WindBorn

by Windborn (lit)

  She remembered what the guards had said and nodded. "She'll still send men after you if secretly," she said. "I know I would."

  He grunted again--whether in agreement or denial she couldn't tell. If might have simply been a statement he was in pain.

  "Water," he asked.

  She stood and walked over to her horse, unhooked the canteen and brought it back to him. She was a bit surprised that he was sitting cross-legged with his chin on his chest, hands lying limply, tiredly in his lap. "Here," she offered.

  He slowly raised his head, and then Lauryl Coedil's world came to a screeching halt.

  "Thanks," he said as he reached for the canteen she held in her hand.

  She couldn't move, couldn't take her eyes from him. Though his cheeks were flushed, the lower portion of his face covered with a scruffy beard and mustache, his hair plastered damply to his forehead, it was the pale, luminescent green of his eyes and the way his countenance had been crafted by the gods that took away her breath. Water was dripping down his beard as he tipped the canteen up to drink, cascading down his dirty throat, and his hand shook as he held the vessel to his cracked lips.

  "Fever," she heard herself say as she stared at the glowing brightness of his eyes.

  He lowered the canteen and wiped the back of his hand across his lips, wincing at the pain the action caused him. The slow sweep of his long dark lashes covering those sparkling eyes mesmerized her as he closed his eyelids. She followed his hand as he raked it through his oily hair and frowned.

  "I stink," he said.

  "Not that bad," she said and could have kicked herself when he turned the full force of his gaze upon her.

  "I can smell me," he disagreed.

  She mentally gave herself a shake. "We need to put distance between us and Blaithmoor," she told him. "I must insist, Your Grace."

  He shrugged carelessly. "Then you're gonna have to help me up, lass," he said in a grating tone.

  The thought of putting her hands on him sent a shiver of delight through Lauryl, and she got to her feet, holding out her hand to him. When he slid his into hers, the shock of the touch went all the way up her arm. She staggered as she pulled him up for he was mostly dead weight, and she had to steady him with he gained his footing.

  "Want the hat?"

  "Nay," he responded. "It stinks worse than I do."

  Her arm was hooked around his waist, and he was leaning on her as she led him to her steed.

  "Do you think you can mount?" she asked, but it wasn't the horse she thought about as she asked. In her mind's eye she saw him gliding over her, hovering over her as she lay tumbled on her bed. She could almost feel his cock thrusting between her legs….

  "I think so," he said and ducked his head--cheeks flaming--as though he'd intercepted her erotic thought.

  His body was giving off waves of intense heat yet she thought she heard his teeth chattering as they reached her horse. She held him steady as he lifted his foot to the stirrup. It took him two tries this time to bounce into the saddle, pulling heavily on the pommel. She mounted behind him, hoping that way she could keep him atop the horse if he passed out again. Her arms went around his waist to take the reins.

  "Lean back against me if you need to," she said.

  Glade was shivering now, but the sun was high overhead, beating down on his bare head. He wished he had the smelly hat. The bright light was escalating his brutal headache, and he could feel his blood pounding in his temples. The nausea was growing worse by the moment, but there was nothing in his belly to regurgitate, and he knew the dry heaves would be worse still. So he kept swallowing the bile that crept up his throat and kept his eyes closed to the savage light stabbing into them. He only hoped the woman whose name he'd yet to ask wouldn't be too long in finding them a place to shelter.

  He must have dozed off or passed out and fallen off the horse again for when next he opened his eyes, it was early evening and he was lying on a blanket staring at the stars between the spreading canopy of an acacia tree. Close by he could hear water tumbling over rocks, the scent of the river taunting him. Beside him he could feel the feeble warmth of a campfire, and he tried to lift his head, but the pounding agony ripped through his forehead and he gasped.

  Something cool and wet passed over his face, and he half-smiled at the sweet sensation.

  "You're burning up," he heard her say and tried to wedge his eyes open.

  The cool drag of the cloth over his fevered skin made him sigh with contentment even though he was too sick to thank her for what she was doing for him. His world was cantering off in a myriad directions--head swirling and pounding--body aching in places he didn't know were there. The thirst was so keen it vibrated through his teeth even as they chattered.

  "You need Sustenance, don't you?" she asked and smoothed his hair back from his forehead.

  With the last ounce of his energy he snagged her hand and brought it to his chest, placed her palm against the wild tattoo of his heart, and held it there. The smell of her in his nostrils was an intense torment and having her sweet flesh with its pulsing veins that close to the fangs that had suddenly erupted behind his lips was too much for him to stand.

  "When was the last time you fed?" she asked gently as she caressed his chest.

  "Don't know," he admitted, his voice little more than a breath of sound.

  She heard Prince Vale's words: "When we go without Sustenance, it does strange things to our metabolisms. Our systems begin to change, our organs dry out and that causes excruciating agony. We go mad."

  "Are you in pain?" she asked.

  "Lass, I am in agony."

  She eased her hand from beneath his. "Then drink," she said, holding her wrist close to his lips.

  His eyes snapped open, and he snarled at her, bearing his fangs. "Nay!" he hissed and tried to draw away from her.

  "You have to," she said.

  He could hear the blood pumping through her wrist in echo to her heart beat, and it was like someone pouring hot coals into his mouth. The pain was so acute, the need so sharpened and heightened, he whimpered like a child and bloody tears gathered in his eyes.

  "Your Grace, you must!" she insisted and pressed her wrist to his lips.

  He twisted his head away from her and tried to get up, but all the strength had fled his limbs. There was no power left, no ability to get away from the dark temptation she presented. He snapped at her, but she didn't flinch. He growled, but she held her ground, did not draw her arm back. He glowered at her, but all she did was squat there calmly with her wrist in sacrifice to his thundering hunger.

  "Please, don't," he pleaded with her for he didn't know how much longer he could resist the enticement.

  "Drink," she demanded.

  His gaze bored into hers. "You don't know what you are offering," he whispered.

  "Aye, I do."

  "Nay," he said, shaking his head. "You'll be starting something you'll deeply regret."

  She stared into his face and thought it was perhaps the most handsome she'd ever encountered. Drawn and pale as he was, his flesh glistening profusely with sweat and his eyes bright with fever, he was devastatingly attractive, and she found she was drawn to him as she'd never been to another man.

  "Drink," she insisted.

  "No," he said firmly.

  He refused time and time again yet she remained adamant, holding her wrist out in sacrifice, rejecting his denial to take her help.

  "You must," she said.

  "I can't," he whispered, trying to convey with his eyes that what she wanted him to do was terribly, terribly wrong.

  "You have to," she declared. Her gaze locked with his, and she refused to allow him to look away. "You have no choice."

  He couldn't fight her any longer for the scent of her blood was too much for him. It was washing over him in waves of need. He knew it was wrong. He knew what he was about to do was purely evil, but he did not have the strength to deny the thirst that was slowly driving him mad. He ran his tongue
over his parched lips one last time then opened his mouth and sank his fangs into her flesh.

  Lauryl flinched for the pain was worse than what she could have imagined, but it didn't last long. Ideally she thought there must be something in his saliva that was deadening her flesh for all she could feel was the touch of his lips now and not the sting of his bite. It was a heady sensation as he drew upon her arm--a sensuous one that made her close her eyes dreamily as he fed. Her hand went to his hair, and she stroked his head gently, beginning to feel lightheaded and detached.

  Glade knew he was taking too much for he heard her heartbeat stutter. He pulled back though he was far from being quenched then lapped at the wounds to clean them. The twin punctures would take awhile to close and a day or two to disappear, but his saliva would coagulate the blood. He glanced up at her as he gently kissed the wounds before lowering her hand to his chest once more.

  "Lass?" he questioned.

  She slowly opened her eyes and looked down at him, smiled sweetly, then caressed his chest beneath her palm. "That wasn't so bad," she said.

  He mentally cursed for already she was deep under his thrall though completely unaware of it. There would be no going back now. What was done was done, and she would grow to hate him for having set such perfidy into motion.

  "What is your name?" he asked, shame driving deep into what little soul he had left.

  "Lauryl," she answered and stretched out beside him, her head to his shoulder. "My name is Lauryl."

  She would sleep for several hours as her blood was replenished, and he pulled her into his arms, knowing when she woke, the anger and the recriminations would begin. He wanted this one moment of peace before the war.

  When Lauryl woke the moon was high in the sky, and it had turned cool. The man lying beside her was shivering uncontrollably, and his body was an inferno. He was drenched in sweat and muttering incoherently, tossing his head back and forth on the blanket. She stared at him in the moonlight filtering down through the branches, and it hurt her heart to see him in such distress.

  Sitting up, she laid a hand to his forehead and groaned. The fever seemed higher, and, when she removed her hand, her fingers felt slick and when she looked down at them, she realized there was blood mixed with the sweat peppering his flesh. She knew in that moment he needed more Sustenance than she could provide, and he needed it as soon as possible.

  Getting to her feet, she looked out across the valley where she had stopped when he had begun to slide from the horse again. It had been hard to ease him from the mount and drag him under his arms to the shelter of the acacia. Her back was still strained from pulling his weight across the ground.

  Somewhere out there had to be an animal she could trap for him. It had to be a large enough specimen to give him the nourishment he needed to throw off the illness that gripped him. Her mount was unsaddled, and she didn't want to waste time in saddling up so she bent down, picked up her rope and her scabbard, slung them over her shoulder, then swung up on the animal's broad back. Using its mane to control it, she nudged it away from the camp and into the chill night.

  She rode for nearly an hour in search of prey before she finally happened upon a ranch. There were cattle in one pasture and sheep in another. The decision was easy. Cows tended to be lumbering creatures but woolies could run along at a fairly good clip. Within five minutes of finding the ranch, she was leading a good-sized ewe back toward the camp.

  He was thrashing on the blanket when she returned, crying out with what could only be pain. She hurried to him, yanking on the rope to draw the sheep--which had no doubt caught the Faolchúnna's scent and was terrified--along. The wooly dug in its hind legs, bleating to high heaven, refusing to be pulled. Lauryl cursed a blue streak as she wrestled with the creature.

  "Bitch!" Lauryl finally hissed and lashed out with a doubled fist to smack the animal sharply on the top of its head. It stumbled and went down, dazed but otherwise unhurt by the blow.

  Glade came awake at the raucous noise and was surprised to see the woman kneeling beside him with a rather large sheep cradled in her lap, a blade to the animal's throat. "What are you doing?" he croaked.

  Lauryl ran the edge of her blade over the wooly's neck, shaving away a three inch wide swath of hair to reveal the pale pink skin beneath. "Making it easier for you. Now don't kill the little twit," she said. "We may need her again."

  Realizing what his rescuer was up to, Glade didn't need an invitation to feed from the beast. He struggled to sit up but needed the help of Lauryl's arm behind his back to brace him as he bent his head toward the wooly's throat. He buried his hands in the curly coat, pierced the animal's flesh, and drank greedily.

  "I mean it, Wolfboy," Lauryl said. "Don't kill the fucking wooly."

  Had he not been so ill, his thirst so overwhelming, her words would have amused him even more than they did. All he could do was nod as he drew the blood deep into his mouth and swallowed hungrily, his fingers clenching in the wooly's fur as though he were a kitten lapping milk.

  "And don't slurp your food," she chided him. "That's just gross."

  Lauryl was fascinated by the tensing and relaxing of his fingers. They were strong looking, and although the nails were longer than she was sure he wore them and had dirt beneath them, somehow that only added to the growing allure she was beginning to feel for him.

  Her gaze swept over his rumpled hair, and she longed to stroke it when it was clean to see if it was as silky in texture as it promised to be. It was a dark shade of brown that fell in thick waves just to his shoulders and bore a hint of gray at the temples. Shifting her attention to his profile, she cocked her head slightly as she contemplated his nose. It was a bit too long for his face, sloped downward a bit too sharply, but it was a very masculine nose. His lips had been fashioned for a woman's kisses and even with them being cracked and rough-looking, she longed to flick her tongue over their soft dark rose surfaces.

  He growled as though he'd intercepted that wicked thought, and she raised her gaze from his lips to his eyes and was surprised to see him staring intently at her.

  "Do you read minds, Wolfboy?" she asked in a husky voice.

  He nodded slowly but did not look at her or release his grip on the sheep's neck.

  "Then you'd best stop intruding into mine if you don't like what I'm thinking," she said. "I enjoy a good fuck as well as the next woman."

  Glade withdrew his fangs, retracting them quickly behind his lips as he lifted his head to look at her. He curled his tongue over his lower lip then swept it across the upper as he straightened, never breaking eye contact with her.

  "What?" she asked with a raised brow, amused by his expression. "Too bold for you?"

  "Too much information," he replied.

  "Don't tell me you're one of those men who don't believe in equality for women," she said with a pursing of her lips. "Who believe women should not have prurient thoughts, be prim and proper, seen not heard, and be as lusty as an overcooked noodle."

  "I think such women would bore me to tears," he admitted.

  "But you can't handle a woman who knows what she wants and goes after it," she challenged.

  "Aye, well I married one of those and look where it got me," he told her then lifted a hand that felt as though it weighed a ton to scrub at his forehead where the pain had not lessened.

  "Got a headache?" she inquired.

  "One from hell," he answered.

  She got to her feet. "I've something for that," she said as she bent over her saddlebags and began rummaging through them.

  He was cold again despite having a full belly and lay down with an arm over his eyes. The wooly plopped down beside him, its back to his side.

  "She doesn't appear to be afraid of you now," Lauryl said when she came to sit down by him.

  "She wouldn't be," he mumbled.

  "Here."

  He lifted his arm to see her extend a tin cup toward him. "What is it?"

  "Just drink it, Wolfboy, or suffer with th
e headache all night," she prodded.

  He pushed himself up on one elbow and took the cup. He sniffed the contents and wrinkled his nose. "That smells like sulfur," he stated.

  "Tastes about as good, too, but it works," she said. "I have migraines, and it's the only thing that helps me."

  He was staring down into the milky liquid in the cup. "I do, too," he said, "but the Healers never give me anything for them."

  "That will help," she said. "Now drink up."

  Cautiously, he took a sip, and the expression that formed on his face made her laugh.

  "Oh for the love of Alel," she said with exasperation. "Swig the shit down!"

  He gulped the brew, his face wrinkled like a child's, and when he swallowed, he shuddered hard, sticking his tongue out at the horrible taste. "Argh! My tongue is numb!" he protested as he thrust the cup back at her.

  She shook her head. "Such a baby," she labeled him, setting the cup aside.

  "That is the most gods awful crap I've ever ingested," he complained, laying down again with his hands covering his face. He shuddered once more then lowered his hands, his pupils already beginning to dilate.

  "Well?" she questioned.

  He stared up at the flickering stars framed beyond the acacia's limbs. "The headache's gone," he said, his tone filled with surprise. His gaze shifted to her. "That's some damned fine shit."

  "Aye and it's very addictive," she said and watched him frown.

  "Why is stuff that's good to you always bad for you?" he grumbled.

  "Sort of like illicit sex," she said.

  His frown deepened. "Is that something in which you engage in a lot?" he asked.

  "Every chance I get, as often as I can," she answered and stretched out on the other side of the wooly. She put a hand to the animal and began stroking it.

  "You were a bad woman," he stated, his voice beginning to slur.

  "I still am, and you don't know the half of it, Wolfboy," she said with a chuckle.

  He was having trouble keeping his eyes open, the drug having taken quick hold of him. He shifted to his side so he was facing her and barely noticed the wooly giving him a lick beneath his chin.