The Key (Sanguinem Emere) (13 page)

She sets me down on something soft and leathery, a sofa I think, and promises to return in a moment with something to clean me up. I don’t want to know why, but I do remember somebody telling me once that head wounds bleed really badly even though their effects may not be as dire. Will my injury earn me a slight reprieve from Dimitri’s anger?

Hands shake me and someone plays a cruel drumbeat on the top of my head as I flutter my eyes open again.

“Eva!”

I look up into Cecily’s concerned face as Delilah’s hand unclenches from my shoulder.

Groaning, I glare at the both of them, “Could you two please keep your yelling to a minimum?”

“You fell asleep,” Delilah states in a reedy, overwrought tone, “We were worried you may have concussion or something.”

“Yeah, well, since I woke up when you screamed at me, I probably don’t. So relax.”

“How do you know? What do you know about concussion?”

“Absolutely nothing.” Memories of the day creep over me like someone has just opened a window onto an ice cold evening, “Is Dimitri here yet?”

“No, stop worrying, you’re going to give yourself face crinkles.” Cecily’s voice sounds suspiciously like what mine used to when I would pull the age card over her during our numerous arguments. Almost as though our roles have switched just for this moment in time.

“D told you?” The question earns me an accusatory glance from Delilah as she clearly mistakes my grimace of pain for a look of annoyance.

“She did.”

“Are you mad at me too?”

Cecily ceases her fidgeting at my head. I can feel something warm trickling through my hair; hopefully it’s water this time. She glances into my eyes with surprise and what looks a bit like hurt, “No one is angry with you.”

“But he will be.”

“Maybe,” She continues her work on my head, speaking off-hand as though her failure to note my need for a denial of my statement is not driving knives through my lungs, “He can be unpredictable sometimes. But he wants us to succeed. And he will give us many opportunities before he loses his patience.”

She smiles at me and I can feel the warmth of her sunshine contentment thawing my chilled blood.

“But I have failed him.”

“Yes, but there is always tomorrow. He is kinder than we give him credit for at times.”

At that moment the door is slammed open and a starburst sparks like a firework in front of my eyes as another needle of agony shoots into my skull at the blast of noise.

Levi lopes into the room, his hair lank around his face, but still immaculately curling.

Cecily rolls her eyes at me before she turns to him, a perfect, petite little smile plastered over her pretty face.

“We were not done talking,” He mutters as he virtually ignores Delilah and I. “Miss Von Hagt has verified your location as of this afternoon and I do feel the Master will be somewhat displeased with this information.”

Now that he has mentioned her, I notice Melinda lurking behind him, just beyond the reach of the door. Her face bears a striking resemblance to an alley cat having spotted a fat, alley rat.

For the briefest of moments, so quick that I believe I may be the only one in the room to have noted it, Cecily’s eyes cinch closer together and her lower lip trembles. I want to reach out for her as the unknown fear becomes apparent, but even in my nonsensical state I can see that drawing attention to her discomfort may not be the most effective way of dealing with the issue.

“Can we discuss this somewhere else?” Cecily queries softly as she turns to look at the offending man.

“Very well. I will meet you and Miss Von Hagt in the study.”

His tone is final and Cecily evidently registers this as she leaves the room, meekly; not glancing in mine or Delilah’s direction as she goes. When she is out the door, Levi turns to us and states, “The Master has business to attend to and will only be available a bit later.”

He looks me up and down, lying on the sofa with pink water dripping down my face from a towel on my head, “He will attend to you at his leisure. Perhaps you should get some rest, Miss Wright. Unless you would like me to arrange for some medical assistance?” He kneels down beside me, near shunting Cess out of the way, wringing out the towel and replacing it gently

I shake my head rapidly, causing the brooding ache to flare to life once more. “No. I’ll be fine, thank you.”

He nods and leaves, pulling the door shut heavily enough for it to slam. I clutch my head as Delilah sighs.

“Right, let’s get you into bed. I will explain the situation to Dimitri when he makes his rounds.”

“I’ll be fine, D.”

“You know, you keep saying that to me, but really, I’m not seeing any improvement,” Her voice is hard and cynical and it hurts my sensibilities to hear it. She’s not referring just to the aching globe that is my head.

I turn my face away from her. I’d rather prefer to nod in agreement than argue with a decision-laden Delilah.

She assists me to stand, her hands somewhat less than gentle as we limp together on the long journey toward my room. Delilah remains moderately silent the entire way, and while I would normally be distraught at her anger with me, her hand around my shoulder frequently strokes the bare skin there in a nurturing gesture, indicating her affection and concern. She can’t be that angry with me.

I relax a little.

Finally we reach the door to my quarters and, I have to admit, if we had taken even one step further, I would have been whining for a pain killer or a tranquiliser. Every jarring footstep rocks through my skull like a mushroom bomb. My head feels like it’ll drop off of my shoulders at any moment without warning and bounce down the stairs. A macabre basketball.

Delilah tucks me into bed and turns the bedside lamp down to a dim glow, just enough so that I don’t wake in utter darkness again. Once she has administered to me as far as she can she leaves the room. I don’t stop her to talk.

I just want to forget the hours behind me. And as ashamed as I am of the fact, I will gladly allow her to tell Dimitri about what transpired this day. Rather that, than having to tell him myself, toes nervously scraping over the floor, eyes avoided, hands clasped in shame.

Barely a moment passes and I can feel sleep tugging at my skirts. Delilah didn’t undress me so I lie here in a red, satin dress; far too tight for my frame. At least I’m not wearing the heels. I can imagine what fun sleep would have with that.

I let my eyes slide closed and am unastonished to be greeted with darkness.

Grateful and content.

I cannot remember what I dreamed in the aeons that passed since I let my eyes shut themselves against the tribulations of a dismal Tuesday. But the sound of my door clicking closed has my senses snap back drastically, and I open my eyes in confusion. Didn’t she leave a while ago already?

How long have I been asleep?

To my intense mortification, Dimitri steps out of the darkness into the light emanating from the small, night light beside me. He seems a midnight messiah in the dichotomy of his appearance – His suit, a black and white affair reminiscent of the businessman I know him to be, while his curling black hair, melding into the bristles of his thick, silken beard, so dark as to almost be indigo, makes a Christ figure of him. He appears a part of the shadows, as though they hesitate to release him to the ravages of light. But a pity it would be. He was made to be seen.

His eyes gleam in the recesses of his face as his beard almost hides the gentle smile on his lips.

Not now, I can’t help thinking. Not like this with me lying here, rumpled and groggy, a knot of blood still stuck to my hair and what feels like crusted blood on my cheek. Why does he have to come to me now?

It’s a moment or two before I even remember why I was terrified to face him in the first place and when the memory hits me, my breathing turns laborious. I find it difficult to draw in oxygen in the face of my own shame.

I close my eyes again, hoping his appearance in my room is just a figment, a nightmare I have woken into; one of those layered sleep patterns, when you think you’ve woken up, but really your subconscious is just playing tricks on you.

But even as my eyes black out, I know I have just been deluding myself thinking he would allow Delilah to take the blame for my behaviour. I don’t need the definite, cool kiss he lays on my lips to encourage me to look at him and face my defeat. But it is appreciated. My heart slows its painful rhythm somewhat.

On his face there is a smile, but his eyes are far too intent to match it, as though he’s boring into me with a telepathy that leaves my thoughts bare and vulnerable for him. Hacking at the muck in my brain to get to the truth of how dismally I failed at the one thing he asked of me.

Or his mind is on other things entirely.

“How are you feeling?” He asks me kindly.

Of course, kindness is the last response I’ve been expecting and so my face crumbles, much to my horror, and even as I try to sniff them back, tears seep from the corners of my eyes, assuredly leaving my face in even more of a blotchy red mess than it was a moment ago.

Once more I’m reminded of what a pathetic mess I’ve become. This is not me. This has been me for almost a year now, but it isn’t me. I’m better than this crying, flushed, blotchy cow that sits in front of the one man I want to be better for.

I will not look at him, I think as I reach up to wipe them. Perhaps if I can remove the evidence and not witness the look of pity and embarrassment for me on his face, I can pretend for a moment longer that he did not see them.

But his fingers trace the edges of my face, wiping at the tears and grazing over one of the neglected, dried up blood trails. He sits back and thoughtfully places the now vermillion-stained fingers to his mouth. Almost absent-mindedly he lets the finger slide between his lips and sucks on it. His face shifts briefly to a look I cannot determine. A frustrating and humiliating thing for me. I have never encountered a facial expression I could not determine. But this one seems condensed; a ream of emotions at once. The most obvious one being lust. My heart thuds for a second until I realise my mistake. Not lust. Hunger? I can’t be certain. But not traditional lust as I know it.

Whatever the intention of the distant gaze clouding his sight, the vision of him leaning over me with that look on his face, that look torn between hunger and desire, that look of… passion? It makes my fingers ache to stroke his face, to graze over his skin and through his beard. It makes my skin languish for his.

I wish I could know what he’s feeling. If nothing else than to know what move to make next. Never have I felt this off-balance. This at odds with a man. Though, there have been so few.

I slide myself up against the wall behind me and lean back, trying not to jolt my body any more than is entirely necessary for the movement. Although I am inclined to shake myself from my appalling thoughts.

As quickly as the strange, indecipherable mask crosses Dimitri’s features it is gone. His face returns to the placid, almost cheerfully distracted intensity it struck me as before. A heart flutter I did not realise was being enticed in my chest settles down as he brushes his fingers across my hand.

“I hear you had quite the accident.”

“It’s not so bad,” I stammer. I feel like a foolish schoolgirl. He was always so easy to talk to before. Why do I feel now as though I should wait for his approval before speaking in his presence?

His smile slips away and a shadow of a glance, closer to what I had been fearing I would see on his face, deepens behind his eyes. Disappointment. His left eyebrow raises itself in question and the error of my statement becomes plain to me.

How could I be so stupid?

“…Master.”

The serene smile returns as though it was never wiped away and in its wake lies a hint of pained resignation. Almost a disappointment in my maddening response? I must have been imagining that. Everyone else in this house seems to believe that “Master” is the title he expects and approves of. Don’t they?

“Let me see.”

Obediently, I lean forward, exposing what feels like a tunnel toward the centre of the earth to him. His hands graze over the painful, bruised area surrounding it and he avoids touching the wound itself.

All I can think is that my gratitude could not be greater for the care he takes with it.

Eventually he ceases prodding at the injured tissue around the cavity and pushes me back to lean once again against the wall. He stands and walks over to a cabinet beside the armoire. A cabinet I had not taken note of really until now. My mind had been sincerely preoccupied.

With his back turned to me and his shape somewhat indeterminate in the night of the room, I can hear a gentle clinking and am consequently unsurprised when he turns back with a crystal glass in his hand, filled with a dark, thick textured drink. He glides back to the bed and offers me the beverage.

The smell overtakes me long before he reaches my bedside. The same drug Cecily fed me only last night.

Seeing the hesitation on my face, his smile wavers again, “Drink it, Eva. It will aid the healing process.”

I glance in consternation at the drink. Well, my mind interjects, unbidden, that would explain what the hell is wrong with me. I’m involved, as my beloved brother so eloquently put it, in some sort of hippie cult where the leader feeds the girls Rohypnol with the added benefit of a delightful smell and then takes advantage of them when they’re at their weakest.