Revenge and the Wild(38)

She nearly choked when she heard those words. Drinking from a vampire’s vein was erotic for creatures, like sex was for humans.

“No,” she said. “No way, nope.”

He smiled, looking smug. “Then no blood. Do have a good evening, Westie, and be careful on your way home. The werewolves are out tonight; wouldn’t want to get fleas.”

Westie stood from her chair and fought the urge to break it to splinters. “I need that blood, Costin—you don’t understand.” Her hand shook. “I need to cure my addiction. If I don’t get sober for good, Nigel won’t believe a word I say, and he won’t let the—” She started to mention the Fairfields but stopped herself. The fewer people who knew about her vendetta, the better. “I just . . . I need it.”

“What is it you need Nigel to believe?” he said.

She bit her lip to keep from screaming at him. “I can’t tell you.”

“Then no blood for you.” He stood up to walk away.

“Wait!” She put her hands on top of her head, cringing at the stupid choice she knew she was about to make. Costin stopped in midstride and turned to face her. “All right,” she said. “I’ll drink blood from your vein, but I can’t tell you why I need Nigel to believe me.”

He put his hand to his chin in thought, though Westie could tell by his smirk that his mind had already been made up.

“Very well. We will go to my room, where it will be more private. This could get messy,” he said with a wink.





Nineteen


Costin’s room was nothing like Westie had imagined. There was no coffin, no dirt floor, no blood on the walls, no horrible smells. Instead the walls were covered in white gauzy fabric and the room smelled like citrus. There was a circular bed in the center of the room, with mounds of feather pillows covered in silk. Everything was neat and in its place. Costin was a tidy creature.

Westie’s neck arched as she took it all in. She was growing even more nervous, she realized when her stomach began to flutter.

Costin fussed with pillows to carve out a space for her on the bed.

She took off her duster and shoes, tossing them onto a chair across the room so she wouldn’t get blood on them. He watched her with brows raised and a curious smile. “Eager, are we?” he said.

She plopped down on the bed, wriggling to get comfortable. “I want to get this over with. How do we start?”

“Lie down,” he said.

Leaning against a stack of pillows, she watched Costin pull a box from a dresser drawer beside the bed. Inside was a red glass dagger.

Westie sat up, her muscles tensed for a brawl.

“Relax,” he said. “It’s for me. Lie back down.”

Alley was right, she thought. This is a terrible idea.

But she didn’t leave. She needed Costin’s help. Vampire blood was the only way to achieve sobriety, even if it upset the Wintu spirits. She took a deep breath and melted back onto the pillows.

Westie felt something stir deep within her belly when Costin removed his shirt, revealing a smooth white chest. He was lean and solid-looking, with cords of muscle beneath his skin.

The mattress dipped when he climbed onto the bed and settled beside her, propped on an elbow. Her heart pulsed in her ears, and the stirring in her belly became more insistent.

He’s a creature, she had to remind herself. But what she told herself and what her body was feeling were two very different things.

Costin held the blade in his hand. When he moved, she noticed three perfectly spaced scars on his upper arm that looked almost like brands.

“What are those from?” she asked. Vampires healed so quickly, she didn’t think they were capable of having scars.

“General marks from the war.”

She felt him shiver as she traced her finger over the bumps. “You were a general in the creature war? For how long?”

“Five years.”

“I was just a child back then,” she said. The war had ended while she was staying with the Wintu.

Costin put a finger to her lips. “No more talk of the war. Shall we get on with this?”

Westie gathered her wits and nodded.

He smiled, slicing the skin of his wrist open. She’d never seen anyone so happy to bleed. Red satin beads bubbled slowly out of the wound. His blood didn’t have a metallic, tangy scent like the human blood she’d smelled while assisting in Nigel’s surgical rooms. Vampire blood was different. It smelled sweet and buttery.

Westie pulled long, slow breaths into her lungs. “I’m going to do this,” she said, “but I don’t want any funny business. You keep your hands to yourself.” If things got carried away, she wasn’t sure if she’d be able—or willing—to stop.

“I promise. Now drink.” His voice was like a soft kiss.

Costin held his wrist out to her. Cold, velvet orbs dripped onto the bare skin of her collarbone.

All it took was five drops for a cure. One drink, she told herself.

She took one last breath, held it, and braced herself as she put her lips around his wound.

A cold drop trickled down her throat. His blood was thick and sweet like honey, just the way it smelled. As soon as it hit her stomach she felt serene. Not exactly like the tranquil daze that overcame her when drinking whiskey, but something deeper. It was the same kind of lovely ache one felt in one’s soul when hearing a beautiful song.