The Damsel and the Daggerman: A BLUD Novella (6 page)

His lips brushed her ear, running down her hairline to the high collar of her dress. She’d never hated fashion so much, never resented the way people in Sangland were forced to cover so much skin just to stay alive. As his mouth skimmed down the curve of her neck, she could feel the heat of his breath through the fabric, and when his teeth found her shoulder, she let out a small moan. One hand still pinned both of hers to the wood, his other hand tight on her hip, moving around to the front, to the sensitive crease just under the hipbone. Through layers of skirts, his hand steadily followed the line of her corset to where it came to a point, right at the crux of her.

“Don’t move your hands,” he whispered in her ear. “Or I stop.”

He released them, and they stayed pinned to the wood, flat, one on top of the other. His right hand traveled with careful, cruel slowness, down her wrist, past the sensitive furrow of her elbow, down her shoulder, still wet with the marks of his teeth. All the while, his left hand rubbed through her skirts, back and forth, hard enough that she could feel it but softly enough that it provided no relief. Over the curve of her ribs, the valley of her corset, the swell of her hip, his right hand traveled with leisurely abandon, never pausing, even when she strained for his touch. When his left hand left off its work, she groaned. But she swallowed the sound when she felt him move back and downward, palms gripping her hips as he knelt behind her.

She almost turned around, but he had burned it into her:
don’t move
. His hands caressed her ass reverently through the bustle and skirts before running down the outsides of her legs, past her knees, all the way down to the tops of her boots, just above her ankles. Damn. If she’d known he’d get this close, she would have worn the elegant boots with the sharp heels, the ones that laced up to her thighs. His fingers were feather-light as he moved them to the insides of her legs and trailed them upward, skimming over her fashionably ripped stockings. When he found the insides of her knees, they nearly buckled. And as he reached the softness of her thighs, he stood back up, dragging her skirts up with him and exposing her legs to the chill air.

Teeth clenched, she closed her eyes and set her forehead against the cool wood, just under her wrists. She felt with exquisite slowness and anticipation the moment when his hands changed courses under her layers of skirts and petticoats, the left one continuing up the tender inside of her thigh while the right one spread wide and caressed her ass briefly, gently, before curving around to her front, just under the edge of her corset. At the exact same moment, his fingers found the crux of her from either side, and she gasped and whimpered.

One finger slid up and curled inside her with expert precision, and she spread her legs wider to accommodate him, fighting her every instinct to use her hands, her mouth, anything to touch him. But:
don’t move
. Or he would stop. So her own fingers curled against the wood in imitation of his fingers inside her, her nails raw against the gloves. Marco’s body pressed hard against her as he worked her with both hands, and she wanted nothing more than for him to slide up and enter her with the same damnable slowness. As his finger rubbed up and down, barely dipping in and out, his teeth caught the lobe of her ear, gentle but unyielding.

“You want to let go. You want to drop your hands. You want to turn around and feel my tongue in your mouth, moving in time with my finger. You want to press against me, feel your nipples rubbing against the corset, against my chest. But you can’t. You can’t move.”

But she could, just the tiniest bit, pressing her ass more firmly against him. He responded by gently sliding in a second finger, and she shuddered with the first promising echo of the release to come. He let loose his teeth, and his tongue curled down around the shell of her ear, caressing the tender hollow where it met her jaw and sending shivers that made her shoulders shake. Still, she didn’t move her hands from their place on the door; still, she didn’t open her eyes.

God, this maddening slowness, the pressure building, every drop of her pleasure completely out of her own control. She was accustomed to a passionate frenzy on the outside, to writhing bodies and flashes of teeth by firelight and moving a clumsy but eager hand to right where she wanted it. But the tempest was inside her now, the outside as still as a moonless night, even his clever fingers hidden by layers and layers of skirts. Her heart and her damnable panting were the only things taking on speed, and she began to understand that Marco wasn’t going to be the easy mark she had supposed. She had expected a bad boy, full of himself and easily led into making the mistake of confession, whether under influence of wine or woman. Instead, he had trapped her, and she’d never been so wet, so wanting, so desperate.

“How long will you make me wait?” she whispered.

She felt his chuckle rumble against her back. “Wait for what?”

“For you.” She wiggled suggestively, hips rocking against him. He caught her, pressing firmly against her ass in a way that magnified everything else he was doing and made her whimper. She couldn’t take it a second longer and dropped her hands, spinning around to reach for him.

But he only dropped her skirts and backed away, his smile amused but his eyes rueful. Jacinda felt entirely bereft and immensely frustrated.

“You can’t be serious, Marco.”

He held up his hands as if she had aimed a crossbow for his heart, his fingers gleaming. “I told you not to move.”

Her teeth were clenched, her cheeks as hot as the sun. “We’re adults. This isn’t a game, as much as we might pretend to play. You clearly know exactly what you’re doing. So why not drop the pretense and enjoy our mutual good fortune?”

Hurt flashed in his eyes for some reason she couldn’t fathom. “Get out of my wagon, woman.”

“Marco. Please. Do I have to get on my knees again?” She licked her lips, slowly, her eyes dropping to the part of him that had so recently pressed against her ass. No matter how matter-of-fact he sounded, his own frustration was even more clearly outlined than her own.

“It won’t do any good. I don’t care to be rushed. No matter how tempting it might be.”

She had to resist stomping a foot. “Who said you make the rules? When do I get a say?”

“It’s simple. You want something from me. A couple of things. And that means I make the rules.”

Jacinda groaned and made fists of her hands, her stupid, greedy hands that just couldn’t stay put when they wanted so badly to touch him in turn. Flooded with shame and frustration, she spun on her heel and jerked open the door.

“Not used to being defied, are you, Jacinda?”

In response, she slammed the door, wanting nothing more than to set the damned thing on fire and forget the cool smoothness of the wood under her gloves.

She’d let him get under her skin. And now, damn them both, she needed more.

.9.

Sleep was hard to find and harder to keep that night, but she outright refused to seek relief under the darkness of her blankets, because, somehow, that meant that Marco had won. Instead, she formulated her plan. She was more determined than ever to get to the root of Marco’s past . . . and his refusal to bed her. A normal man would have jumped at the chance, would have been more than happy to take pleasure in a pretty woman without shame, without commitments, without damage or shyness. As much as she hated to admit it, his rejection had wounded her confidence.

When she found herself staring into a mirror the next morning, looking for wrinkles or rogue freckles or anything that would make her less than desirable, she shouted, “Bugger you, Marco Taresque!” and went for her notebook.

He said he liked to take his time; let him. Even if he had turned her away, she had seen the evidence of his own desire, and she would let him stew in it. She would ignore him and concentrate on her book, the reason she’d sought the caravan in the first place. Perhaps watching her fawn over his fellow performers while immersing herself in her element would get him as riled up as she currently felt. If there was one thing she knew how to do, it was flatter and flirt. And, of course, write.

With Brutus at her heels, she set out across the moor, commanding the metal dog to destroy the bludbunnies that lunged out of the grass and toward her leather-clad ankles. Four bodies dangled from her grasp as she entered the well-trampled grounds of the caravan proper. She made her way to the dining wagon, hanging the rabbits on a hook as she’d seen the others do and using the chalk to write her name and four hatch marks on the chalkboard beside the names of the carnivalleros and their own bludbunny counts. Gathering food brought her one step closer to being one of their own and only six rabbits away from earning a copper for her trouble, if she remembered the gossip correctly.

“Got your first one, my lady?” the strong man called, and she waved with a grin.

“Got my first four, Torno!”

He laughed, his leather top hat wobbling. “But should the dog not receive the credit?”

She grinned. “He can’t be trusted with coppers. Always spends them on drink and loose women.”

He bowed politely as she stepped up the stairs to the dining car ahead of him.

“You are a strange woman, but then, I think perhaps all women are strange in their own ways,” he said.

“My husband used to say something quite similar. Tell me, Torno, have you ever been married?” The hugely muscled man blushed red to the tips of his waxed black mustache, and she held open the door to the dining car with an inviting smile. “Join me for breakfast, and I promise not to ask anything too embarrassing. I’m writing a book, you see . . .”

An hour later, her notebook held pages of frantic scribbles, and she’d enjoyed a riveting tale that could have been a book in itself, considering the adventures that had brought the strong but overly sensitive man from the small island of Sassily to the mainland, through a war, across the channel, and around the icebergs after being skyjacked by pirates. And no, she learned, he had never had a wife, not after his sweetheart had been thrown overboard by the pirate captain. The poor man had squeezed out a few tears, recounting the loss of his one true love.

“What did Tish tell you?” she had asked softly.

“Lady Letitia told me nothing of my heart. But I can’t complain, you see, for she saved my life.”

By the time he left to practice, she had grown accustomed to the galloping of his speech and realized she now saw him as the hero of his own story, one she hoped would have a happy ending that included the love he deserved and would cherish. To think—he looked so big and scary, but inside he was a kitten. Filled with renewed purpose and shoving away thoughts of Marco, she turned the page on her notebook and approached the booth shared by Demi and Cherie.

Both girls looked up at her in surprise with red-painted lips, and she realized that they were most likely unaccustomed to being approached by Pinkies while drinking Pinky blood. From the bludcaravans of the desert to the lively bars of Darkside, Jacinda had never been threatened by a single Bludman and had no patience for anyone who feared them, nor did she have patience for gloves unless they were required for propriety. She hadn’t approved of prejudice even when she’d been expected to live a normal life in the city, and she smiled warmly and asked, “May I sit with you?”

“If you want to,” Demi said, licking her lips clean and swirling blood around in her teacup with doubt written in her eyes.

Cherie, by far the meeker of the two, scooted over, daintily sliding her teacup away across the scarred wood of the table. Jacinda murmured, “Thank you,” and sat beside the slender blond girl, realizing that, oddly, between the two of them, the predator was probably more frightened of the human.

“We don’t know anything more about Marco, if that’s what you were going to ask,” Demi said quickly.

Jacinda rolled her eyes with the slight head shake she would use to discuss a mischievous child. “Consider him pigeonholed. He’s a tough nut to crack, that one. I’ve got something bigger in my sights.” She leaned closer, twirling her pen between ink-stained fingers. “I’m writing a book about the caravan, and I’d like to write a chapter about the two finest contortionists I’ve ever seen.”

“Us?” Cherie asked innocently.

Jacinda’s smile was real. “If you’re willing. I’d like to know all about you both.”

Demi reared back, panicked, her eyes shooting around the dining car. “What about me?”

“Nothing you don’t want to share. I just sense you have a good story. As a journalist, nothing fascinates me more than learning about new people. I think your tales would greatly intrigue the young women of the city. And you can always give a pseudonym, if you wish.”

Demi and Cherie had a conversation of gestures and squeaks, prompting Jacinda to get up and fetch a cup of coffee. Criminy hadn’t said anything about food, but she could always toss coppers at him if he got too ornery. She had been careful to leave her notebook on the table, writing-side up and pen on top, so that the girls could see exactly what she did. The page was open to the tail end of her interview with Torno and included scrawled notes and a few unobtrusive sketches, all very favorable, if she did say so herself. One of her attractions as a journalist was her ability to write, draw, stay sober, and ride a bludcamel, as most practitioners in the field could manage only one of the four.

Sure enough, the girls were huddled over the book, Demi’s dark hair almost touching Cherie’s blond curls. They broke apart as she neared, Cherie blushing and Demi looking up in reckless challenge.

“A book, huh?” Demi asked, and Jacinda nodded.

“I’m known for writing about the places that most consider no more than dreams. The pyramids of Kyro, the native villages of Almanica, the daimon cabarets of Paris, the hidden jungles of Africa. But I’ve never seen a single book about the truth behind a caravan.”

“And Criminy knows? He doesn’t mind?” Cherie glanced around nervously.

Demi smirked. “If she’s here, he knows. And he probably loves it. Crim’s got an ego the size of a Mack truck.”

“A what?” Jacinda asked, as it was rare that anyone mentioned anything she hadn’t heard of at least once.

Demi, blushed, her eyebrows drawn down as she looked away, annoyed. “Just something from where I’m from.”

“And where’s that?” Jacinda’s pen was poised over a fresh sheet of paper, and she felt the familiar thrill of the blank page, the pause before the story started.

“Demi, don’t,” Cherie said, but Demi just shook her head.

“Almanica. But I won’t talk about that.”

Jacinda knew well enough how to dance around forbidden topics and still get the pieces she needed to enthrall an audience. And having been there herself for more than a year, she also knew well enough that Demi wasn’t actually from Almanica.

“Tell me about Sangland, then. How long have you been here, and how did you get into contortion?”

Demi sighed and drank the last of the blood from her cup with a determined air. “One question, first. Can you make me famous?”

Jacinda didn’t want to let the girl down; she looked so hungry and earnest and, suddenly, very innocent. “My books do fairly well, and I believe the city folk would be riveted by the tales of the caravan. But tell me, aren’t you already a star? I’ve seen the crowd gathered around your act, and I can tell you’re very popular. Every girl in London dreams of what you have, this freedom and applause.”

“It’s not enough. I want more. I want to be famous.”

Poor Cherie looked as if she was about to collapse in on herself, her fair head ducked down between narrow shoulders and her face in her hands, although whether it was in embarrassment, worry, or fear, Jacinda couldn’t tell. But Demi had her head high, her eyes gazing out the window and past the moors to the sky with near-feral determination.

“Being in a book is a good start, darling. I’ll do what I can.”

Demi took a deep breath and focused. “My name is Demi Ward. I was attacked by bludbunnies, and Criminy Stain bludded me and pretty much adopted me, and when we were trying to think of some sort of work I could do to earn my way in the caravan, he suggested contortion. I was young enough and had a little acrobatic training, and Cherie was willing to teach me.” She looked at her friend fondly, and Cherie looked up and smiled. “We were instant best friends and have been performing together for five years. But that’s not really interesting, is it?”

Jacinda shook her head, her pen scritching over the paper. “Think about what it would be like to be fifteen years old, living in a cramped, dark apartment in London. Most girls your age have never been outside the city walls. You almost died and were saved at the last moment by the most notorious and handsome magician in the country. They’d salivate to hear it.”

Demi chuckled. “Never thought about it that way. I’ll try to make it sound juicy. Um. One time, the Magistrate raided the caravan with a bunch of Coppers and dogs, looking for Lady Letitia, and all the Bludmen ran away into the moors. But Cherie and I didn’t want to run far, so we hid in the lookout box on top of our wagon and watched. It was totally brutal. They pulled out the old costumer and carried her away tied to a bludmare’s rump. She beat three guys up with a sword hidden in her umbrella first.”

“But what about you? Any exciting stories of your own?”

Demi thought about it for a few moments, her face slowly falling. “I can’t think of a single freaking thing. I mean, I wake up, drink blood, perform, drink blood, and sleep. I don’t leave the caravan or go into the cities.” She swallowed hard and let her head fall to her chest. “I’m just as trapped as they are.”

The interview was not going the way she had hoped, and when the dining-car door opened, Jacinda was grateful for a reason to look away from the girl’s tears. Marco didn’t pause as he stepped into the trailer, but he did tip his head just a shade to smirk at her.

Demi saw it, too, and her voice took on a tinge of resentment. “I mean, there aren’t even any guys here. All the good ones get taken. And Criminy makes sure I never get to talk to anyone in the crowd.”

“Don’t forget the daimon boys.” Jacinda winked.

“And Luc is looking right at you,” Cherie began, tossing her hair and surreptitiously glancing to the other end of the wagon, where a lanky, good-looking boy with red skin joked with Marco by the drink dispenser.

Demi’s eyes flicked to Marco and Luc. “I don’t know. Daimons?”

Jacinda leaned close with a conspiratorial grin. “I had a daimon lover in Paris. His name was Gael, and he was a dealer in rare books and antiquities. He looked quite calm until the spectacles came off. And then, ooh la la. Highly recommended. Since they feed off emotions, let’s just say they’re . . . highly motivated to keep you happy.”

Demi’s lips twisted up as she watched the boy laugh and turn around, tail waving. He caught her eye and winked with a daredevil smile, and Cherie giggled and hid her face.

“Hmm. Maybe you’re right. I hadn’t really considered it before, but I guess a Bludman being prejudiced against daimons is just as bad as Pinkies being prejudiced against me.”

“And he’ll speak Franchian, too. Such a sensual language,” Jacinda added.

Cherie giggled again, and when the daimon boy passed by them with a backward glance, Demi met it and nodded, just a little.
Good for her.
Jacinda loved an adventure, and the thought that the bright, pretty girl could be depressed in the caravan hurt the journalist’s heart. It would do the girl good to have a fling with a daimon, one as giving and energetic as Gael had been. Just thinking about it brought her thoughts back to Marco and the night before, and she watched him contemplatively as he loaded up his tray.

Even though his back was to her, she felt as if he knew she was watching, as if he could sense her eyes brushing over his shoulders, the small of his back where his shirt tucked into his breeches, a place she’d barely begun to explore. What else might have happened, had she kept her hands on the door last night?
Damn the man!
He was under her skin now, and she craved what she’d barely tasted. But she wasn’t about to admit it. She looked down at her notebook, where she had doodled the exact curve of where his back met his ass when she was supposed to be sketching Demi’s face.

Turning to a new page, she asked, “What about you, Cherie? Where are you from?”

The girl blushed and looked down. “Oh, I’m from Freesia. We were once a great family, but the tsarina argued with my mother, and we lost everything. Six of us lived in a wagon smaller than the one I share with Demi, all pulled by a pair of gray dappled bludmares named Snow and Ice. I fought a bludbear once . . .”

As Cherie talked, Jacinda made the appropriate noises of surprise and assent, scribbling down the details of a life that would read like a fairy tale to the city girls. Festivals, balls, bludbears, wild unicorns, and bloodthirsty peacocks. To Cherie and Demi, it was boring, but to everyone else in the world, it was a beautiful dream.