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“What are you doing?”
“What does it look like?”
“Why?” It was in a low, urgent tone I’d never heard him use.
“Because it helps to take the edge off.” He looked like he didn’t understand my answer. “I’m dhampir,” I reminded him. “We have these fits, remember? Rage-induced blackouts where we kill everything in sight?”
“That is all it takes to control your fits?” He looked incredulous.
“I didn’t say it controlled them. I said it took the edge off, much the way good-quality weed does. If someone provokes me enough, I’ll still go under. But not as easily. Now let go, or are you the only one who gets to touch?”
Apparently so, because he pulled me back to my feet, keeping my hands trapped between us. His were strong, with the warmth of familiar calluses. I felt my breath speed up as I remembered what those hands could do.
Something of my thoughts must have shown on my face, because he flushed slightly. “I was told that you had found a cure.”
“It’s genetic. There is no cure.”
“Lord Mircea said—”
“You asked him about me?”
“He mentioned it in passing.”
I narrowed my eyes but let it go. “I’ve found something that cuts down on the frequency of the attacks, and controls some of the symptoms. But there are problems.”
“What kind of problems?”
I sighed. For a Frenchman, he was the hardest damn man to seduce I’d ever seen. “It brings out dormant magical abilities in humans.”
It was Louis-Cesare’s turn to narrow his eyes. “You are speaking of fey wine? Do not tell me you are still taking that concoction.”
“Okay, I won’t tell you.”
“It is dangerous!”
“So am I, without it!”
“And that is worth risking your life? You do not know—”
“I haven’t had a full-on attack in weeks. And the last time I did, I was conscious.” His expression said he still didn’t get it. “I was conscious, Loui
s-Cesare!” I repeated, struggling to find words to explain just what that meant.
But there weren’t any. He’d never had to worry about blacking out for days, only to wake up in some unknown location, covered in blood and surrounded by corpses. He would never understand the constant nagging fear that next time it wouldn’t be an enemy I killed. That next time I would wake up to find my hands buried in the throat of a friend.
Something must have shown on my face, because his gaze softened. “I thought your friend was looking for a cure.”
“She was. She is. But so far, no luck.”
“There are other physicians. Have you sought out their help?”
“I don’t need them. I have something that works.”
“Thus far. You have no idea what the long-term effects might be.”
“Whatever they are, it’s a damn good trade!”
He set his jaw, that old stubborn look coming over his face. “There must be an alternative.”
