Night's Honor (Elder Races #7)(37)

The other man entered, carrying a crystal goblet. The rich, heady scent of blood filled his nostrils as Raoul crossed the room.

Tess’s blood.

Out of nowhere, ravenous desire struck, and his fangs descended. He clenched against it, watching as Raoul approached to offer the fresh blood to him.

For a moment he didn’t trust himself to take it. Then he forced his hands out and very carefully received the goblet with its precious contents. It was warm from her body heat.

“How did she do?” he asked.

“Perfectly well,” Raoul said. “Her issue isn’t with giving blood; it’s with you taking it. She said it was all quite straightforward and clinical, like giving blood at the Red Cross.”

“Thank you,” he managed to say. When the other man made as if to linger, Xavier told him, “Good night.”

Hesitating only for a moment, Raoul inclined his head. “Good night.”

As Xavier waited for Raoul to exit the room and leave him in privacy, his hands started to shake. Bloody hell.

He was not an animal. He was not.

He was a thinking and feeling, rational and ethical creature. He would not be ruled by this storm of feeling, whatever it was. Moving with care, he set aside the goblet and gripped the arms of his chair.

A direct blood offering was a powerful act. Drinking from the vein was intoxicating for the Vampyre, and those who offered up their blood were always in such a vulnerable position. Prone to euphoria and quick to lose control, they ran the risk of offering up everything to the one who drank from them, and some unscrupulous Vampyres did not resist.

Xavier would not, did not behave in such a manner. Not ever. He always took blood from the vein in the wrist, never the neck or anywhere else. Those other places were too intimate. Over the course of his long life, many humans had been desperate to give him everything—blood, body and soul—but he had never fallen into that oubliette of meaningless animal carnality.

Take, eat. This is my body, which was broken for you.

This is my blood, which is shed for you. . . .

People broke faith and committed atrocities in the name of God. He had watched it happen time and again over the centuries. Once he had gone to war over it. He had walked away so long ago from his vows and the Catholic Church, but the profundity of those words from scripture had never left him.

Blood was life. It was sacred.

There was no deeper covenant than a blood covenant.

No matter how much or little material wealth one attained in this world, the only things one truly owned were one’s soul, one’s body. The blood in the goblet was the most powerful thing Tess could ever give to him.

And he wanted the blood more than he had ever wanted anything, this most difficult, hard-won offering, because the intensity of her struggle was what gave the gift such sweet, sweet savor.

When he felt he had regained a measure of control, he picked up the goblet again. It was cooling and losing its potency. Once it had been removed from the donor’s body and turned completely cool, it lost all nutritive qualities for a Vampyre.

The only way to preserve blood in a way that was nourishing for Vampyres was the alchemical process used to make bloodwine, and even then, bloodwine did not nourish as fresh blood did.

He would not disrespect Tess’s offering by allowing it to be wasted, but neither could he bring himself to drink it.

After a few more moments of internal struggle, he growled, frustrated with himself, and launched out of his chair to stride through the spacious, silent house, out the back door and along the path to the attendants’ house, all the while carrying the goblet carefully so that he didn’t spill a single drop.

The night had turned opaque, the moon wreathed with filmy clouds. Most of his attendants stayed up well into the night, and the house was lit in various places. He could hear music playing in one part, while in the den, the TV was playing.

If he had walked in the front door, he would have been made welcome, but he didn’t. He usually avoided the attendants’ house, except when he had climbed into Tess’s room to confront her. That house was their space, so that they had time away from the demands of their patron. Instead of entering, he prowled around to stand underneath her window.

Her room was darkened with the curtains drawn, but he could sense her inside, moving around quietly. Her heartbeat had turned languid; she must be preparing for bed. He cocked his head, listening intently. The closet door opened and shut, and there was the sound of running water. He held the goblet with such tense care his fingers began to ache.

When she had turned the faucet off, he said telepathically, Tess, come to your window.

Startled, frozen silence. Then the languid pace of her heart exploded into a furious rhythm.

For a moment, when she didn’t move, he thought she might disobey and end their tenuous relationship. Then he heard the soft rustle of cloth, and the creak of floorboards. When she appeared in the darkened window, she looked shadowy, like the half-hidden, opaque moon, her skin pale like pearls and hair lustrous with darkness.

She looked down at him but said nothing.

He held the goblet up to show it to her. Are you sure you want to give this to me?

Because it mattered. It mattered what she said. While the struggle made the offering sweet, it was the act of the gift itself that was the vital part of the covenant.

She didn’t respond for long moments. He stood motionless as he waited, until finally she moved to put her hand to the windowpane.