Blood to Blood (23 page)

Another week passed without even the whisper of Joanna's presence, but Colleen kept up her frantic schedule of cleaning and mending—a schedule broken only by nightly visits to a nearby pub.

But hard work and strong drink could not disguise the truth—no matter what Joanna had wished for her, she had been too late. Colleen was changing, slowly and inexorably. And she faced the change alone.

The infrequent London sunlight still warmed her when it touched, and like most of the sooty city, she relished the infrequent glimpses of a clear sky. But within an hour her skin would redden and blister and she would retreat to the cottage with a pounding headache that no drink could kill.

Her cravings were for stronger stuff.

When she made her way through the London crowds, canvas satchel looped over her arm, a wide-brimmed hat pulled down on her head, she would notice the men, weigh them like no other single women would weigh a prospect. The London dandy was too pale, possibly ill. The merchant was too old. No need to kill when the taste of a younger one would do no harm.

After a week of toying with what seemed a fantasy, she noticed a man eyeing pipes on display in a tobacco shop window. Hardly thirty, so young enough. Tweed coat, badly mended, which meant he likely lived alone. A bit of meat to his bones, as her mother would say, and healthy. A red face that spoke of blood flowing hot and quick. And he looked a bit dim-witted. She might be able to trick him into going with her to the cottage. She would strip off the sage green dress she had borrowed from Joanna's things, remove the tight starched collar of his shirt, flirt with him, kiss him, draw him to the bed. There she would touch him as Joanna had touched her, lovingly, gently, drawing out his passion. And in the moment when he gave it ail to her, she would taste him, drink from him.

As Joanna had from her.

What would he make of that? she wondered. Caught up in that moment of perfect pleasure, would he feel it at all?

He noticed her frank stare, walked to her, asked, "Are you all right? You seem a bit ill."

She tried to smile, played with an elusive strand of her hair. "A bit tired is all."

He touched his hat. "My name is Ronald Pepper, and since there is no one to introduce us properly, I must introduce myself. And you are… ?"

"Colleen O'Shaunnasy."

"Irish, you are."

"From Limerick. But that was a long time ago."

"Well, Miss Colleen… It is 'miss,' isn't it?" She nodded and he went on, "I am recently down from Hull and was just looking for a bit of lunch. Would you like to join me?"

"I would." She linked her arm with his. As they touched, a wave of dizziness rolled over her and she fell against him.

"You're not all right." He led her into the dim interior of the nearest cafe and to an open, shaded window. "Wait here," he said and wove through the empty tables to the back of the establishment, returning some moments later with a glass of cool water.

"If this weren't London, I'd swear you had sunstroke," he said.

"Perhaps I'm just hungry," she replied, wondering if it were true. She could not recall the last time she'd eaten.

He took it as a suggestion and left again, returning with two sausage rolls and two pints of dark ale. "I thought I'd take a chance that you would want something to wash down the meal. Beer is healthy, you know."

She bit into one end. As she did, grease leaked out the other onto her fingers. The meat was too spicy, the biscuit around it undercooked. She washed it down like some oversized pill with a large swallow of the ale.

"That's the girl," her would-be savior said, beaming as she ate.

"And how would you know about sunstroke?" she asked.

"A dozen years in India. One of Her Majesty's lesser civil servants." He went on. explaining how a brief stint in the merchant marine led to a petty position in vessel inspection. "Then I had a bout of malaria, nothing serious, but enough that it was advised that I come back to the cooler latitudes."

"And now?"

He was happy to supply details of a minor customs job, more details than she was interested in knowing. But as he continued, she began to know him and to like what she saw, enough that she was beginning to feel guilty. He had been so concerned, so kind. How could she use him so callously?

"Would you like something else to eat—kidney pie, bangers and mash, cheese and rolls, barley soup?" he asked, reading the chalkboard over the bar.

"The soup, I think," she replied, and again, he went off and ordered it.

Could she do this? The idea was growing increasingly repulsive, but it seemed she had no choice. The soup was delicious, some part of her was still aware of that; but it tasted stale, corrupted. She'd been raised on a farm, and a sudden flash of memory came back to her, how her grandfather had eaten the raw liver from the sheep he'd slaughtered, saying there was nothing more healthy for a man than fresh blood and flesh and how she must never do such a thing in the city because nothing was fresh there, everything was suspect. The first time she'd seen this, she'd gone behind the barn and vomited, and eaten no meat for days while her brothers and parents laughed at her. Now she wished she were back there with the same opportunity.

From his place across the table, Ronald smiled at her, encouraging her to eat. She forced the rest of it down, swallowed hard to keep it there and said she felt much better.

They ordered another round. She sipped hers while he gulped, ordered another. She began to wonder if the malaria story was made up, for he did seem to have a problem with drink. Good. She relished the flaw, especially when it made him weaker.

Three hours later, long after the cursed sun had crossed the horizon, they left the pub together. Ronald had far too much to drink but was nonetheless an honorable man. He wanted her address. She warned him that to try for home in his condition would likely lead to robbery or worse, and suggested he come with her instead.

He did not protest her idea overly much.

It was a mere half-hour walk to the cottage, and by the time they got there, Ronald had sobered up a bit. "It's all right, I live alone," she assured him and squeezed his hand before unlocking the door.

Once inside, she shut the door to Joanna's room and offered him a seat. She had no experience with flirting, but that hardly made a difference. He guessed what she had in mind, pulled her close and kissed her.

He was hesitant at first, but when she did not protest, he kissed her again, more insistently. She felt his tongue move between her lips and opened her mouth, inviting it in.

When the time came to move from sofa to bed, she went to lock the door. "You're not one of…" he began, voice trailing off, since he had no way of asking without giving insult.

"Just lonely," she replied and joined him.

He was clumsy, standing beside the bed and fumbling with his clothes and hers. She noticed but didn't care, far more concerned about how she would manage to cut him. Her teeth weren't sharp enough and, drunk though he might be, a knife in her hand would hardly be the start of the romantic interlude her act needed for success.

Ronald kissed her again, then lost his balance, sending her tumbling backward. She landed on the bed. He followed her but fell sideways, upsetting the narrow bedside table, landing hard on its edge and breaking the glass that she'd left on it the night before.

He rolled onto his back and swore, then apologized for the mild profanity. She might be acting the whore, but he persisted in treating her like a lady.

"You've cut yourself," she said, crouching over him and tilting his head sideways and down, finger exploring the skin.

"I don't feel… ooch!"

She held out a piece of glass. "I just pulled it out of your shoulder."

"A scratch," he said as she helped him to his feet. She sensed he was going to ask about a clean kerchief, and before he did she kissed him again with more urgency and pulled him down on her.

His hands were on her breasts, kneading them mechanically, as if he had been told that was what a woman liked but had no direct experience with it.

Perhaps he hadn't. Country boy, civil service. Perhaps he'd had some Indian woman who never spoke a word to educate him. Certainly he needed an education.

"Slow down," she whispered and rolled above him, one hand behind her playing with his cock and balls. He thrust upward, trying to push her back and up.

"Not yet," she whispered.

"Shouldn't I be using—"

She put her fingers over his lips. She might have no reason to believe it, but she knew it was true. Whatever change Joanna had caused in her had stolen that thing most natural to a woman. "It's all right," she murmured. "I cannot have children, nor will I pass any curse of disease on to you."

With that, she lowered her lips to his, then kissed the side of his neck, the place where she had so cleverly made the wound, licking off the skin that had formed on it.

Barely a trickle, but the taste was enough. Suddenly greedy to possess all of him, she let him enter her, pressed lips tight against the wound, and sucked.

He never noticed, and once when he started to move his head sideways to kiss her again, she began to pound above him, distracting.

He screamed, and in the sudden rush of passion and pulse, the blood flowed quicker, filling her mouth, her body. She screamed with him, head back, one arm wiping her lips dry to hide that unnatural lust, then fell beside him.

Their bodies were covered with a sheen of sweat. His quick breaths sounded almost like sobs. As for her, she could feel him on her lips, her throat, already pulsing through her… all the sweet sweet passion of him shared and diffused in a pleasant, rosy haze.

From beside her, he whispered, "Thank you."

She turned to look at him, in wonder. For a moment she had almost forgotten that he was present anywhere but inside her.

"Thank you," she murmured. And as his fingers brushed the taut nipples of her breasts, she shivered with delight.

Afterward there was the awkward fumbling with their clothes, the more awkward silence. Now, sobered through passion, he waited for an invitation to stay the night. Colleen couldn't offer it. This was Joanna's house, not hers, and she could return at any time. It was hardly late, and she hoped he didn't have far to go.

"Is there anything you need?" he suggested, wondering no doubt if her comment about loneliness was a ruse for more concrete needs. She shook her head.

"May I call on you tomorrow?" he asked.

What a dear man! She should send him away, far away, but there was no telling the effect the slight would have on him, or when that terrible need would strike again.

"Not tomorrow. Come the day after if you can."

"And we'll go to lunch, or would you prefer dinner?"

"Dinner." She kissed him good-bye.

Soon after he left, there was a knock on the door, a street vendor carrying a bouquet of yellow snapdragons. She came outside and looked around for Ronald, but he had gone.

The taste of him! The taste of if! The day after, she lived in a cloud of rosy haze. She had done it without any help, she was learning to survive! By the following morning, though, she became restless. The feeling grew through the day until, by the time Ronald arrived, she wanted nothing more than to repeat every detail of their last meeting.

He arrived a bit after four, this time in a carriage. She had no idea what a lesser civil servant might get paid, but it wasn't enough for this sort of luxury.

Unless he was courting her.

She was glad she'd worn the blue dress, the one Joanna had given her because the color was too pale against Joanna's white skin. It had suited Colleen then. Now the color still went well with her blond hair, but she had to pinch her cheeks to get a healthy look of color in them.

As they rode through Chelsea, Ronald told her that he thought she looked much better. "And no more dizziness, I hope," he added.

She shook her head. "And your cut?'

"Healing, I think. It chafes against my collar sometimes, but only a little. I can't really see it, though."

"Let me look." She did, noting sadly that the wound was indeed smaller. "I'll put a bit of alcohol on it later. Just to be safe."

He took her to dinner in a spot close to the natural history museum. She ate what he suggested, barely tasting the food, her mind whirling, trying to find some way to explain her needs, or if not, to repeat the marvelous accident of two nights before.

Hardly possible when tonight Ronald drank little or nothing. At dinner, he did not want to order brandy for himself, and she could hardly put herself at a disadvantage when she was the one with a secret to hide.