The Damsel and the Daggerman: A BLUD Novella

by Delilah S. Dawson

  “What do you want, Marco?”

  His lips tickled her ribs as he spoke. “Everything. I want to taste every inch of you and meet you a thousand ways for a thousand nights and hear you scream in my ear as you shatter under my mouth.” He pulled away, traced her curves up and down with his fingertips. “But since you’re asking, let’s start with this.”

  He spun her around and sank his teeth into her ass briefly as his fingers found her, spreading her lips and pulling her back gently. With a smile of satisfaction, she spread her legs to straddle his knees. Ready as she was, he slid in easily, perfectly, deliciously, making her gasp as she settled against him. He let out a strangled sigh and set his forehead against her shoulder, and for just a moment, she imagined she felt the wetness of a single, solitary tear.

  Then Marco’s arm wrapped around her, pinning her hands to her chest, and he rocked forward tentatively. With a little “Ooh,” she moved with him, grinding against him slowly. He moved her hair aside and caught the nape of her neck with his lips, finding a steady rhythm that battered against her, striking deep inside. With his arm still around her, his fingers wrapped around both of her wrists, she leaned forward, testing his strength, changing the angle just slightly, and his groan thrummed down her neck, down her spine, adding to the pooling pleasure at the core of her. His free hand roamed her body, cupping her breasts, pinching her nipples, and skimming her ribs, following the crease of her thigh to the crux of her, where he rubbed in time, moving faster in counterpoint to his thrusting.

  Jacinda threw her head back and wrenched her arms free with a growl. Her hands found his thighs, finally, and she rode him without shame or regret or thought, becoming a being of pure hunger and desire and hot, wet sweetness, with no past, no future, no deep-down sorrow. As many times and ways as she’d imagined being with Marco since the first time she’d laid eyes on him, it was better still than that.

  He fit perfectly with her, moved perfectly, knew just how to work her flesh with mouth and hand in a wild frenzy that drew her into ecstasy, into forgetfulness, into that pitch-black, starlit abyss where nothing mattered but this, but him, but the movement, the feeling, the riding. And still they moved faster and faster, until only his arm kept her upright and in one piece. She arched her back against him and whimper-screamed, her head over his shoulder and her fallen hair streaming down his back as he caught her mouth and swallowed the panting whimpers of her crest. With one last cry, she clenched her muscles around him and kissed him hard, until she felt the rhythmic pumping of his own release. The kiss ended when his climax ignited a second bloom of pleasure deep inside her, and she had no choice but to lean back against him and ride it out in one long, high scream.

  She went silent and collapsed against him, and Marco fell bonelessly back onto the bed, taking her with him. Rolling off his body, she put her head to his chest and smiled at his slow, steady heartbeat.

  “Damn, woman,” was all he could say before closing his eyes and going completely limp, his booted feet still on the floor and his undone breeches flung open.

  “Damn, yourself.”

  He flinched, and she nuzzled closer. “Maybe I should just say ‘Wow’ and leave it at that.”

  “Wow, indeed.”

  He curled an arm around her shoulders and pulled her close, brushing her hair back from her temples. “If I’d known it would be that good, I might not have resisted for so long,” he said.

  “I had my suspicions.” She ran a hand over the dark hair fuzzing his chest. “But I always like it when I’m right.”

  .11.

  The afternoon passed with that sweet, slow discovery of things above the neck. He liked poetry and read well, and she curled on the bed happily while he paced in breeches and boots and wooed her with words. She found his violin case under the bed when she stubbed her toe and persuaded him to play a little for her. It was slow and mournful and made her think of looking up through pine boughs at the winter sky, just before the snow came. After delving into her girlhood, he unearthed that she had once sung opera, and clad in nothing but her skin, she sang a few rusty arias for him, for which he went still and wide-eyed and reverent, which gratified her.

  He kept an eye on the clock, and she felt a twinge of sadness when he rose to prepare for the night’s show. His breeches had been utterly ruined, and she watched appreciatively as he pulled off his boots and stockings to change into a new pair that fit just as well. For all their leisurely and time-consuming lovemaking, she hadn’t seen his body fully exposed before then. Jacinda lay back and watched him go through his ministrations as if he were a classical statue brought to life, all strong lines and ideal curves and masculine power balanced with beauty and just the right dusting of dark hair. Only the scars marred his perfection, and she felt a twinge of doubt. Had she just slept with a murderer? He’d given her his body but not his truth. Had he shared himself with Petra like this . . . before she disappeared?

  “You going to come watch me throw some knives, sweetness?”

  She jumped guiltily. Of course he wasn’t a murderer, no matter how dangerous he appeared, no matter what the carnivalleros whispered, no matter what some biased rumor rag printed. He was watching her in the mirror as he brushed his hair and tied on his bandanna, and her heart softened at the smile in his eyes. She reluctantly stood and stepped into the petticoats puddled on the floor. She’d been here for hours, naked and learning about the mysterious man she’d needed so badly to bed. But now . . .

  “I’ve seen the show. And I like the private show better. I’ll be in my conveyance, working.”

  His eyebrows went down. “Abandoning me already?”

  She stepped behind him, pressing her bare chest against his back and wrapping her arms around him. He was about half a foot taller than she, and on tiptoes, her chin fit just over his shoulder with a possessive intimacy that made her feel warm all over.

  “You have your work, and I have mine. I’m not some fawning girl who’s incomplete without a man and needs to follow you about, mooning like a fool. But I’ll be counting the moments until the caravan is closed for the night and you’re knocking on my door.”

  That seemed to satisfy him, and he turned his head to kiss her cheek. She went back to the pile of clothes, unlacing her corset so that it would fasten down the front again and then pulling the laces just enough for decency. The skirt billowed over her head, and the jacket covered her arms. Her legs felt naked and free without the stockings, but the matched pair was ruined now, thanks to his clumsy knife throw.

  “That’s twice you’ve missed,” she said, holding up the slithery gray silk to show the bloodstained slice where his knife had found her ankle. She’d totally forgotten about the wound, couldn’t even feel it anymore as she laced on her boots.

  “The first time was your fault. You dropped the card.”

  “And the second time?”

  He stepped close, fully costumed and ready for the show, all vestiges of vulnerability replaced by the raw power that had originally drawn her to him against her will. “The second time wasn’t an accident.”

  “You hit me on purpose?”

  He tangled his hand in her hair and pulled her close, kissing her hard and deep and reminding her how very easily he could make her insides quiver.

  “And look how nice it turned out.”

  “You sly dog. I can’t believe you cut me just to get me into your wagon. I would have followed you in here willingly.”

  “Followed me? Girl, you broke in once already! But I wanted it on my terms. I wanted you in my arms, not driving me before you like some idiot sheep. And I wanted to give you a reason to run, if you were looking for one. Getting involved with me . . . well, I’m dangerous. And I’m not a man who lets go of things easily.”

  “Like your past, for example?”

  A rueful sadness filled his violet eyes. “Don’t rush me, sweetness. A man can’t gi
ve up all his secrets at once.”

  “I just want to know—”

  “I’ll tell you. In time. I promise.”

  She sighed melodramatically and buttoned up her jacket. He watched her fingers, not blinking, his desire to see the jacket back on the ground all but palpable. “Fine. Then I’ll be waiting to screw it out of you in my conveyance after tonight’s show.”

  His eyes raked her as she twisted up her hair. “What’ll you be wearing?”

  She smiled, smug as a cat in cream. “Nothing but a smile.”

  Before he could kiss her, she turned and left, letting her hips swing. She didn’t look back, just shut the door behind her as she stepped down to the ground. Far away, she could hear the banks rumbling over the moors, packed with city people, their pockets filled with clinking vials and coins. The carnivalleros were all in the wagons, preparing, as Marco was, for the night’s show. Being seen by the audience before everything was perfect was considered a grand misstep, and Criminy himself was walking the perimeter with a copper monkey scampering at his side, checking that all was in place.

  The smug and knowing smile he gave her made her roll her eyes. What did she care if the ringmaster knew what she’d been at with the knife thrower?

  “Finding success in your endeavors, Mrs. Harville?” he asked, giving her a polite bow.

  “I’m getting what I need, yes.” She kept walking toward her conveyance, and he fell into step beside her, swinging the monkey up onto his shoulder.

  “You’re not distracting my daggerman, are you?”

  “As much as possible, yes.”

  “That would upset me, if not for my wife’s charming insistence that your continued presence is the only way I can keep him among us. It’s hard to find a good knife thrower, you know. Especially one with such a lively reputation. I hope you don’t plan on ruining it with the pesky truth.”

  “You’re just vexed that I’ve been chasing him instead of interviewing you for your chapter in the book.”

  The ringmaster threw his head back and laughed, a wild sound that suited him perfectly. “For a journalist, you certainly have an honest streak,” he said. “Now, go back to your conveyance and find some new stockings before the two-headed Bludmen smell what you’ve been up to and get hungry. It would be such a shame if you died before you immortalized me in prose.”

  “I don’t take orders from you.”

  “I’d just hate to see you get hurt before you can completely corrupt my daggerman.”

  “Marco’s a big boy. And I’m not one of your carnivalleros, you know.” She flounced away to hide her embarrassment.

  “Keep telling yourself that, pet,” he called with another mad laugh. “You’re practically his assistant, which means you’ll be asking me for wages soon.”

  A shiver ran up her spine at the word “assistant,” but when she turned back around to shout at him, the ringmaster had disappeared.

  “I’m no one’s assistant,” she muttered under her breath. “I’m a goddamn journalist.”

  She was beyond the caravan lights now, out among the wilder winds of the moors. A bludbunny darted out for her, and she kicked it away, wondering where Brutus had gotten off to. She’d left the metal dog on Marco’s doorstep, but she’d seen no sign of it since emerging and had forgotten to leave it with orders. It had malfunctioned before and was programmed to return to the homing beacon in her conveyance. Still, out here, without her guard or an escort, she felt ill at ease.

  The field between her conveyance and the warm lights of the caravan felt larger, wilder, and colder than it did in the daylight. Thunder grumbled menacingly, and Jacinda hurried faster, stumbling over a rogue bludbunny and almost falling into the waist-high grass. Back on her feet, she broke into a jog and didn’t look back until she stood on the steps of her conveyance, unlocking her door by gaslight with shaking hands.

  Gazing back down to the caravan that was beginning to feel like home, she shivered. Criminy was nowhere to be seen, and the carnivalleros were in place, waiting for the crowd that was moving down the moor in a frightened cluster of bright silks. No one looked toward the shadowy conveyance on the hill. And yet she felt eyes on her, danger hovering near, dogging her every step since she’d left Marco’s wagon.

  Perhaps she should have gone to watch Marco’s show, paid her copper to wander again among the glittering golden lights and laughter, where things felt safe. But no. Foolish fears had never stopped her before, and they wouldn’t now. She didn’t know if Criminy had been joking about the dangers of his pet Bludmen and the wild animals, if there was any real threat other than the same strangely oppressing darkness that hung always over the moors.

  Drawing her curtains, she realized what was missing. She wouldn’t feel safe again until the dangerous daggerman was back in her arms.

  .12.

  Once she was fortified with a cup of hot tea splashed with whiskey, Jacinda took great care preparing herself for Marco’s visit. She’d spent time within the labyrinthine walls of a sultan’s harem once, and the women had taught her all the ways to entice a man using the full force of her beauty. With candles arrayed along the windowsill and soft rain beginning to play in counterpoint to the song she hummed under her breath, she bathed with a soft cloth and rubbed rich creams into her arms and legs. She plucked every hair that was out of place, lined her eyes with kohl, and brushed her hair a hundred strokes until it shone like fire in the candlelight. And although she’d told Marco she’d wear nothing, she slipped into a nearly transparent lace shift she’d found in a Paris boutique while shopping with a daimon courtesan.

  Midnight came, and she arranged herself on the bed like an odalisque, waiting for Marco’s knock to ring out over the sudden thunder of raindrops on the conveyance roof. At one o’clock, she yawned and went to check the door, to see if perhaps a shadowy form was crossing the moors under a dark umbrella, his eyes deeper than the sky. The door swung inward, and movement caught her eye. An envelope, pinned to the wood by one of Marco’s knives.

  Her hands shook as she pulled out the knife and slammed the door on the sputtering raindrops. Had he made good on his earlier threat and run from her, even after the intimacy and mutual hunger they’d shared? Was he having second thoughts about having a physical relationship, much less the real one she was starting to crave?

  There was no wax seal, and the paper was damp but not soaked. She hadn’t heard the knife, nor had she seen a shadow under the door. Moving to her bed, she clicked on the lamp and unfolded the paper. The familiar writing was hurried and frantic, the paper crumpled as if he’d written it against the conveyance wall.

  Meet me at 3 Cocklebur Lane in Scarborough. I’ve leased a small cottage by the shore where we can be alone for a while. I’m ready to tell you everything.—M.

  Her heart had sunk upon seeing the envelope instead of the man, but it rose again when she read the last line. If he was ready to tell her the truth, surely that meant he felt the same attraction, longing, and fondness, that the dangerous daggerman was ready to finally open up.

  She shed the nightgown and dressed in her heaviest adventuring gear, because even if her heart was ready to rush to him, her mind knew well enough that crossing the moors alone at night could be dangerous, even in a conveyance as well appointed and rugged as hers. Although the seaside was lovely, there were still bludseals to consider. Strapping her leather corset on over her canvas dress and pulling on thick gloves and the bracelet she always wore, she willed her heart to still and sought her thickest boots. Best-case scenario in this getup: she’d enjoy Marco’s delicious slowness as he labored to undress her.

  Brutus hadn’t returned to her conveyance, which troubled her. The mechanical dog was programmed to return when its orders were in question, but sometimes heavy rain could cause it to short out. She dug out her emergency homing beacon and pressed the red button, willing the dog to live up to the grand p
rice she’d paid for it and function according to its programming. When it hadn’t arrived at the door within five minutes, she decided she would ready her weapons and go anyway. Making brash decisions was her general mode of operation, and she wasn’t about to let one malfunctioning metal mutt keep her from Marco’s body and heart. She’d never trusted clockworks too much, anyway; not enough brain for her needs.

  Powering up the conveyance, she flicked on the outside lights and rain wipers and undid the brake. The caravan was dark as she rumbled past, with only one light shining from the dining car. She smiled to herself, hoping that Demi and the daimon boy might be sitting in a booth, fidgeting with their cups and flirting awkwardly. For a homeless collection of mismatched wagons and people, the caravan was starting to feel a little like home.

  Scarborough was the nearest city, and she remembered passing the white chalk cliffs and mostly abandoned seaside villages on her way to find the caravan. She followed the black ruts left by the banks over the lashing moor grasses, all the way to a high hill that showed the shifting sea, black and unfathomable, beneath a towering, jagged city like a beehive plastered in flotsam. When the bank tracks met the road to Scarborough proper, Jacinda turned left, maneuvering carefully down the white shell path that led to the beach roads. The rain had turned to drizzle, and the road was cut diagonally to keep it from being too steep and toppling the various conveyances of seagoers and fishermen. Her fingers clenched the trembling wheel as hard as they had curled around Marco’s bed earlier.

  As the main road leveled out and began to split off onto smaller avenues, she anxiously looked for Cocklebur Lane. She nearly missed the narrow white path bordered by a cliff, turning the conveyance on two wheels at the last possible moment. It was a tight fit, and the road was more of a footpath, but she wasn’t about to get out in the dark, alone, to feel her way along sharp rocks.

  A light soon appeared—a lantern hanging from the front porch of a stone cottage that would have been charming with just a little more attention. The porch sagged, the flowers in the pots were dead and crumpled, and a mobile of shells and bones clattered helplessly in the breeze from the ocean. At least there would be no blud creatures about, this close to the salty sea spray. Well—almost.