BTB Excerpt, Chapter Three: "Back at the Beginning"
Chapter Three: Back at the Beginning
This is not my preferred method of coping with the pull I feel after being with a john. Far from it. Close proximity only reasserts the connection, making it that much more difficult to dispel. Perversely, however, every step I take toward the john’s residence eases the tugging pain that much more. And I hate him that much more. Because I can. I have that much free will, at least.
By the time Muscle knocks on the entrance to the suite—with a great deal more care, mind, than he did on mine—my vision is as red as the hallway. I am seething with hatred. And the painful tug is all but gone. But my previous conclusion that the vamp is simply unhappy, I discover, was a gross misjudgment on my part.
The door slides open. Muscle doesn’t set foot inside, just shoves me through the doorway. The blackness in the room envelops me, the very air throbbing with disapproval. Dragon’s blood incense is thick in the air, burning my throat and making my eyes water. I don’t remember it doing that before.
That’s my disapproving john looming before me; who else could it be, in this place? And I haven’t pissed off anyone else of note, not that I’m aware of. He’s so close his face hovers inches from mine, faintly visible in the ambient red lighting of the hall. Black lights gleam faintly from tracks in the ceiling. They don’t offer a great deal of illumination, but it’s enough to see.
Something is wrong, because he doesn’t look as I remember. He’s so close I can see specks of gold scattering through the various hues of yellow that make up his irises. Daffodil, mustard, and sunlight. Artfully messy hair hiding a widow’s peak; it’s just long enough to sink my fingers into, I recall, and soft as silk. I don’t remember it being pulled back at the nape of his neck, though. Strong jaw, speckled with a shadow of beard growth this late in the day. Or night. Whatever it is. A muscle is twitching in his cheek. Very patrician nose, I notice, as his nostrils flare a bit.
Okay. I swallow hard. No doubt about it, this man is the Monsieur of York. Ruling vampire of the metro.
Why didn’t I notice all these little details when he picked me up?
I was not tripping on anything. Every bit as sober as I am now. All things considered, I wasmore sober then. Tripping on a chi-high like I am, my perceptions are obviously . . . wonky.
The red lighting fades—Muscle shut the door, I’m guessing. Despite that, I can still see Garthelle quite clearly in the darkness. The vamp licks his lips, cants his head a fraction.
“I paid generously for what I took.” I shudder as my skin pimples at the feel of his breath. There’s a faint scar at the left corner of his mouth, pulling the otherwise flawless line of his upper lip into a slight but perpetual sneer. “I exercised restraint, and yet you repay me with common thievery.”
Okay, so maybe he’s sneering deliberately. I want to argue with him; I don’t consider what I did thievery. I press my lips together and manage to stay silent as his gaze flickers over my face, eyes roving incessantly. It feels like he’s trying to devour me.
“I should finish what I started.” His eyes narrow, dark brows drawing down like the string of a cocked crossbow. When even his threat doesn’t garner a response from me, he takes a slow breath. His shoulders lift with the effort, chest expanding; he’s not a thick, bulky person, but with Muscle on his payroll he doesn’t need to be. “You don’t yet realize what you’ve taken, do you.”
Of course I don’t . . . not completely. I never do, until my body has fully absorbed it. It burns through my bloodstream like a bad high, even now. And that’s not normal either, now that I think about it.
I shake my head. My throat convulses as I try to swallow enough moisture to form words.
He leans closer, just a fraction, and his nostrils flare again before he stalks off into the deep shadows. “You feel this?” His words float through the darkness, and the heat in my veins morphs into something like acid, devouring me cell by cell. Pain lances along every nerve ending in my body.
The sensation vanishes as suddenly as it started. I open my eyes to find myself panting, huddled in a lump on his thick black carpeting, the back of my throat so dry it hurts.
I’d been screaming.
“And this?” It’s like he has a control dial to my body. After cranking it one way, Garthelle decides to crank it the other. The blood feels thick in my veins, heavy with pleasure not entirely unlike post-coital bliss.
This is the pinnacle of embarrassment.
“Stop.” I bury my face between my knees and tighten my arms around myself, feeling the flush of heat rising in my face. “I’ll give it back, whatever it is.”
How much worse will it get once I’ve fully absorbed what I took?
His tread is soft across the carpet. Monsieur Garthelle squats in front of me; his fingertips brush against my cheek as he tucks my black veil of hair out of the way.
“It’s not that simple.” His gaze bores into mine. “The only way to do that is to finish what I started and strip you bare.”
I stare, cringing at the implications. His eyes look glazed and unfocused, but suddenly his fingers are no longer hovering just above my hair. They’re buried deep, against my scalp, curling into a fist with merciless force.
“You would kill me,” I whisper, pausing to wet my lips.
“There are some things you don’t understand, I see.” His yellow gaze sharpens, pupils tightening down to pinpricks. “First and foremost, the act of chi-theft against a lyche is a serious felony, punishable by death. We won’t bother to delve into the fact that this isn’t your first such offense. You’ve been lucky thus far. Because until now, you haven’t had the misfortune of stealing from a john who’s capable of making use of the link you forge.” He snarls the last words, fingers clenching tighter in my hair, ratcheting my head back until my neck feels like it’s going to snap.
Swallowing requires a full-body spasm, but I manage to work some moisture back into my mouth. “I didn’t know.”
“Ignorance of the law is not protection from it, youngling.” His lips twist into a grimace, and with a flick of his wrist, he releases my hair and tosses me away from him.
I hit the carpet so hard it knocks the wind right out of me. He stares off across the room, resting his forearms on his knees. It doesn’t occur to me to move. Even if I had breath to, I wouldn’t. It’s obvious my life is hanging in the balance, and precariously at that. The prospect of sitting up and meeting him eye to eye doesn’t much appeal at the moment, either.
“You’re unusual. Strong.” His gaze trails over my body, making me shudder. “I loathe destroying something so beautiful.”
I roll onto my back and push up to my elbows, my fingers digging into the nap of the carpet. It’s apparent he enjoys toying with people. Humans. Monsieur Garthelle, beautiful as he is, has a mean streak.
Most vamps are simply indifferent toward us, uncaring.
He straightens and walks across the room again, out of sight.
“You can’t walk the streets any longer.” His voice sounds firmer, his resolve stronger. “Not with the sheer volume of thefts you’ve orchestrated. The lyche community will not suffer you to live. The next john you take would bleed you dry and leave your empty husk in the gutter.” I hear him moving, restive sounds as if his resolve is weakening despite his efforts. When he returns to loom above me, his scowl is deeper. “And that, dear youngling, leaves me with a dilemma. I restrained myself earlier as a gesture of goodwill.”
Was it really? He doesn’t strike me as that sort.
“What would you offer me, to show restraint yet again?” His voice is abrasive against the residue of pleasure still coursing through my veins.
What would I offer? What do I have that he hasn’t already taken? What do I have that isn’t forfeit?
I can’t think of a single thing he’d value enough to be swayed by. Impromptu performances are totally not my forte.
[Go to Chapter Four.]
This is not my preferred method of coping with the pull I feel after being with a john. Far from it. Close proximity only reasserts the connection, making it that much more difficult to dispel. Perversely, however, every step I take toward the john’s residence eases the tugging pain that much more. And I hate him that much more. Because I can. I have that much free will, at least.
By the time Muscle knocks on the entrance to the suite—with a great deal more care, mind, than he did on mine—my vision is as red as the hallway. I am seething with hatred. And the painful tug is all but gone. But my previous conclusion that the vamp is simply unhappy, I discover, was a gross misjudgment on my part.
The door slides open. Muscle doesn’t set foot inside, just shoves me through the doorway. The blackness in the room envelops me, the very air throbbing with disapproval. Dragon’s blood incense is thick in the air, burning my throat and making my eyes water. I don’t remember it doing that before.
That’s my disapproving john looming before me; who else could it be, in this place? And I haven’t pissed off anyone else of note, not that I’m aware of. He’s so close his face hovers inches from mine, faintly visible in the ambient red lighting of the hall. Black lights gleam faintly from tracks in the ceiling. They don’t offer a great deal of illumination, but it’s enough to see.
Something is wrong, because he doesn’t look as I remember. He’s so close I can see specks of gold scattering through the various hues of yellow that make up his irises. Daffodil, mustard, and sunlight. Artfully messy hair hiding a widow’s peak; it’s just long enough to sink my fingers into, I recall, and soft as silk. I don’t remember it being pulled back at the nape of his neck, though. Strong jaw, speckled with a shadow of beard growth this late in the day. Or night. Whatever it is. A muscle is twitching in his cheek. Very patrician nose, I notice, as his nostrils flare a bit.
Okay. I swallow hard. No doubt about it, this man is the Monsieur of York. Ruling vampire of the metro.
Why didn’t I notice all these little details when he picked me up?
I was not tripping on anything. Every bit as sober as I am now. All things considered, I wasmore sober then. Tripping on a chi-high like I am, my perceptions are obviously . . . wonky.
The red lighting fades—Muscle shut the door, I’m guessing. Despite that, I can still see Garthelle quite clearly in the darkness. The vamp licks his lips, cants his head a fraction.
“I paid generously for what I took.” I shudder as my skin pimples at the feel of his breath. There’s a faint scar at the left corner of his mouth, pulling the otherwise flawless line of his upper lip into a slight but perpetual sneer. “I exercised restraint, and yet you repay me with common thievery.”
Okay, so maybe he’s sneering deliberately. I want to argue with him; I don’t consider what I did thievery. I press my lips together and manage to stay silent as his gaze flickers over my face, eyes roving incessantly. It feels like he’s trying to devour me.
“I should finish what I started.” His eyes narrow, dark brows drawing down like the string of a cocked crossbow. When even his threat doesn’t garner a response from me, he takes a slow breath. His shoulders lift with the effort, chest expanding; he’s not a thick, bulky person, but with Muscle on his payroll he doesn’t need to be. “You don’t yet realize what you’ve taken, do you.”
Of course I don’t . . . not completely. I never do, until my body has fully absorbed it. It burns through my bloodstream like a bad high, even now. And that’s not normal either, now that I think about it.
I shake my head. My throat convulses as I try to swallow enough moisture to form words.
He leans closer, just a fraction, and his nostrils flare again before he stalks off into the deep shadows. “You feel this?” His words float through the darkness, and the heat in my veins morphs into something like acid, devouring me cell by cell. Pain lances along every nerve ending in my body.
The sensation vanishes as suddenly as it started. I open my eyes to find myself panting, huddled in a lump on his thick black carpeting, the back of my throat so dry it hurts.
I’d been screaming.
“And this?” It’s like he has a control dial to my body. After cranking it one way, Garthelle decides to crank it the other. The blood feels thick in my veins, heavy with pleasure not entirely unlike post-coital bliss.
This is the pinnacle of embarrassment.
“Stop.” I bury my face between my knees and tighten my arms around myself, feeling the flush of heat rising in my face. “I’ll give it back, whatever it is.”
How much worse will it get once I’ve fully absorbed what I took?
His tread is soft across the carpet. Monsieur Garthelle squats in front of me; his fingertips brush against my cheek as he tucks my black veil of hair out of the way.
“It’s not that simple.” His gaze bores into mine. “The only way to do that is to finish what I started and strip you bare.”
I stare, cringing at the implications. His eyes look glazed and unfocused, but suddenly his fingers are no longer hovering just above my hair. They’re buried deep, against my scalp, curling into a fist with merciless force.
“You would kill me,” I whisper, pausing to wet my lips.
“There are some things you don’t understand, I see.” His yellow gaze sharpens, pupils tightening down to pinpricks. “First and foremost, the act of chi-theft against a lyche is a serious felony, punishable by death. We won’t bother to delve into the fact that this isn’t your first such offense. You’ve been lucky thus far. Because until now, you haven’t had the misfortune of stealing from a john who’s capable of making use of the link you forge.” He snarls the last words, fingers clenching tighter in my hair, ratcheting my head back until my neck feels like it’s going to snap.
Swallowing requires a full-body spasm, but I manage to work some moisture back into my mouth. “I didn’t know.”
“Ignorance of the law is not protection from it, youngling.” His lips twist into a grimace, and with a flick of his wrist, he releases my hair and tosses me away from him.
I hit the carpet so hard it knocks the wind right out of me. He stares off across the room, resting his forearms on his knees. It doesn’t occur to me to move. Even if I had breath to, I wouldn’t. It’s obvious my life is hanging in the balance, and precariously at that. The prospect of sitting up and meeting him eye to eye doesn’t much appeal at the moment, either.
“You’re unusual. Strong.” His gaze trails over my body, making me shudder. “I loathe destroying something so beautiful.”
I roll onto my back and push up to my elbows, my fingers digging into the nap of the carpet. It’s apparent he enjoys toying with people. Humans. Monsieur Garthelle, beautiful as he is, has a mean streak.
Most vamps are simply indifferent toward us, uncaring.
He straightens and walks across the room again, out of sight.
“You can’t walk the streets any longer.” His voice sounds firmer, his resolve stronger. “Not with the sheer volume of thefts you’ve orchestrated. The lyche community will not suffer you to live. The next john you take would bleed you dry and leave your empty husk in the gutter.” I hear him moving, restive sounds as if his resolve is weakening despite his efforts. When he returns to loom above me, his scowl is deeper. “And that, dear youngling, leaves me with a dilemma. I restrained myself earlier as a gesture of goodwill.”
Was it really? He doesn’t strike me as that sort.
“What would you offer me, to show restraint yet again?” His voice is abrasive against the residue of pleasure still coursing through my veins.
What would I offer? What do I have that he hasn’t already taken? What do I have that isn’t forfeit?
I can’t think of a single thing he’d value enough to be swayed by. Impromptu performances are totally not my forte.
[Go to Chapter Four.]
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