Her body jerked hard and Andor realized he was drifting. She might have caught some of his thoughts.
“I am sliding in and out of consciousness and having odd dreams. I think these men put weird thoughts in my head.” It was the best he could do and it seemed to work. She was breathing again. Not even, but still, he hadn’t lost her yet. He tried to keep air moving in and out of his lungs.
“I’m sorry I’m such a baby about blood.” She knelt beside him. “I just don’t see how I’m going to be of help to you. This stake …” She trailed off. There were tears in her voice. Misery.
She wasn’t worried about him being a vampire. She wasn’t thinking about the three men standing behind her as still as statues. She was thinking she was an utter failure as a human being because she couldn’t look at the blood seeping around the stake or dripping from any number of wounds he couldn’t heal.
“Bring the soil up close to me. I need to mix saliva with it.” He hoped she’d be so intrigued she’d forget about the blood. A sense of urgency was beginning to take hold. He knew he was slipping away. Too much blood loss.
“Um …”
“Andor. My name is Andor Katona.”
“You’ve lost so much blood. You need a transfusion.”
She was still catching partial thoughts, but didn’t realize it. He had to be careful, but it was impossible when he was trying to keep himself alive. Ordinarily, he would open the earth, shut down and try to allow the soil to heal him, but he was too far gone and he knew it now. Anxiety gripped him. After centuries of hunting her, he found her, and he was slipping away inch by inch, or pint by pint of blood loss.
“I can spit,” she offered.
There was a note of hesitancy like she thought he was a lunatic and she was simply indulging him because she was certain he was going to die. He was beginning to think he might.
“Let me.” He didn’t know if her saliva was powerful enough to help with healing. His saliva contained a healing agent as well as a numbing one.
He scooped a handful of the soil, mixed it with his saliva and pressed it into one of the gaping wounds in his belly where a vampire had tried to eviscerate him. Now that she had something to do besides faint at the sight of him covered in blood, she concentrated on helping him pack his wounds.
Andor closed his eyes and tried to conserve his strength. As an ancient, he had built up tremendous power and control. He had never considered that three humans—not very bright ones at that—might bring him down.
“Don’t.” She whispered the command. “Tell me what to do next.”
“I need blood. I’ve lost too much. Pack the soil around the stake. I can’t take it out until I have a transfusion.”
“I’ll give you my blood,” she said, her voice trembling. “But I’m afraid I really will pass out. Just tell me what to do.”
He was starving. Every cell in his body craved blood. Was it safe to take her blood? He would have to stop before he took too much from her and he didn’t know if he still had that kind of control. He had to rely on her. If she was weak, she couldn’t help him. On the other hand, if he was going to release one of the human males from their frozen state, he would need to be stronger to keep them under his power.
He could feel two of his teeth growing sharp. Lengthening. He breathed deep and kept his head turned from hers. “I can help you through it if you let me. I’m telepathic as well. You know we have shields, barricades in our minds, so to speak. Trust me enough to let me make it easier for you. I don’t have much more time.”
There was a small silence. He lifted his lashes just enough to see her chewing at her full lower lip with small white teeth. She nodded. “Yes. But hurry. I’m already feeling dizzy. I’m trying not to look but it’s nearly impossible. And my hands are covered in …”
“I’ll take care of it.” He reached for her mind immediately. There was no sense in waiting. She was either going to let down her barriers and he was going to live, or she wouldn’t and he wasn’t going to make it.
He reached for her hand, and just that act sent pain crashing through him, driving the air from his lungs in a brutal rush of agony. Her skin was soft, like silk. His thumb brushed over her pulse, where it beat so frantically. She was afraid of him. Of giving her blood. Of fainting and making a fool of herself. Her phobia of blood made her feel foolish and weak. She detested it and tried very hard to overcome it.
He forced himself to stop reading her and took complete control, using the last of his strength to take over her mind. He was very lucky in that she had taken down her shields herself, giving her trust to him when he had yet to earn it. He didn’t delve deeper into her mind to find out why. He sank his teeth into her wrist.
Her blood burst into his mouth like bubbles of the finest champagne. Nothing had ever tasted so exquisite. So perfect. He knew he would always be obsessed, would always crave her taste. He savored every drop, feeling his cells reach for the nourishment, soaking it up, desperate to replace what was lost.
For the first time that he could remember, Andor had to fight himself for discipline. For control. He didn’t want to stop. He never wanted to stop. He was desperate for blood. Her blood. Very gently he swept his tongue over the two holes in her wrist and turned his head toward the three would-be assassins.
Shorty came to life, one slow inch at a time. His body jerked and he took a step toward the Carpathian. Terror was written on the man’s face. Andor ignored it. He didn’t want to waste his strength on calming the man; after all, he’d helped drive a stake through Andor’s chest.
The moment Shorty got to him and knelt obediently, presenting his neck, Andor sank his teeth deep. The blood was good. Not tainted with alcohol or drugs. He took as much as he dared and then sent the man back to his campsite after wiping his memories. He planted an encounter with wild animals, something that would definitely spook him, and make him uneasy enough to want to break camp and go home.
He brought Barnaby close next, instructing him to kneel beside him and grasp the stake with both hands. Andor took the remainder of the soil, mixed it with his saliva, took a deep breath and told the human to remove the stake. Nothing in his long life had ever hurt as much as it did when that stake was driven into his chest. It hurt nearly as much when it was removed.
Blood welled up and he shoved the soil deep into the hole, gritting his teeth, grinding them together to keep from striking out at the helpless man. More blood spilled around the wound, soaking into the dirt. He couldn’t breathe for a moment. Or think. He just lay there, gasping, staring at Lorraine’s beautiful face, telling himself she was worth everything that he had endured, including this.
His vows to her were carved into his back—tattooed there in the old primitive method, the ink made by the monks in the monastery. They had to scar the skin deliberately with each poke from an array of needles. He had the vows in Carpathian going down his back. He’d meant every single word.
Olen w?keva kuntankért. Olen w?keva pita belso? kulymet. Olen w?keva—félért ku vigyázak. H?ngemért.
He had other tattoos, but none meant as much to him. The code he lived by was scarred forever into his back. He was Carpathian and it took a lot to leave a scar. He had suffered to put those words into his skin, but they needed to be there—for her. The code was simple.
Staying strong for our people. Staying strong to keep the demon inside. Staying strong for her. Only her.