Wicked as They Come (50 page)

As I circled him, I wiped the stinging wine from my eyes with the back of my hand. I was dizzy with hunger, almost woozy, and he took advantage of my delicate condition to leap forward and slice my forearm with the jagged ends of his blasted bottle. I hissed again and went for his throat, but at the last minute something stopped me short. He didn’t smell so good, not any more.

The beast within receded, and my posture straightened.
My arms swung, useless, at my sides. His finger was in his mouth, and when he pulled it out with a dramatic pop, his lips were stained red with my blood. Now he just smelled more like me. And less like food.

“Not today, Josephine,” he said with a cocky grin.

I struggled to stand tall and not wobble. Now that he had swallowed my blood, the beast wasn’t controlling me, and there was nothing holding me up. I was empty as a cloud, light as a snowflake, beyond hunger. My heart was barely beating. And I felt more than a little dizzy.

“Oh my,” I said, one hand to my dripping hair. “I do believe I might swoon. And you’ve ruined my dress as well. Your lord is going to simply draw and quarter you.”

I did swoon then. As the world went black, I felt his hands catching me, his delicious—if no longer maddening—blood pumping millimeters away from my own.

“Easy, little girl,” he said. I smelled fumes and sadness on him and something else, something deep and musky and not quite right.

I was delirious as he gently helped me fall to the ground. I could barely mumble, “I’m not a little girl, and you’re the most badly behaved serf I’ve ever met.”

I fell away, and his laughter and music followed me into my dreams.

Before my eyes were open,
before I was actually awake, I was drinking. Four great gulps and I gasped for more. I clawed at the little glass tube held to my mouth and flung it to the ground.

“More,” I rasped. “I demand more.”

“How long have you been hiding in that old suitcase?” someone asked.

I opened my eyes, suddenly aware of the unladylike nature of my predicament. A man’s arm was around my
shoulders, his ungloved human hand holding another vial to my lips as I drank the blood as greedily as a child with holiday sweets. My hair had fallen into disarray, and some of the straggling locks around my face were tinted red with what smelled like old wine. I slapped the vial to the ground—after I’d finished the last drop, of course.

“You,” I said. My eyes narrowed, focused on him. I’d never seen so much exposed skin on a serf who wasn’t being offered as a meal. His eyes were bright blue, regarding me with curiosity and a noticeable absence of fear and respect.

“What did you do to me, offal?”

He chuckled and grinned. He had dimples. “I’m pretty sure I saved your life, right after you attacked me. I don’t hold it against you, though. Looks like you were drained.”

“Drained?”

“You can’t even stand, little girl.”

“Let us understand each other,” I said, enunciating every word. “I am not little, and I am not a girl. I am twenty-seven years old, and I am a princess. And you, whoever you are, are my subject. You owe me obeisance, fealty, and blood.”

“Come and get it, then,” he said with unexpected good humor. He held up a sparkling vial, the amber light glinting off the glass.

“You know very well I cannot,” I spat, struggling for control. I had never been so helpless, and it was untenable. Once I was strong again, he was going to pay.

“Then, we’ll have to strike a bargain, won’t we?”

“I don’t bargain.”

“Then, good luck.”

He stood and began walking back to his harpsichord. Long tangled copper hair rippled over his stained white shirt, and I pledged that I would one day make a mop out of it. Rage consumed me. Rage, and hunger.

“Wait,” I gasped, my black hands scrabbling against the
ground. I heard my long white talons scritching over the wood, their sharp ends useless against the effects of being drained. He had to be right; only draining could reduce me to mewling like a kitten. To begging and desperation.

“Hmm?” he asked genially, turning around to grin at me again with those hateful dimples.

“Let’s make a bargain.”

“I knew you’d see it my way,” he said. He walked back to me, pulling another vial from his shirt pocket. He sat down cross-legged, just out of reach, and began flipping it over his knuckles. It reminded me of a wolfhound my father used to have, the way she would gulp under her jeweled collar when he forced her to balance a bone on her nose until he gave her the signal to eat it. I gulped, too.

“First of all, who are you
really
?” he asked.

I closed my eyes, fighting for control of my emotions. I had never begged before, never been in any position that didn’t involve absolute power. I had definitely never been helpless at the bare feet of a Pinky, a serf, a paltry human. My hands made fists in the wine-colored taffeta of my gown, the talons piercing the ruffles and digging painfully into my palms.

“I am the second princess of Freesia. My name is Ahnastasia Medevna Krovnova. My father is the Blud Tsar of Freesia, and we reside in the Snow Palace of Muscovy.”

At mention of my name, his face underwent a strange ripple of emotions, from recognition to understanding to what appeared to be pity.

“Bad news, princess,” he said. “I follow the papers. You were declared dead four years ago.”

He cocked his head at me, squinting his eyes as he looked me up and down. I was accustomed to seeing awe, fear, and a polite admiration in a Bludman’s eyes. I had never had a human look so brazenly into my face, seeming to reach
down into my soul and question what was found there. But this man did just that. And the answering look on his face showed pity. I flinched under his scrutiny.

“I don’t . . . I can’t . . .” I faltered, and closed my eyes. “I need more blood,” I whispered. “Please.”

With another look of pity, he uncorked the vial and held me up just enough for me to sip it. I allowed him to touch me, and gulped the blood as politely as possible. I emptied the vial and licked the lip of the glass clean.

“I’ve answered your question,” I said, my haughtiness returning with my strength. “Now you will answer mine. Who are you? And what are you? You smell wrong.”

“I’m Casper Sterling,” he said. It was unsettling, the way his eyes held mine. I refused to blink as I waited for the answers he owed me. “I’m the greatest musician in London. And I’m mostly drunk.”

DELILAH S. DAWSON
is an artist and associate editor on
CoolMomPicks.com
. She lives with her family in Atlanta, where she is at work on her next novel.

Visit her on the web at
delilahsdawson.com
.