I nodded. Edmund Hartley had healed me before, and the unassuming but powerful vamp had been good. And helpful. And hadn’t tried to roll me with compulsion. I heard a knock and Edmund entered. He was five foot seven or eight, brown haired, hazel eyed, and he seemed kind, nonthreatening. Mild-mannered was a good term for him, until he turned up the vamp-o-meter.
He might look like a pushover, but Edmund was old and powerful. As he closed the door behind him, I could feel his power as he pulled it up and around himself, icy prickles, like spikes of frozen air. Yet, despite his dazzling magics, now lifting the hairs along the back of my neck, he’d lost blood-master status of Clan Laurent—a story I thought had a lot more going on than had been reported—to a vamp named Bettina and ended up as a slave to Leo for the next twenty years. When vamps lost, they lost big.
“I smell your blood. Again,” he said. Eli stepped aside and Edmund knelt near me. He breathed in and held the scent of my blood the way a wine connoisseur might inhale the perfume of a really good vintage. When he exhaled he said, “I heard about the sparring match. No one mentioned that you had been injured as well.”
“Isn’t that just like the fangheads?”
Edmund smiled at the insult and leaned close to my side. I felt his cold breath against my skin. “Your clothing must come away,” he said, sadly. “Fast or slow?”
“Do it.”
Edmund didn’t give me a chance to change my mind. He gripped the hem of my undershirt in both hands and yanked. It ripped up the middle and out of the wounds. I hissed with pain and said something I didn’t usually. Eli chuckled and I speared him with a look just as Edmund put his mouth onto my side and his chill tongue slicked the blood away. Heat followed in its wake, heat that danced along my nerves and then dove deep inside as his tongue delved into the cut.
I closed my eyes and steeled my face to show nothing. Absolutely nothing. I worked to keep my breathing steady and slow, and managed to keep my heart rate slower than a speeding bullet. Maybe. For about half a minute. And then the heat ricocheted out of the slice and right to my core. I knew it was bad when Eli left the room. “Coward,” I hissed to his retreating back. And then moaned as the healing energies bent my head back and arched up my spine. Healing and desire, two halves of vamp magic.
Edmund laughed gently against my flesh; the vibrations of his laughter rebounded through me, and his arms circled my waist, pulling me against his body. I felt another moan rising and swallowed it down. No way was I gonna moan again. Not. Gonna. Happen.
He could have had me right there, on the small couch in the small room. But Edmund was a gentleman. Either that or Leo’s proscription against any vamp seducing me made him refrain. I was betting on the latter, and couldn’t decide whether I should thank Leo or stake him when, much later, Edmund rose from the floor beside the couch and pulled a knitted afghan from somewhere and covered me with it.
“You are well.”
I swallowed and said, “Thanks, Ed. And thanks for not, um, you know.”
“I like my head where it is,” he said, confirming my guess. “But the moment you no longer work for my master, I will come to you. If you are willing, then I will give you all the pleasure that I am able.” He leaned in, close to my face. “And I am very, very able.”
“Oh,” I said, keeping my eyes closed like the fraidy-cat that I was. I waved a hand in what might have been agreement or might have been waving him away from me. “I’ll keep that in mind. And, ummm . . . thanks.” I dropped the hand over my face. “And, yeah. Thanks.” The door opened and closed behind him. I smelled Eli and I said, “If you say anything, even one single word, I’ll cut you and feed your lifeless body to the dogs.”
“We don’t have dogs.” That didn’t stop him from laughing, however, and somehow, the wordless laughter, low and mocking, was even worse than anything he might have said. Without looking at him, I gathered my torn clothes and the afghan and went to the ladies’ locker room, where I rinsed off Edmund’s healing-induced desire beneath a stream of cool water. And cursed the fact that New Orleans never had really cold water.
? ? ?
The meeting was held in the downstairs conference room, necessitating only a short walk through the corridors. I had put on a pair of slim pants, my thigh rig, and a short-sleeved, dark copper sweater I found in my locker, which looked pretty good against my lighter copper skin tone. Black slippers. With my slicked-back hair and red lipstick, I looked striking. Not beautiful—I’d never be beautiful—but striking I could do. Striking was easy for tall, slender women.