The Scarlet Deep
Page 91
Murphy curled his lip as he looked around. “Wasn’t there a better place to do this?”
Gemma’s physician raised an eyebrow. “Did you want to pour ten pints of infected blood down the sink in a five-star hotel? Where did you think we were going to exsanguinate her?”
She squeezed his hand. “It’s fine, Patrick.”
“It’s a morgue, Anne.”
Tywyll sniffed. “She ain’t gonna die. What’re ye worried about?”
“I’m fine.”
He looked over his shoulder at Carwyn. “You’re sure?”
“Lucien sent very detailed notes. As long as the doctor and Tywyll follow his instructions, everything should be all right.”
“And the donor blood is ready?”
“They’re standing by. She won’t wake until tomorrow night anyway.”
Murphy smoothed a hand over her forehead. He’d already insisted on a hospital bed instead of the usual metal table. Then he’d replaced the institutional sheets with a higher thread count and put a down pillow behind her back.
“Patrick?”
He frowned. “Hmm? Are you comfortable enough? Shall I get you—”
“I’m fine. Kiss me.”
She could see his fussing for what it was. Even though they had a plan, even though the human doctor was present along with her sire, he was still worried. He’d been the one to reassure her the night before, now it was her turn.
She tugged the end of his tie and pulled him down for a soft kiss. “I’m going to go to sleep, a chuisle. Just for a bit. And then my father will give me his blood and I’ll sleep some more. Then I’m going to wake up, and I expect you to be there.”
“I will be.”
“I also expect chocolate. And possibly a bottle of very good wine.”
A small smile broke through his anxious mask. “So noted, Dr. O’Dea.”
“Shall I keep making demands, Mr. Murphy?”
“Not unless you want to embarrass your poor da.”
The human doctor and Carwyn both laughed, and her father squeezed her hand.
“Let’s get on with it, then,” he said. “And lad? Be prepared for her. I’m older than the first time I sired her.”
“What does that mean?”
Carwyn patted Murphy’s shoulder. “Older sire, stronger amnis. It means she’ll truly be kicking your arse this time around.”
Murphy locked his eyes with hers. “I’m counting on it.”
“Do it,” she said.
Anne felt the soothing brush of her father’s amnis on one side, her mate’s on the other, then the almost imperceptible tug of her blood leaving her body. Her amnis spiked, rushing over her skin until her sire and mate calmed her. Anne’s mind clouded as the minutes passed. There was a clock ticking on the wall. An odd hum coming from the next room. Soft voices and whispered questions surrounded her.
Seconds dragged into minutes dragged into…
A shallow breath soughed through her lips.
Was death so quiet when he came for her again?
She thought she heard an old lullaby her mother had sung when she was a babe. But when she listened closer, she realized it wasn’t her mother, but her sire. Tywyll’s reedy voice surrounded her as she sank into the deep, his energy a gentle blanket over her.
Anne closed her eyes and died.
“NO!”
“Step back,” Carwyn told him, pulling at his shoulders. “Murphy, you’re going to break the bed.”
She was gone. Gone. Her amnis, the glowing life within him, had gone dark. Her face was slack, her skin almost translucent.
For long minutes, he’d felt it fading, but he’d held onto it, held onto the thread until…
Gone.
“Anne!” He clutched at Carwyn’s arm as the other vampire forced him to a chair and away from her body. “Let me go!”
“She’s not gone.” Carwyn brushed a hand over Murphy’s hair as the pain exploded within him.
It hurt.
Physically. Mentally. Murphy’s heart ached with the lack of her. The sound that came from him was a groan of rage and pain and loss. A dying sound wrenched from the depths of his soul. Carwyn held him by the shoulders, the vampire’s ancient bulk the only thing holding him back.
The human physician removed the lines running from Anne’s thighs, arms, and neck.
“It’s done. I cannot remove any more.”
“Tywyll?” Carwyn asked. “Do you have her?”
The old vampire leaned over his daughter, ripping open his wrist with his own fangs, holding her limp body in his arms as he tilted her head back and forced her mouth open.
Thick red blood dripped into her mouth, but Anne’s lips did not move.
Murphy felt the gathering rage. “Carwyn…”
“Hold, lad.”
Each second was an eternity. Anne’s father stroked her neck, working the blood into her system, forcing more down her throat even as Murphy saw the color draining from his face. Carwyn snapped at the doctor, who opened the ice chest he’d brought with him and tossed Carwyn a bag of human blood.
He handed it to Tywyll, still keeping a wary hand on Murphy. “Drink.”
Tywyll bit into the cold plastic with a grimace, but he did not move his wrist from Anne’s mouth. He kept ripping open the wound to feed her again.
After a dark eternity of minutes, Murphy felt it.
The first creeping tendrils of energy snaked from her body toward her sire. Her neck arched imperceptibly, and her mouth fell open as bright fangs grew in her mouth.
Gemma’s physician raised an eyebrow. “Did you want to pour ten pints of infected blood down the sink in a five-star hotel? Where did you think we were going to exsanguinate her?”
She squeezed his hand. “It’s fine, Patrick.”
“It’s a morgue, Anne.”
Tywyll sniffed. “She ain’t gonna die. What’re ye worried about?”
“I’m fine.”
He looked over his shoulder at Carwyn. “You’re sure?”
“Lucien sent very detailed notes. As long as the doctor and Tywyll follow his instructions, everything should be all right.”
“And the donor blood is ready?”
“They’re standing by. She won’t wake until tomorrow night anyway.”
Murphy smoothed a hand over her forehead. He’d already insisted on a hospital bed instead of the usual metal table. Then he’d replaced the institutional sheets with a higher thread count and put a down pillow behind her back.
“Patrick?”
He frowned. “Hmm? Are you comfortable enough? Shall I get you—”
“I’m fine. Kiss me.”
She could see his fussing for what it was. Even though they had a plan, even though the human doctor was present along with her sire, he was still worried. He’d been the one to reassure her the night before, now it was her turn.
She tugged the end of his tie and pulled him down for a soft kiss. “I’m going to go to sleep, a chuisle. Just for a bit. And then my father will give me his blood and I’ll sleep some more. Then I’m going to wake up, and I expect you to be there.”
“I will be.”
“I also expect chocolate. And possibly a bottle of very good wine.”
A small smile broke through his anxious mask. “So noted, Dr. O’Dea.”
“Shall I keep making demands, Mr. Murphy?”
“Not unless you want to embarrass your poor da.”
The human doctor and Carwyn both laughed, and her father squeezed her hand.
“Let’s get on with it, then,” he said. “And lad? Be prepared for her. I’m older than the first time I sired her.”
“What does that mean?”
Carwyn patted Murphy’s shoulder. “Older sire, stronger amnis. It means she’ll truly be kicking your arse this time around.”
Murphy locked his eyes with hers. “I’m counting on it.”
“Do it,” she said.
Anne felt the soothing brush of her father’s amnis on one side, her mate’s on the other, then the almost imperceptible tug of her blood leaving her body. Her amnis spiked, rushing over her skin until her sire and mate calmed her. Anne’s mind clouded as the minutes passed. There was a clock ticking on the wall. An odd hum coming from the next room. Soft voices and whispered questions surrounded her.
Seconds dragged into minutes dragged into…
A shallow breath soughed through her lips.
Was death so quiet when he came for her again?
She thought she heard an old lullaby her mother had sung when she was a babe. But when she listened closer, she realized it wasn’t her mother, but her sire. Tywyll’s reedy voice surrounded her as she sank into the deep, his energy a gentle blanket over her.
Anne closed her eyes and died.
“NO!”
“Step back,” Carwyn told him, pulling at his shoulders. “Murphy, you’re going to break the bed.”
She was gone. Gone. Her amnis, the glowing life within him, had gone dark. Her face was slack, her skin almost translucent.
For long minutes, he’d felt it fading, but he’d held onto it, held onto the thread until…
Gone.
“Anne!” He clutched at Carwyn’s arm as the other vampire forced him to a chair and away from her body. “Let me go!”
“She’s not gone.” Carwyn brushed a hand over Murphy’s hair as the pain exploded within him.
It hurt.
Physically. Mentally. Murphy’s heart ached with the lack of her. The sound that came from him was a groan of rage and pain and loss. A dying sound wrenched from the depths of his soul. Carwyn held him by the shoulders, the vampire’s ancient bulk the only thing holding him back.
The human physician removed the lines running from Anne’s thighs, arms, and neck.
“It’s done. I cannot remove any more.”
“Tywyll?” Carwyn asked. “Do you have her?”
The old vampire leaned over his daughter, ripping open his wrist with his own fangs, holding her limp body in his arms as he tilted her head back and forced her mouth open.
Thick red blood dripped into her mouth, but Anne’s lips did not move.
Murphy felt the gathering rage. “Carwyn…”
“Hold, lad.”
Each second was an eternity. Anne’s father stroked her neck, working the blood into her system, forcing more down her throat even as Murphy saw the color draining from his face. Carwyn snapped at the doctor, who opened the ice chest he’d brought with him and tossed Carwyn a bag of human blood.
He handed it to Tywyll, still keeping a wary hand on Murphy. “Drink.”
Tywyll bit into the cold plastic with a grimace, but he did not move his wrist from Anne’s mouth. He kept ripping open the wound to feed her again.
After a dark eternity of minutes, Murphy felt it.
The first creeping tendrils of energy snaked from her body toward her sire. Her neck arched imperceptibly, and her mouth fell open as bright fangs grew in her mouth.
