“It won’t matter how many humans you bring in, if he can’t absorb the blood,” Bezio argued.
“What’s the alternative?” Paulo demanded. “I’d feed him myself, but it wouldn’t help. My blood isn’t that much stronger than—”
“But yours is,” Bezio said, cutting him off and looking at Martina. “You could feed him.”
For a moment, there was silence.
“It . . . it might be wise,” Paulo said, tentatively. “He won’t be able to absorb that much more tonight; there’s not enough time. But yours, being so much richer—”
“No.”
“But it wouldn’t take much,” Bezio argued. “And it could save him!”
“He doesn’t need saving. He will live.”
“But you could ensure that, with nothing more than—”
Bezio cut off because his audience suddenly wasn’t there anymore. Martina had turned and left, as abruptly as she’d come. Leaving the bearded vampire staring after her.
“And you could ensure a longer life if you learn to hold your tongue,” Paulo hissed, grabbing Bezio’s arm as he started after Martina.
“But a couple of drops might—”
“She said no.”
“Why? What on earth—”
“It doesn’t matter why.”
“You didn’t expect her to agree, did you?” Bezio accused, scanning his expression. “You knew she’d refuse!”
Paulo closed his eyes, looking stressed. But he didn’t let go of Bezio’s arm. “She doesn’t feed anyone.”
“Why not?” Bezio persisted. “She doesn’t have to bind them. She isn’t taking on any responsibility. She’s giving away a little power, that’s all. And it isn’t as if she can’t spare it!”
He rubbed his arms, as if the electric flow of Martina’s power was still coursing over them. Mircea could feel it, too, where she’d gripped his chin. It felt like the indentation of her fingers was still there, as if she’d painted him with some kind of indelible ink.
But it wasn’t enough to shut Bezio up.
“A human won’t be enough!” he argued. “You know that. He’s too far gone—”
“I don’t know that—”
“Look at him!”
Harassed blue eyes slid his way. Mircea didn’t know what Paulo saw, but when he spoke again, it was harsh. “Martina won’t. We’ll have to come up with something else.”
“Then who else do we have? You said Auria—”
“She’s out with a client.”
“Then call her back!”
“She isn’t Roberto! And she’s with someone important. I can’t just—”
They kept talking, but Mircea couldn’t seem to follow it anymore. The brief euphoria from downstairs was gone. His chest felt heavy, as if someone was sitting on it. His limbs were like iron, impossible to raise. If he’d been breathing, it would have been labored. He just needed . . . he needed . . . he . . .
Someone slapped him again. His eyes flew open, but he didn’t see who it was. But a soft, dimpled, perfumed arm slid under his nose. It didn’t look like Martina’s. It didn’t smell like hers, either. She used neroli, a musky, bitter orange scent that complemented her exotic good looks. This was lighter, fresher, sweeter . . .
If laughter had a scent, Mircea thought, his head swimming, it might be something like this.
“Are you going to drink,” someone asked, amused. “Or sniff me all night?”
He knew that voice, but he couldn’t place it. Didn’t try. He did try to feed, but couldn’t seem to raise his head enough, couldn’t even seem to remember—
“Help him!” Someone said harshly, and then he was being pulled up, and held to a neck too short to be Martina’s, next to tinsel earrings that were swept aside along with a wealth of dark curls. And then—
And then Mircea stopped caring about anything, because blood was coursing down a sweetly scented neck, as a perfectly manicured nail broke the surface for him. He watched it, mesmerized, until the first drop touched his lips, slid over his tongue, found its way into his starved body. And then he was gripping her, harder than he’d thought he was able, harder than could have been comfortable, because she let out a surprised “oh!” But he barely noticed with sparkling, wonderful, life-giving power bursting on his tongue.
And then everywhere else. He could feel it coursing through his veins, filling him in a way he’d never been able to define, but which was unmistakable. Nothing else felt like taking blood, nothing else came close. Alcohol, drugs, even sex paled in comparison when he was this starved. Blood was everything; blood was life. Without it, there was nothing else. But with it, oh, with it, oh, with it . . .
The dark room suddenly flooded with color. The scent of the woman’s cologne became richer, more enticing. The sounds of the old house—creaks and groans and sighs of the wind outside—had a depth and resonance unknown to mortal ears. The whole world was suddenly vibrant and alive. And so was he.
Mircea drank, and drank and drank, until his body could stand no more, until he was laughing, no, giggling, against a perfect set of breasts, beneath a fine linen shift that was never, ever coming clean after this.
“You owe me a chemise,” someone agreed, as he was lowered back into bed.
Someone threw a blanket over him, and someone else tucked it in, as if he was a child needing tending. Mircea scowled, and started to protest. But then he noticed how cozy everything was, with the rain pattering on the roof just above his head, and the wool covering warm, and the bed so, so soft . . . like the lips that found his forehead.
He really hoped they weren’t Bezio’s.
“Not quite,” someone said.
And then, finally, finally, he was allowed to drift off to sleep.
Chapter Twelve
Mircea awoke between two plump country lasses, with pink cheeks, round bottoms, and generous bosoms. And fine blue veins that he substantially lightened before getting out of bed. Yet he still managed to stagger and have to grab the bedpost, like an old drunk.
He stood there, swaying, for a long moment, caught between weakness and a strange elation.
The former was familiar enough—the sickening lurch of having too little blood in reserve. He had no idea what to make of the latter. But the combination made him feel like he might simultaneously fall over and fly away, and resulted in roiling nausea he had no way to relieve.
He was never going to understand vampire bodies, he thought grimly, stumbling over to the wash basin. And resisting with difficulty the urge to stick his whole head inside. And then deciding to hell with it and doing it anyway.
It felt amazing. So much so that he ended up pouring the entire pitcher of water over his hair. It seemed to help, God knew why.
He just stayed there for a while, arms braced against the sides of the basin, dripping. And wondering why the water had a taste and the wall had a smell and the basin seemed to be rippling around the edges, like it was laughing at him. And then somebody else was, too.
He looked back over his shoulder to see one pert miss frankly enjoying the view of his backside. All of it, he realized, because he wasn’t dressed. He walked back over and pulled the blanket off the girls and around himself. Which left him warmer but otherwise no better off, since they were already falling asleep in each other’s arms. And the amount of blood they’d donated meant they would probably stay that way all night.
Mircea pulled the second blanket over them both and stumbled downstairs, still hungry. And wondering where his clothes were. And what the hell he’d been doing to make him feel like he had the world’s worst hangover.
He found out the answer to one question, at least, as soon as he entered the kitchen.
The cook was stirring something in the large, three-legged pot she used to cook pasta. Bezio was occupying a stool churning butter. And Paulo was bending over the big worktable, where the pieces of Mircea’s red outfit had been laid out in all their splotchy splendor.