Death's Mistress (Dorina Basarab, #2)(60)

I slowly stood up, feeling like I was wearing a pair of stilts. It had been years—decades, really—since I’d owned a pair of stilettos, and I suddenly recalled why. My left ankle buckled, and I corrected myself, glaring down at it. If I could run along the edge of a rooftop and never miss a step, I could walk in these damn shoes.

And I did. For about two steps. Then I wobbled, stumbled and ended up on my butt on the bed.

One of the shoes had gone flying. Louis-Cesare retrieved it and knelt in front of me, his eyes amused. “There is an art to it.”

“How would you know?”

“I used to wear them.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“At the French court. They were all the rage—among both sexes—for a time.”

I tried to imagine Louis-Cesare, all six foot plus of hard muscle, in a pair of high heels. And, despite everything, I laughed. “Care to show me how it’s done?”

“I do not think those are my size,” he said, grasping my calf in one large hand. I went a little dry-mouthed.

His fingers were warm on my arch for a moment, as he slid the shoe back in place. He looked up, his eyes suddenly serious. “I suppose it is useless for me to request that you remain here while I attend to this.”

I just looked at him.

“It will be difficult for me to protect you without breaking the truce.”

It was moments like these when I wondered if he truly understood what a dhampir was. “I don’t need protection.”

“Against some of those who will be there tonight?” His jaw tightened. “Yes, you do.”

“I’ll be on my best behavior,” I promised, with a straight face.

He smiled slightly. “Why am I not reassured?”

He pulled me to my feet and drew my hand through his arm in one smooth, natural movement, with no signs of flinching. I didn’t know a single other vampire, including family, who didn’t tense up slightly when I came within arm’s reach. Yet, from day one, he’d never minded getting close, had in fact used every possible excuse to do so.

Strange behavior for someone pining away for his mistress.

But then, maybe I’d just been available, an easy conquest, a creature he didn’t have to worry about offending because our natural relationship was antagonistic anyway. I really didn’t know what he felt, if anything. I just knew what I did.

“Then maybe we should take out a little insurance,” I said, and sank to my knees.

He looked confused, until my fingers went to the button of his trousers. I saw it register, felt when he stilled completely, not even breathing. And then he caught my hands.

“What are you doing?”

“What does it look like?”

“Why?” It was in a low, urgent tone I’d never heard him use.

“Because it helps to take the edge off.” He looked like he didn’t understand my answer. “I’m dhampir,” I reminded him. “We have these fits, remember? Rage-induced blackouts where we kill everything in sight?”

“That is all it takes to control your fits?” He looked incredulous.

“I didn’t say it controlled them. I said it took the edge off, much the way good-quality weed does. If someone provokes me enough, I’ll still go under. But not as easily. Now let go, or are you the only one who gets to touch?”

Apparently so, because he pulled me back to my feet, keeping my hands trapped between us. His were strong, with the warmth of familiar calluses. I felt my breath speed up as I remembered what those hands could do.

Something of my thoughts must have shown on my face, because he flushed slightly. “I was told that you had found a cure.”

“It’s genetic. There is no cure.”

“Lord Mircea said—”

“You asked him about me?”

“He mentioned it in passing.”

I narrowed my eyes but let it go. “I’ve found something that cuts down on the frequency of the attacks, and controls some of the symptoms. But there are problems.”

“What kind of problems?”

I sighed. For a Frenchman, he was the hardest damn man to seduce I’d ever seen. “It brings out dormant magical abilities in humans.”

It was Louis-Cesare’s turn to narrow his eyes. “You are speaking of fey wine? Do not tell me you are still taking that concoction.”

“Okay, I won’t tell you.”

“It is dangerous!”

“So am I, without it!”

“And that is worth risking your life? You do not know—”

“I haven’t had a full-on attack in weeks. And the last time I did, I was conscious.” His expression said he still didn’t get it. “I was conscious, Louis-Cesare!” I repeated, struggling to find words to explain just what that meant.

But there weren’t any. He’d never had to worry about blacking out for days, only to wake up in some unknown location, covered in blood and surrounded by corpses. He would never understand the constant nagging fear that next time it wouldn’t be an enemy I killed. That next time I would wake up to find my hands buried in the throat of a friend.

Something must have shown on my face, because his gaze softened. “I thought your friend was looking for a cure.”

“She was. She is. But so far, no luck.”