Part I Part 152 (1/2)

”The Fellows.h.i.+p,” I said. I struggled to rein in my emotions. For her sake, I couldn't afford to feel afraid. I edged a little toward her. ”Let's sit down. You can tell me about the Fellows.h.i.+p.”

For a second, I thought she wouldn't give way, but she did. ”Fellows.h.i.+p,” she said. ”The Fellows.h.i.+p of Saint Giles.”

”Saint Giles,” I said. ”The patron of lepers.”

”And other outcasts. Like me. They're all like me.”

”You mean infected?”

”Infected. Half-turned. Half-human. Half-dead. There are a lot of ways to say it.”

”Uh-huh,” I said. ”So what's their deal?”

”The Fellows.h.i.+p tries to help people the Red Court has harmed. Work against the Red Court. Expose them whenever they can.”

”Find a cure?”

”There is no cure.”

I put my hand on her arm and guided her toward my couch. She moved with a dreamy deliberation. ”So the tattoos are what? Your members.h.i.+p card?”

”A binding,” she said. ”A spell cut into my skin. To help me hold the darkness inside. To warn me when it is rising.”

”What do you mean, warn you?”

She looked down at her design-covered hand, then showed it to me. The tattoos there and on her face were slowly growing brighter, and had turned a shade of medium scarlet. ”To warn me when I'm about to lose control. Red, red, red. Danger, danger, danger.”

The first night she'd arrived, when she'd been tussling with something outside, she'd stayed in the shadows for the first several moments inside, her face turned away. She'd been hiding the tattoos. ”Here,” I said quietly. ”Sit down.”

She sat on the couch and met my eyes. ”Harry,” she whispered. ”It hurts. It hurts to fight it. I'm tired of holding on. I don't know how long I can.”

I knelt down to be on eye level with her. ”Do you trust me?”

”With my heart. With my life.”

”Close your eyes,” I said.

She did.

I got up and walked slowly to the kitchen drawer. I didn't move quickly. You don't move quickly away from something that is thinking about making you food. It sets them off. Whatever had been placed inside her was growing-I could feel that, see it, hear it in her voice.

I was in danger. But it didn't matter, because so was she.

I usually keep a gun in the kitchen drawer. At the time, I had a gun and a short length of silver-and-white rope in there. I picked up the rope and walked back over to her.

”Susan,” I said quietly. ”Give me your hands.”

She opened her eyes and looked at the soft, fine rope. ”That won't hold me.”

”I made it in case an ogre I p.i.s.sed off came visiting. Give me your hands.”

She was silent for a moment. Then she shrugged out of her jacket, and held her hands out, wrists up.

I tossed the rope at her and whispered, ”Manacus.” ”Manacus.”

I'd enchanted the rope six months before, but I'd done it right. It took barely a whisper of power to set the rope into motion. It whipped into the air, silver threads flas.h.i.+ng, and bound itself around her wrists in neat loops.

Susan reacted instantly, going completely tense. I saw her set herself and strain against the ropes. I waited, watching for a full half a minute before she started shaking and stopped trying to break them. She let out a shaking breath, her head bowed, hair fallen around her face. I started to move toward her, when she stood up, legs spread enough to brace herself firmly, and tried again, lifting her arms.

I licked my lips, watching. I didn't think she'd break the ropes, but I'd underestimated people before. Her face, her too-black eyes scared me. She strained against the ropes again, the movement drawing her s.h.i.+rt up, showing me her smooth brown stomach, the winding swirls and barbs of her tattoo red and stark against her skin. There were dark bruises over her ribs, and patches of skin that had been sc.r.a.ped raw. She hadn't come away from our tumble from Martin's car without being hurt, after all.

After a minute more, she hissed out a breath and sat down, hair a tumbled mess around her face. I could feel her eyes on me more than I could actually see them. They didn't feel like Susan's eyes anymore. The tattoos stood out against her skin, red as blood. I backed off, again deliberately, calmly, and got the first aid kit out of the bathroom.

When I came back out, she flung herself at me in blinding speed and utter silence. I'd been expecting as much, and snapped, ”Forzare!” ”Forzare!”

The silver rope flashed with a glitter of blue light and darted toward the ceiling. Her wrists went with it and she was pulled completely from the floor. Her feet swung up, and she twisted, again in silence, fighting the bonds on her. She didn't get free, and I let her swing there until her legs had settled again, her toes barely touching the floor.

She let out a quiet sob and whispered, ”I'm sorry. Harry, I can't stop it.”

”It's okay. I've got you.” I stepped closer to examine the injuries on her midsection and winced. ”G.o.d. You got torn up.”

”I hate this. I'm so sorry.”

It hurt me to hear her voice. There was enough pain in it for both of us. ”Shhhh,” I said. ”Let me take care of you.”

She fell quiet then, though I could sense flashes of that feral hunger in her. I got a bowl of water, a cloth, and set to cleaning up the sc.r.a.pes as best I could. She quivered once in a while. Once she let out a pained groan. The bruises went all the way up her back, and she had another patch of abraded skin on her neck. I put my hand on her head and pushed forward. She bowed her head and let it hang forward while I tended to the wound.

While I did, the quality of the tension changed. I could smell her hair, her skin, their scent like candle smoke and cinnamon. I became suddenly, intensely aware of the curve of her back, her hips. She leaned back a little toward me, bringing her body into contact with mine, the heat of her something that could have singed me. Her breathing changed, growing faster, heavier. She turned her head, enough to look at me over her shoulder. Her eyes burned, and her tongue flickered over her lips.

”Need you,” she whispered.

I swallowed. ”Susan. I think maybe that-”

”Don't think,” she said. Her hips brushed against the front of my sweats, and I was abruptly so hard that it hurt. ”Don't think. Touch me.”

Somewhere, I knew it wasn't the best of ideas. But I laid the fingers of one hand on the curve of her waist, wrapping them slowly to her heated skin. Soft smoothness caressed my hand. There was a pleasure in it, a primal, possessive pleasure in touching her. I ran my palm and spread fingers over her flank, her belly, in slow and light circles. She arched at the caress, her eyes closing, and whispered, ”Yes,” over and over again. ”Yes.”

I let the washcloth fall from my other hand and reached up to touch her hair. More softness, rich texture, dark hairs gliding between my fingers. I felt a second of gathering tension in her and then she whipped her head around, teeth bared, reaching for my hand. I should have drawn my hand away. Instead, I tightened my fingers in her hair and pulled back, forcing her chin up and keeping her from reaching me.

I expected anger from her, but instead her body became pliant again, moving against me with a more willing abandon. A languid smile spread over her lips, and faded away to an openmouthed gasp as I slid my other hand up, beneath the cotton s.h.i.+rt, and ran my fingertips lightly over her b.r.e.a.s.t.s. She gasped, and at the sound all of my recent worry, fear, anger, pain-it all faded away, burned to ash by a sudden fire of raw need. To feel her under my hand again, to have the scent of her filling my head-I'd dreamed of it on too many cold and lonely nights.

It wasn't the smart thing to do. It was the only thing.

I slid both hands around her body, teasing her b.r.e.a.s.t.s, loving the way their tips hardened to rounded points beneath my fingers. She tried to turn on me again, but I jerked her back hard against me, my mouth pressing against the side of her throat, keeping her from turning her head. It only excited her more.

”Need,” she whispered, panting. ”Need you. Don't stop.”

I wasn't sure I could have. I couldn't get enough of the taste of her onto my lips. Impatient, I shoved her s.h.i.+rt up, over her b.r.e.a.s.t.s, to the top of her back, and spent a slow and delicious moment following the line of her spine with my lips and tongue, tasting her skin, testing its texture with my teeth. Some part of me struggled to remember to be gentle. Another part didn't give a d.a.m.n. Feel. Taste. Indulge. Feel. Taste. Indulge.