul.” He went quiet for a moment, as if listening to his body. “Although… on the positive side, now I can barely feel my guts trying to fall out. Of course, I can barely feel my hands and feet, either. Or, you know, my face.” His brows drew together thoughtfully. “Actually, I withdraw the foul comment. This concoction is kind of growing on me. I don’t suppose you have the recipe?”
“Talk to Mama Lovelie,” Oksana said, her voice tight. “Just keep it the hell away from me, unless you want a very small, very pissed-off amputee going medieval on your Pommy arse.”
“Message received and understood,” he replied, and cautiously pulled his blood-soaked hand away from his side to check it. “All right, let’s move this circus sideshow indoors before someone here ends up with a bad case of sunburn.”
Both of them reeled like drunkards from the poison, barely able to grasp anything with their clumsy fingers. Their legs were weak and uncoordinated.
Oh, how the mighty have fallen, Oksana couldn’t help thinking as she and Xander dragged first Mason, and then Duchess, across the dusty square, all thoughts of dignity abandoned in favor of practicality as the sun’s rays lightened the eastern horizon.
They made it inside with about five minutes to spare, collapsing in a looted hut that had miraculously escaped mortar fire. There was very little of use left inside, but the roof was intact, which was the most important thing as the sun rose. Flies buzzed around them, drawn by all the blood.
“Well, this is certainly cozy,” Xander said, faux cheerful. He nudged a discarded bottle out of the way with his foot. It sloshed as it rolled over, still about halfway full, to reveal a Rhum Barbancourt label. “Oh, you have got to be joking. They looted the place, and left rum behind? Now that’s just cruel and unusual punishment, that is.”
Despite decades spent in the pursuit of rampant alcoholism, as a vampire, without a human’s blood to filter it through first, the rum was useless to Xander.
“You could always offer it to the loa in exchange for a conveniently timed rescue party,” Duchess muttered.
“Give it here,” Oksana said, stretching across, careful to avoid jostling Mason’s head in her lap. She made a couple of unsuccessful attempts to unscrew the cap with uncooperative fingers before growling in frustration and breaking the glass neck against the edge of the cook stove next to her.
Xander stared at her as she tipped it up, ignoring the sharp edges of the glass against her lips as she downed the contents. The rum burned in her stomach like acid as her body rejected and neutralized it.
“I won’t bother to ask how the hell you can stand to do that, because you never answer with anything more than a shrug,” he said finally.
She let the bottle fall to the dirt floor with a hollow clank. “I never answer because you’re asking the wrong question,” she muttered.
He pondered that for a long moment. “You’re right. Forget the how. Why do you do that?”
She thought of all the human food and drink she’d forced into her aching gut over the decades—the brief moment of pleasure as her taste buds activated, followed by the discomfort or outright pain as her stomach refused it and her body broke it down into useless waste that offered no sustenance.
“Because Bael cursed me to drink only blood, but he won’t stop me from swallowing whatever food and drink I damn well please,” she said.
“Even if it hurts like the devil afterward,” Xander finished, looking at her with new understanding.
“Even so.”
They were quiet after that, huddled in a corner of the hut that would not lie in the path of the sunlight streaming through the structure’s small windows. Mason was as still as death, but Oksana could feel the faint, reassuring thrum of the life force hidden beneath his pale skin. If no one came, though… if she or Xander weren’t recovered enough to fly for help, what would the evening bring? They needed blood—untainted bloo
d—and she wasn’t at all sure an animal’s blood would suffice.
*
It was midday, and Oksana was trying not to succumb to the lethargy caused by daylight combined with the magic-laced cocktail of poison slowly working its way out of her veins. She’d been keeping watch while the others—who were in far worse shape than she was—dozed.
The rattle of an aging combustion engine split the peace of the deserted village, growing louder as it approached.
“Xander,” she hissed, knowing he was the only one who would be able to muster any sort of useful defense with her if the approaching vehicle carried foes rather than friends.
“I hear it,” he mumbled. “It’s the same truck, isn’t it? Anel’s Ford?”
“I think so,” she agreed.
Which doesn’t mean rebels or someone else didn’t hijack it, Duchess sent along the mental link, rather than expend the energy needed to speak aloud.
“What’ve we got for weapons? Just in case?” Oksana asked, drawing her personal dagger—not the spelled one Mama Lovelie had given her—from its sheath.
“Four blades, and a pistol I took from one of the chil-” Xander cut himself off, his jaw clenching. “From one of the undead.”
Assuming whoever was approaching was human, there wasn’t much they’d be able to do to a group of vampires, unless they’d come prepared for an afternoon of staking or decapitation. Which did not, of course, mean that things wouldn’t become very unpleasant, very quickly, depending on how heavily they were armed.
Even weakened, she and Xander could probably overpower a truckload of humans using mental influence, unless they burst in with automatic weapons already blazing. The bigger worry, though, was Mason. Oksana honestly had no idea how vulnerable he might be right now. He was alive—turned—but he hadn’t drunk his fill from Duchess before her blood ran out. Would he awake as a ravenous berserker, or would he be weak and susceptible to injury or death?
Oksana held her breath as the vehicle rattled into the square outside their shelter. Its rusted doors creaked open, and she heard unfamiliar male voices speaking. She tensed and met Xander’s eyes, clutching her dagger in fingers that still tingled with numbness.
The truck doors slammed shut, and the voices quieted. After a tense moment, a new voice carried to them.
“The bokor is dead,” Mama Lovelie proclaimed. “I can no longer sense his power here. Ah—it appears the loa have claimed their debt—these ashes are all that remain of him.”
Oksana nearly sagged in relief, and Xander slumped back against the wall he’d been using for support. “Oh, good,” he said. “The mambo-led cavalry is here. And it sounds like she’s brought along some carry out for dinner.”
FIFTEEN
MASON’S NIGHTMARES WERE all the worse because they felt so frighteningly real. He saw Oksana. His beloved. His wife—her eyes glowing from within as she ripped into the flesh of his throat like a wild animal. Pain tore at his awareness. His lifeblood spurted… pulsed… then slowed to a trickle as his heart stopped and his consciousness succumbed to the darkness.
Now, the same bloodlust flooded him, drawing him toward warm bodies with pounding pulses that sounded like beacons. The emptiness inside him was insatiable, as cold and bleak as the vacuum of space, and if he didn’t fill it with that tempting warmth, he would go mad.
Each time he tried to rise, hands held him down—how were they so strong? Nothing should be able to keep him from reaching what he needed! But, still, they restrained him, and instead of warm flesh, his fangs—good Christ, his fangs?—sank into pale, cool skin. The sweet nectar that flowed through the wounds soothed the ache of icy, burning hunger, and sent tendrils of power coiling through his body, but it still wasn’t… right. It wasn’t the nourishment he craved most.
Blessed darkness claimed him, and when he dreamed again, it was of a woman sitting next to his bedside, weeping silently, her face hidden in one hand. The sun was low in the sky, slanting through a small window to paint the wall across from him with a square of light that hurt to look at.
“Oksana?” he rasped, and the scrape of his voice against his aching throat made him realize that he was awake, and this part, at least, was real.
Her head whipped up, and he was struck again by the rusty brown streaks of her tears. This time, though, the jolt of shock hit him low, in his stomach, making it cramp and rumble.
“Mason?” she asked. “You’re awake? Do you know where you are?”
He tried to gather his scattered thoughts into something coherent. “Yes, I’m awake, I think. And… sorry, no idea. What’s wrong? What’s happened?”
Her expression started to crumple, though she fought against it valiantly. Bits of memory began to trickle in.
Telling her and the others about the missing youngsters.
Mama Lovelie. Anel. The scorched dagger. The—
The bokor.
“Oh, god—Mason,” Oksana choked. “I’m so sorry.”
The bottom fell out of his aching stomach. “Sorry? For what? You don’t mean… the children…?” A new memory slotted into place. He’d done something—he’d left Anel alone, ignored the plan—
She shook her head. “Duchess and Xander were able to save about two dozen of them.” Her voice was hoarse. “The others had already been turned.”
He digested that for a moment. Some of them had been saved. That was the part they needed to focus on. “So, there are two dozen children who are safe, and who wouldn’t have been without our help.”
She nodded and tried to swipe away the bloody tear tracks on her face, but more spilled over even as she was trying to hide them.
“You’re not just crying for the lost children,” he realized. “Oksana. Tell me what’s wrong.”
She stared at him with bloodshot eyes, her chest shaking with emotion for several moments before she mastered it. “I killed you,” she whispered. “Again. Oh, god, Mason…”
He reached out, grasping her wrist when she would have covered her face again. “Oksana, sweetheart—I’m right here. It might feel like someone used me for punt practice, but I’m sure I’ll be right as rain in a day or two.”
She gazed down at him, and Mason had never seen anyone look so sad in his life.
“No,” she said quietly. “No, Mason—you won’t be. You’ve been turned. You’re like me now.”
Stark denial stiffened his shoulders and drew his expression into tense lines. “Don’t be ridiculous,” he said reflexively. “I remember… I tackled that arsehole who was trying to kill you, right? I must’ve gotten clocked in the head, or something. Maybe I’ve been out for a while, but I’m fine now—”
She only continued to look at him with that awful expression.
“No. Stop looking at me like that. This is crazy,” he said, and cautiously swung into a sitting position. He still felt like someone had squeezed him through his great-granny’s laundry wringer, but there was strength in his limbs despite his aches and pain. He pushed past Oksana and stood, glancing around the room until his gaze settled on the small rectangle of sunlight against the wall. It made his eyes water, but he strode over to it, intent on putting a stop to this nonsense right the hell now.
“Look, I don’t remember exactly what happened last night, it’s true,” he said, and stuck his hand into the too-bright light. “But you can see I’m not—”
Agony erupted in his hand, smoke and steam rising from the skin as it blistered. “Sweet bleeding Christ!” he gasped, staggering backward. He clutched his wrist, wide eyes flying to Oksana.
She was still in the chair, one hand clenched in the bedclothes, her eyes twin pools of agony every bit as intense as the fiery pain in his hand.
“I’m so sorry,” she said again, and fled the room.
*
Mason sat on the edge of the bed, staring at his hand. The pain of the second-degree burns was enough to take his breath away, but as he watched, the blisters started to subside. Intense itching spread across the ruined skin.
He could not have said how much time passed, but it was surely only minutes as, right before his eyes, delicate pink skin grew across the damaged area.
At the same time, the ache in his stomach that had formed a sort of somatic background noise intensified. It grew harder and harder to dismiss, though a part of him was trying valiantly to do so.
No, the rational part of his mind insisted. It’s just the power of subconscious suggestion. This is all some kind of huge mistake, or maybe it’s just another dream. It sure as hell doesn’t mean that you’re actually a vampi—
As though merely thinking the word somehow gave it physical power, a stomach cramp doubled Mason over, flooding his mind with thoughts of hunger violence blood. Everything around him suddenly seemed terribly loud. There were no warm bodies inside the building, but outside…
The sun had slipped behind the horizon while he was busy staring at his miraculously healing hand. Between one breath and the next, he was lunging toward the window, and the tempting heartbeats that lay beyond it.
A small figure appeared between him and his objective as if by magic, one hand splayed across his chest to halt his progress. Unthinking rage flickered at his awareness like flame, trying to send his rational thought up in a fiery conflagration.
“Stop.” The single word echoed in both his ears and his mind, ringing like a French-accented bell and interrupting the spiral of unthinking, furious need.
He doubled over again, clutching his stomach. Panic overtook anger. “Duchess? Oh, god… what’s—what’s wrong with me?”
“Nothing is wrong.” The hand closed on his upper arm and manhandled him back to the bed with far more strength than it should have had. “Well, nothing like what you’re thinking, at least. You’re hungry, and you need to feed.”
Feed. Not eat. Mason shuddered, coming back to himself a bit more. He looked up, taking the blonde vampire in properly for the first time since she’d come in. She looked like hell. He got the impression that wasn’t a normal state of affairs for her, to put it mildly.
“Where did Oksana go?” he asked, fighting the growing compulsion to launch himself at the nearest vein he could reach.
Lovers Sacrifice Page 19
