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Whatever.
She might have a sense of having come home, but did she really want to ascend to a world so full of battle, of death vampires, and an enemy that threatened even the women of this world?
She rose from his chair and went in search of a bathroom. She found one en suite in a bedroom opposite the library. She grabbed a tissue from the counter, blew her nose, then wiped her face. Afterward, she crossed to the bed and sat down on the edge. She took deep breaths until she began to grow calm. She would need a clear head from this point forward to be able to chart her course. She didn’t understand her life right now or what was expected of her.
She was here, in a new dimension, a place called Second Earth, a world of the vampire, of immortality, of war.
Her thoughts flew to images of Warrior Medichi in all the ways she had known him through her strange visions. Because of what he was in this world, she couldn’t allow herself to become attached to him.
He was after all, a Warrior of the Blood, and his service to his world had only one likely end: He would fall by the sword as he had lived by the sword.
The last thing Parisa needed was to become involved with someone destined, no doubt, to die.
How proud she was of her analytical mind.
The myth of the breh-hedden lives in the hearts of all vampires.
—Collected Proverbs, Beatrice of Fourth
Chapter 12
Marcus released Havily’s wrist unwillingly. The power of her blood worked in him now and thank God the mortal had left because his desire to engage Havily in some hard-core sex was like a jackhammer at the base of his brain. He was rock-hard and in need.
That his wound felt better was not a surprise given the powerful nature of Havily’s blood, but he still required Horace’s healing hands, the sooner the better.
Still, he licked his lips, savoring the honeysuckle flavor of Havily’s blood. He was breathing in gasps and not from pain.
He palmed the back of her neck. “Come here,” he whispered.
“Marcus … no. We have a guest in the house.”
“She went down the hall. We’re good.” He didn’t care whether they were good or not. Bad sounded really good. He tugged, pulling her toward him.
“You’re injured,” she said, but her tone had a lovely whimpering quality.
He tugged again. “Kiss me anyway.” And she followed, her mouth on his in sweet surrender.
He breathed in her scent through his nose and at the same time tasted more of her honeysuckle flavor from her lips. He strengthened the hold on her neck and pressed so he could thrust his tongue and let her feel what he wanted to do to her.
She responded with a moan.
“I love your blood,” he whispered. “I love you here like this and thank you for taking care of me.”
“You feel better?”
“A thousand percent.”
“Good.”
However, a shimmering next to him put him in full warrior mode. He completely forgot about his wound and his aroused state.
He pushed Havily away as he sat up and at the same time folded his sword back from Bainbridge Island into his hand.
But holy mother of God. He grabbed his abdomen with his free hand and arm then rolled onto his side groaning. He had so many problems right now and so much pain he could barely function. His stupid arousal was bent and hurting like a bitch, he didn’t have the strength or ability to face the enemy and protect his woman, and if anyone touched his identified sword they were toast, including Havily.
Fortunately, the intruder was only Horace, the gifted healer who worked the Borderlands all night, taking care of the Warriors of the Blood.
“Don’t touch me,” he cried. It wasn’t pain that made him cry out but the dangers of his sword. If anyone touched the hilt, they’d die.
He leaned on his side and panted, his sword shaking in his hand. Shit, he was useless, so thank f**k it was only Horace or his woman would be dead. At least his arousal had dimmed. Jesus, he was a mess.
Though Horace knelt beside him, he held his hands in the air in the universal sign of surrender. “Deal with your sword, Warrior Marcus.” Even the healer’s voice had a strange soothing quality.
All his fears eased, and the tension left his muscles. He folded his sword back to his Bainbridge house.
Relieved of the burden, he flopped onto his back and closed his eyes. He could hardly breathe. The pain in his side sent bolts of lightning through his body. Shit.
Then he felt Horace’s healing touch and, with his hands held directly above the wound, the pain began to ebb immediately. Thank. God.
Horace never touched the wound directly but merely stationed his hands above Marcus’s side and let his energy flow from his hands into the deep cut. Every second that passed eased more of the pain as his flesh began knitting together.
“Horace?”
“Yes, duhuro.”
Marcus smiled at the ancient form of address, even if he didn’t deserve it. He’d deserted his brothers-in-arms. He didn’t deserve anything from the healer. “I can’t remember when I first met you. Seems like you’ve been serving the warriors from the time I ascended. Has it been that long? When did you ascend? Was it before me?”
“Yes. Now, please, sir, let me concentrate.”
“Right. Of course.” So Horace was over four thousand years old. Now, why didn’t that surprise him?
Havily rose and moved into the south wing, probably to check on Parisa who had headed that direction a few minutes ago. A few minutes later, Havily crossed behind him as she passed beneath the arched opening that led to the opposite room, then into the dining room. His gaze followed her, hungry, grateful, obsessed. In the distance he watched her leave the dining room, which meant she had probably gone into the kitchen. The doors were offset, so there wasn’t a direct view from the foyer into the kitchen, a very nice arrangement.
A few minutes later she came back with a damp rag and a couple of dry ones. He wondered what for but without saying a word, she dropped to her knees, this time to the right of him, and started cleaning the floor. The white rags turned red.
“This isn’t going to work,” she murmured. She rose to her feet and headed back to the kitchen. She came back with a bucket of water, a sponge, and more clean rags.
As Horace worked, she stayed with her chore. She probably could have called Jeannie for cleanup, but instinctively he knew what Havily would say, that she didn’t want to do anything to interfere with the warriors on duty. And she was right.
When Horace tipped him on his side to work on the hole in his back, he could hear the drop and squeeze of the sponge in the bucket and the soft slide against the floor. She worked quietly, steadily. There was something soothing about these small ministrations.
