She’d almost reached the large, ancient tree where she’d once hung her oil lamp when she was sent crashing against the ground. She attempted to rush away, she kicked and whimpered and shivered. All struggle was futile. Strong arms held her down and she stared into Arturo’s face.
“Don’t hurt me,” she pleaded.
“But you may hurt me? It hardly seems fair.”
“I thought you’d drink me dry.”
“I should.”
“It aches,” she said. And it was true, it ached, not only the hurt of her body, but the hurt of her heart.
“Good,” he said.
“Arturo—”
“Where did you think you were going, hmm? How quickly you seem to forget: you’re mine now.”
“I know!”
“You’re such a pretty liar, professing love—”
“I do love you and you know it! I’ll go to hell for this. I will.” She sobbed. This was also true, it was real, every word.
A part of her still loved him, wanted him. He was the ideal of the man that she had imagined, everything from his voice to his looks to the way he played the piano seemed exquisite, and there was the bond of long-honed affection between them. They’d been so close, so well matched.
“You’re a fool,” he said. She wasn’t sure whether he meant shewas a fool for fearing the fires of hell or a fool for loving him. His fingers dug into her flesh.
Before he had shown a measure of restraint, but now he was angry. Their confrontation had stripped away the thin veneer of gentlemanly consideration he’d exhibited. He’d sipped at her blood before, nothing more. Now he pinned her down and gulped greedily. The pain he gifted her was razor sharp, stinging her skin, making her wince. She wrapped her arms around him and pulled him unbearably close, kissed him hard on the mouth.
He could sense her deceit, he’d said. But he slipped into her again with a thoughtless ease, primed perhaps by the chasethrough the fields. Or perhaps it was her vehemence that fired his desire.
His voraciousness was not only for the blood now, but also for her body. He’d been kind to her before, he’d played the sweet lover, moving gently. But that was not his nature. He was a glutton.
She’d thought to make her flesh into a snare, but he was terribly strong, and as he burrowed his head into her shoulder, muttering a word that was more a growl, she wondered whether he’d trapped her instead.
He enveloped her, pressed her hard into the earth, and the weight of his body was like being buried alive, like descending into the underworld.
Her pulse raged as he nipped and bit and licked her neck, her breasts. She fought to breathe, to think, while he scratched the soft skin of her throat and thrust into her. Her blood stained his lips. Maybe he would drink her dry after all. Maybe they’d find her body in the morning, floating down the river. She clutched him with heated desperation as she felt the fullness of pleasure and closed her eyes.
When she opened them again, he was rutting into her harder. She stared into his eyes, which were wild and hungry. He was panting. His breathing had grown labored, and he shook his head, his body faltering, growing still.
“What have you done?” he asked.
I’ve hunted you,she thought. But then again, the hunt is not over until the quarry lies unmoving and cold.
“Poison,” she said. “Poison for witches.”
“Foolish girl, what have you done?” he repeated, as if he could not believe it, could not fathom such audacity.
At the corner of his lips there was a trace of blood. He began to cough. His hands slid from her body. A swift, unmistakable change had taken hold of him. Her blood, which he’d lavishly enjoyed, had been laced with magic, yes, infused with poison. In the fury of their coupling he had not paused, even for one second, to consider the effect it was having on him, until it was too late and he was clutching at his chest. He’d been half mad for her, but then she’d been in the grip of madness to be able to weave such a scheme. Now he saw it, this madness, this ploy, and snarled, his fingers snagging in her hair.
She shoved him aside and managed to stand up, her knees weak, and for one terrible moment she thought she might collapse next to him. But she was able to reach the tree and ran her hands along its roots, searching for the feel of fabric.
She unwrapped the axe and turned around to see that he remained on the ground, his face pressed against the dirt, but he was attempting to stand up. His spine arched violently and he raised his head, those glowing, treacherous eyes of his narrowed and fixed on her.
1998: 13
“Where are we headed?”she asked.
