It was a seductive and primitive perfume to stir needs in the belly and in the blood.
She was only a whore, working the alleyways of London. Young though, and fair enough despite her trade, which told him it was unlikely she’d been at it very long. As the aroma of sex clung to her, he knew she’d made a few coppers that night.
He could hear tinny music and the raucous, drunken laughter from some gin parlor, and the clopping of a carriage horse moving away. All distant—too distant for her human ears to catch. And too distant for her human legs to run, if she tried.
She hurried through the thick yellow fog, quickening her pace with nervous glances over her shoulder as he deliberately allowed her to hear his footsteps behind her.
The smell of her fear was intoxicating—so fresh, so alive.
It was so easy to catch her, to cover the squeak of her mouth with his hand—to cover the rabbit-rapid jump of her heart with the other.
So amusing to see her eyes take in his face, young and handsome—the expensive clothing—and go sly, go coy, as he eased his hand from her mouth.
“Sir, you frighten a poor girl. I thought you be a brigand.”
“Nothing of the sort.” The cultured accent he used was in direct opposition to squawking cockney. “Simply in need of a little comfort, and willing to pay your price.”
With a flutter and a giggle, she named one he knew would be double her usual rate. “For that I think you should make me very comfortable.”
“I’m sorry to ask for pay from such a fine and handsome gentleman, but I have to earn my keep, I do. I have a room nearby.”
“We won’t need it.”
“Oh!” She laughed when he pulled up her skirts. “Here, is it?”
With his free hand he yanked down her bodice, covered her breast. He needed to feel her heart, beating, beating, beating. He drove into her, pumping hard so that her bare buttocks slapped against the damp stone wall of the alley. And he saw the shock and surprise in her eyes that he could give her pleasure.
That beat beneath his hand quickened, and her breath went short and expelled on gasps and moans.
He let her come—a small gesture—and let her dazed and sleepy eyes meet his before he showed his fangs.
She screamed—just a quick, high sound he cut off when he sank his fangs into her throat. Her body convulsed, bringing him to a very satisfactory orgasm as he fed. As he killed.
That beating under his hand slowed, stilled. Stopped.
Replete and sated, he left her in the alley with the rats, the price she’d named tossed carelessly beside her. And he strolled away to be swallowed by the thick yellow fog.
He woke in the here and now on an oath. The dream memory had awakened appetites and passions long suppressed. He almost, almost, tasted her blood in his throat, almost smelled the richness of it. In the dark, he trembled a
little, an addict in withdrawal, so forced himself to get up and drink what he allowed himself as substitute for human.
It will never satisfy you. It will never fill you. Why do you struggle against what you are?
“Lilith.” He said it softly. He recognized the voice in his head, understood now who and what had put that dream into his mind.
Had it even been his memory? It seemed false now that he was steadier, like a stage play he’d stumbled into. But then he’d killed his share of whores in alleys. He’d killed so many, who could remember the details?
Lilith shimmered into the dark. Diamonds glittered at her throat, her ears, her wrists, even in her luxurious hair. She wore a gown of regal blue trimmed in sable, cut low to highlight the generous mounds of her breasts.
She’d gone to some trouble with her dress and appearance, Cian thought, for this illusionary visit.
“There’s my handsome boy,” she murmured. “But you look tense and tired. Hardly a wonder with what you’ve been up to.” She wagged her finger playfully. “Naughty of you. But I blame myself. I wasn’t able to spend those formative years with you, and as the twig is bent.”
“You deserted me,” he pointed out. Though he didn’t need them, he lighted candles. Then poured himself a cup of whiskey. “Killed me, changed me, set me on my brother, then left me broken at the bottom of the cliffs.”
“Where you let him toss you. But you were young, and rash. What could I do?” She tugged her bodice lower to show him the scar of the pentagram. “He burned me. Branded me. I was no good to you.”
“And after? The days and months and years after.” Odd, he thought, odd to realize he had this resentment, even this hurt buried inside him. Like a child tossed aside by its mother. “You made me, Lilith, birthed me, then left me with less sentiment than an alley cat leaves a deformed kitten.”