Page 42

I shouldered my way into the temple, bursting through the huge engraved double doors with a shout of despair.

A lone priest hurried toward us from the other end of the nave, passing the pews—

And froze when he recognized the skin tone of Garroway’s slack face and the fangs past his slightly parted lips.

He made the sign of the Truehearts, shouting, “Blasphemers!” and skittered off with his robe swishing, escaping the room.

The exit of the priest left me alone with my charge. He was heavy in my arms. I stumbled over to a pew, panting and heaving, and dropped Garro unceremoniously onto the bench.

“Garro! Can you hear me?” I lightly slapped his face.

Feeling slick warmth on the insides of my arms, I looked down to see splotches of blood coating my forearms, biceps, and tunic.

The firebomb had blasted him backward into an unconscious pile. Garroway was covered in holes from the explosion.

I got a good look at him with lit chandeliers hanging from the rafters of the high-ceilinged temple. He looked bad. His skin was marred and burnt near his front, and the scent of cooked flesh made me nauseous.

Somehow, his beautiful face was untouched—slightly bruised and ashen from soot, but not charred. He was lucky not to have any hair on his head to begin with or it would’ve been gone as well. Other various cuts and slashes scarred his flesh from our skirmish with the vampire assassins.

My mind spun as I appraised his body, biting my lip, wondering what I could do to help him. He suddenly coughed and I bent forward. “Garroway!”

The grayskin’s eyes flickered beneath his lids. They cracked open, the tinged crimson orbs dancing as they reached me.

I sat over him, my eyes bright. “Thank the Damned,” I breathed. “You’re alive.” He was still getting his bearings, eyes looking past me to the ornate chandelier hanging over my head. “What the fuck were you thinking?”

“T-Thinking of getting us out of there.”

“In an explosion of fire and fury?”

“You m-must admit, lass, it was . . . good theater.” A crooked smile split his wounded face. “And it worked. Or am I dead and somehow found myself in a pearly heaven?”

His voice was raspy and weak, but damn it all, I was elated he was alive. My instinct to nurture and chastise him for his stupidity dashed away in an instant when he threw that disarming smile at me.

I found myself cradling the back of his head as he tried to sit up. Garro’s eyes widened once he grimaced and sat against the seatback of the bench.

“We’re in a holy house,” he said.

His words were heavy, and their meaning hit me a moment later. “Shit!”

I scrabbled for his body to check for new wounds.

He gently took my anxious hands away, his touch warm and inviting. He was still smiling when he said, “Fear not, little honey badger. I’m not smoldering into an impious, sinful corpse. Not yet anyhow.”

I snorted a laugh.

“What does that say about this temple of yours if a dhampir is not burning in fiery hells when I step past the front door?” he asked sarcastically.

“It says they’re not as holy as they claim to be.” I gave him a smug smile of my own. Every human had learned from a young age the best place to avoid a vampire attack was in the holy houses, because they would burn from the Truehearts’ divine fire.

Now all that went out the window—complete horseshit, it turned out. More stories to scare children and make sure they attended Seventh Day mass.

Father Cullard used to take me and my Housemates from the House of the Broken to this very temple.

It seemed so huge and awe-inspiring then, as a child.

Now, the Temple of the True was little more than an elegant, ostentatious building in my eyes.

It held no power despite everything the vowagers and priests tried to make us believe.

The smallest vampire dwellings in Olhav were grander than this cathedral to my people’s faith.

Garroway leaned his head back, staring up at the ceiling. He winced and hardly moved. I could only imagine how great his pain was. “We h-have to get going soon,” he muttered. “Won’t stay safe in here for long. Especially if the militia comes looking for us.”

I chewed the inside of my cheek. “Can you walk?”

His head shook. “Not yet. Soon.”

My eyebrows lifted to my forehead.

“Vampires heal quickly,” he said. “Grayskins . . . less so. Still faster than humans. I have a few broken bones, I think. Nothing a few days’ rest won’t regenerate.”

“We don’t have a few days. A priest ran off, probably to go find the Bronzes. We don’t have long, Garro.”

His eyes met mine. I was shocked there was still mirth pooling there despite being gravely wounded and putting on a facade of strength and resilience.

“I enjoy when you call me that,” he admitted.

My throat was dry when I swallowed over a lump. I didn’t look away though. I wasn’t scared. Not this time.

Garroway had saved us both. He had done that multiple times now—first in the alley when I met him as a whelp, then in the pit at Manor Marquin when he could have killed me, and again at the manor when I was going to foolishly charge into the fray to try and save Lukain from his fate.

Now this. We had fought valiantly together but it had felt futile. I’d thought he held onto the fifth firebomb out of greed. Now I understood the man had ulterior motives more altruistic and practical. Protection.

That’s what this man represented. Born into a life of vampirism or not, Garroway Kuffich was a protector at heart. For some reason, he had chosen me as his charge.

“. . . ‘Nothing will heal your injuries faster than the blood of a vampire.’” The words poured from my lips.

Garroway tilted his head. “What’s that, lass?”

“Something Master Lukain told me.”

“You are not a vampire or even a dhampir.”

“No,” I said, and then lifted my bloody wrist—bloody from Garroway’s wounds, not mine. “I’m something different entirely, according to Skar. Something more .”

A shadow chased across his features. “What you’re saying sounds dangerous, Sephania.”

“It might be the only way we get you back on your feet in time.” Gently, I smeared his blood away from my wrist. I presented him with my arm, close to his face where he could see my veins calling to him.

Hunger developed in his eyes the longer he stared at my pale flesh. He became entranced by the prospect of feeding on me. His voice was little more than a croak and he gulped loudly. “Sephania . . .”

“Just be careful.” When he looked at me in confusion, I bowed my head. “Lukain changed after he drank my blood. I don’t know what to expect. Only that it will heal you swiftly.”

Garroway pressed his hand behind my arm, bringing my wrist to his lips. He glanced over at me with a helpless, hungry expression. “You’re certain?”

I nodded decisively. “Do it.”

His lip twitched. He bared his fangs. The pointed teeth shimmered in the glow of the temple’s chandelier.

When his teeth pierced my flesh, a rush of sensations roared through me. It felt like an innocent kiss at first—warm, tempting—before expanding with a slight tug of pain that quickly melded into unimaginable pleasure.

I closed my eyes to keep them from rolling back. As he gulped on my blood, tendrils of red running down his chin while his eyes remained closed, I lost myself just as much as he did.

His fingers gripped my forearm tighter. His head tilted and he dug in, getting more than his fill, until it felt as though he were penetrating through my soul.

I was ashamed to admit it, but I felt the rush of excitement, anticipation, and desire in places I hadn’t expected—places I remembered feeling with Lukain, between my legs and in my most sensitive areas.

Arousal made my blood burn with need. I let out a small whimper. Garroway pulled back just in time before the sensation could swallow me completely and cause me a mortifying climax.

It was a rushing flood of relief that filled me as the half-blood fed on me. My skin was coated in sweat once he was finished. His eyes opened and gleamed with new brightness, the crimson orbs twinkling.

I leaned forward. His lips, covered with my blood, looked so inviting. Even worse was when his tongue slid across his lower lip and finished lapping me up.

“Garroway . . .” I eked out. My lips pressed together before I realized what I was doing. Even after he stopped, the needful sensation didn’t vanish. It only grew stronger. The dampness between my legs was undeniable. I had to have him.

When my lips ghosted over his, I moaned. My hand fell to his lap, where an impressive protrusion had begun to throb. My nipples peaked as I pressed my chest against his, gathering him in my arms. The rushing blood in my ears drowned everything away, everything, everything—

“Sephania.”

His soft hands fell on my shoulders, gently prying me away from him. It was an agonizing rejection.

The lone word forced my eyes open. I stared into his dancing, glittering eyes, wanting nothing more than to lose myself in them. My palm glided over the hard, restrained mound between his legs.

“What . . . what is it?” I breathed. There was a peculiar look on his face, one of resistance and tension. “Do you not want me, Garroway?”

My voice didn’t sound like my own. It sounded like it was coming from a third spirit, watching this intimate situation play out, pulling the strings of me like I was nothing more than a puppet to be played with.

Garroway leaned closer. His warm breath washed over my ear.

“As much as I want to desecrate this holy house with you, I don’t want you losing yourself to me on account of your blood.

” He pulled me back slightly, eyes flaring with vitality.

“I want you all on your own, in complete control of your mind.”

My dry lips fell open. I licked them, wetting them. My stuttering heartbeat slowed in my chest. I felt drunk and woozy. “You . . .” I tried again. “You have more honor than I, Garroway Kuffich.”

His lips twisted in a sad smile. “Not even close, lass. I simply know when I want something, and I know not to jeopardize that want over a simple bloodletting. Once you recover, you’ll come to your senses.”

“And if I still want you then?”

“Come to me. I’m not going anywhere. I promise.”

My breath hitched. His oath was all I needed to hear. I nodded in understanding. “How do you feel?”

His eyes glanced down to his lap, where my hand still precariously rested on his bulge. “Better already.”

I pulled my hand back like he was a burning furnace. “Shit,” I hissed. Red the color of his eyes flooded my cheeks. “Sorry.”

He looked amused. “Don’t be. To answer your question, I think I’m okay now. You were right, there’s something special about your blood, lass. I don’t understand it yet, it’s hard to explain—”

“You’ve only just drank.”

“I already want more. That’s a dangerous thing.”

“You can walk now? Shall we get going?” The spell was broken, though our voices were low and my need was still great. I respected the man for not accepting my advances, even if he clearly pined for them as well.

Garro winced. “Yes, erm . . .” His eyes trailed south to his lap. The painful-looking throbbing hadn’t abated. If anything, it had grown larger and more desperate, filling out his pants. “. . . Still can’t walk quite right.”

I barked a laugh. Then I leaned forward and pressed my forehead against his. “Once you’re ready then, we’ll get going back to Olhav.”

“The feel of your skin against mine isn’t helping.” His voice was choked.

I rolled my eyes as I reeled back, withdrawing my forehead from his. “Fine, you wicked bastard.”

He gave me a roguish smile. “There’s my girl. Keep talking to me like that and we may never get out of here, little honey badger.”