Wicked Ever After (A Blud Novel Book 7) (10 page)

Crim’s hands settled outside of mine, left and right, his body pressing against my back, a wall of heat and hardness.

“And how does flying suit you, poppet?” he whispered in my ear.

“Well, it’s no submarine, but I suppose it’ll do. At least we’re alone.”

“That we are, love. That we are.”

He nibbled down my neck and along the curve of my shoulder, his bare hands skimming my corseted waist and curving over my hips. With just the right amount of roughness, he spun me around to face him, held my face in his hands, and kissed me, hard enough to bruise my lips and make me growl. I went for his buttons, but he caught my hands and wrapped them around the ropes on either side of me.

“Hold on,” he said against my lips.

“What?”

Strong hands on my waist hefted me up to sit on the edge of the basket, and I struggled not to topple backward out of the balloon to my death.

“I thought you didn’t want me to die,” I said as he slipped off his gloves and ran bare fingertips up the insides of my calves, skimming over the fine Parisian stockings Reve had tied on.

“Just a little death, love.”

With a delicious wink, his fingers found the crux of me through my bloomers as his mouth claimed mine again, hungry but not pressing so hard that I might lose my balance. I’d learned well enough to talk around my new fangs, but kissing was another thing entirely, and it took me a moment of his tongue’s lush pull to figure out how to kiss him back without hurting either one of us. Meanwhile, he was working me down below in that clever way of his, knuckles brushing here, fingers pressing there, making me gasp into his mouth. As if reminding me to hold on tightly, his fingers wrapped around mine and the rope briefly before disappearing in a rustle of fabric.

“I can feel how ready you are, love.”

“I can, too,” I panted. “I’ve never . . . I just . . .”

In a controlled, torturous, measured push that made me gasp and shudder, he was all the way inside me and moving with a slow, punishing cadence. His lust enveloped me, enrobed me, my own passion rising to meet it. As if he could read my mind and my worries, he wrapped both his hands around mine, around the ropes, and increased his speed, his depth.

My muscles were tensed as I struggled to keep my balance and he struggled to undo me completely. His mouth traveled down my neck to nestle between my breasts, teasing my nipples through the fabric. My heart pounded with the exhilaration of the height, the wild wind, the sinking sun, his lapping tongue. I could already feel a climax coming with a ferocity I’d never known, and I held my breath as it overwhelmed me, my eyes closed and my thighs pulsing. If he hadn’t been holding my fingers tightly, forcing them to stay clutched around the ropes, I would have fallen back through the air without a care in the world.

As it was, I was already floating.

Of course, that was never enough for Criminy. Still inside me, still hard, still taking his sweet goddamn time, he pulled me down from the side of the basket, unwound my hands, lifted my voluminous skirts, and murmured, “Turn around, will you, love? There’s a lovely view.”

Seconds later, I was bent over the basket, skirts flipped over my back, with a breeze over my bare bum, and he was pushing back into me with a groan. With my boots on the wicker and my hands curled around the basket’s edge, I felt giddy relief, but that never lasted. Not with Crim. He started slowly, agonizingly slowly, and I trembled with each thrust. My eyes were filled with indigo sky, my insides writhing with building want, my exposed skin cool in counterpoint to the warmth of the man taking me, mastering me, torturing me to new dizzy heights with each stroke.

“Come on, Crim,” I urged, and he laughed.

“All in good time, love. Ah, yes. Here’s what I was looking for.”

I couldn’t have been more surprised when I heard a low buzz . . . until I felt it. My legs almost collapsed as warm, smooth metal vibrated over my clit.

“Jesus, Crim! What . . . where . . . oh, my God.”

“I take it this is what you had in mind as a
marital aid
?” He said the last two words with a haughty emphasis that made my knees buckle.

“Where’d you get that?” I managed to sputter.

He did something that nearly made me scream. “London,” he said absently.

The cool air, the heat of him, the slowness of his inexorable pounding, the buzz of the metal. I’d never been so wet, so turned on, so in tune with my body, and I couldn’t stop myself from pushing back against him, demanding that he take me harder, deeper. He grunted and obliged, as he always did, battering into me with such power that I slammed against the basket and moaned.

The climax took me quickly, and I screamed as he sped up to draw it out as long as possible. As the echoes faded, he kept going, soon shuddering against me, arms wrapped tightly around my waist as he bucked into me. I couldn’t help myself—I came again, this time high and sweet and leaving me laughing as my insides trembled.

“I’m fairly certain they heard that all the way back at the caravan,” he observed, pulling out and rebuttoning his pants with a satisfied grin.

“And I’m fairly certain you made good on your threat to the little lame balloon man,” I shot back.

He looked down at the wicker floor. “I agreed there would be no blood, so he should be well pleased. That was delightful. I’ve always wanted to roger you in a balloon.”

Reaching down, he pulled a bright red flag that had been latched to the wicker and stuck it into a holder to wave in the wind. Seconds later, the wicker creaked as the balloon began its descent.

“He can see that little flag from the ground?” I asked, shielding my eyes to look around. Sure enough, I could see the angry operator at the dock, the drover and the mares, and all the people milling about the airfield. Until then, I hadn’t actually looked down, as I’d always had a small fear of heights. “Wait. Does that mean they can see . . .”

“Oh, yes, love. They can see us. Some of them even have telescopes for such sport. That’s part of the allure.”

Down below, a sound reached me, an echo of the feral howl I’d unleashed as I’d come, followed by a crowd’s laughter.

“Oh, God,” I said, blushing hot and red. “We had an audience.”

But when the balloon landed on the docks, people were clapping and whistling.

“At least they appreciate a star performance,” Criminy said, helping me out of the basket.

12

Despite the fact
that he’d recently driven me to screaming with passion on a balloon, Criminy Stain looked like a fashion plate as we hurried down the sidewalks of London. The sun was scurrying down, and the gaslights popped on, one by one, giving the cobbles an eerie green glow.

“We need to go faster, love. It’s getting late,” Crim said blithely, as if discussing the weather.

“But I don’t want to go fight an evil wizard in the dark,” I whined. “I’m tired now, and it’s creepy, and I just want to drink a bunch of blood and take a nap.”

Crim shook his head at me and patted my glove. “We’re not going to see Sweeting now, pet. His shop’ll be closed. I want to hurry so we can see the show at Demi’s cabaret. We need new acts, if you’ll recall. And yes, you can have all the blood you want once we get there.”

“Mm.” I sighed. “Amazing sex, a full belly, a great show, good friends, puppy snuggles, and a good night’s sleep. That’s my kind of . . . wait!”

“Hmm?”

“This is starting to feel like a bucket list.”

“A what, love?”

“A bucket list. It’s basically this thing they do in my world when people start to feel like they’re running out of time to do all the things they’ve dreamed about. So they make a list of stuff they want to do before they kick the bucket.”

I could tell by his silence and the squeeze of his hand that I’d come closer to the truth than he’d have liked. “Your newly perfected instincts leave little open to discussion, darling.”

“So what else is on your list? Because I don’t think you’re going to drink from the Magistrate or steal the jewels in the Tower.”

Criminy sighed deeply and tucked my hand into his elbow to guide me around a fetid pile of bludhorse manure.

I couldn’t help feeling as if I’d found a Mr. Darcy on the streets and a Mr. Willoughby in the sheets; he had such a habit of getting proper and stilted when discussing something he knew I would hate.

“Perhaps you’re a little right, love. I’ve waited so long for you to be a Bludman so that I wouldn’t be constantly worried about keeping you alive in this wretched world. And now here you are, beautiful and clever and sexy and rather hard to kill, and the first thing you want to do is challenge the two most dangerous creatures in this town to a fight. So perhaps I
am
indulging myself, and you, just in case. But if there’s anything wrong with giving us both pleasure and making sure the caravan is comfortable before throwing ourselves to the wolves, then I do apologize.”

We turned a corner, and I was relieved to see the Demimonde cabaret rising above us, a daimon in full costume selling tickets out front.

“So you think we’re going to lose?” I asked, in a tinier voice than a born Bludman would ever use.

Crim slipped his arm around my waist, goosing me in the process. “I just think there’s a reason a man’s passion is stirred before battle. There’s a bone-deep need to connect with life, to taste the best of the world before throwing oneself into danger. And there’s no one I’d rather connect with than you. We’ll deal with Sweeting tomorrow morning, when he won’t be expecting it. Until then, let’s not think about it at all.”

He held open the door to the cabaret, and I sashayed in, heading straight for Demi’s toilets, just across the lobby. Hand on the loo door, I turned to face him, chin high. “Then I guess I forgive you,” I said, tossing curls loosened by the balloon’s plucking wind. “But I’m telling you now: we’re going to win.”

After a glorious cabaret show
that had the entire crowd standing, stamping, and whistling for an encore, Criminy drew me backstage to walk among the brightly colored, happily laughing daimons. I was on my third glass of blood and champagne, a house drink called the Tsarina’s Kiss in honor of Ahnastasia, who had brought it over from Freesia. Full and happy and giggling with the bubbles, I was content to watch my husband in his element, complimenting performers and attempting to feel out any defectors who might like to spend a season traveling the wilds of Sangland with Criminy’s Clockwork Caravan.

Just as he’d hoped, the daimon with small, fine wings was intrigued by the riches she might earn on her own. Her name was Annelise, and her wings were almost translucent. When her skin changed, they flapped and shifted like the rainbows in a soap bubble. He also persuaded a magically gifted teenage daimon named Blaise to join us, although the lad’s mothers seemed alternately worried and thrilled to have the mischievous creature out of their nest.

“’E will terrorize you,” one said, her face green and lined with worry.

“Better ’e learn to use ’is magic than keep blowing holes in his blankets,” said the other, in a low, musical voice tinged with a Franchion accent, her blue lips turned up at the corners.

Demi just laughed. “Bea and Mel have never had a moment alone. I’ll send them off on a long-overdue honeymoon, and you can take Blaise with you and teach him how to conjure properly.” She rubbed her hands together giddily. “Why didn’t we think of this ages ago? I can finally stop buying new bedspreads.”

Soon the cabaret girls had gone to bed in their dormitory. Their sisters in Paris were required to stay up half the night satisfying the desires of their human clientele, but Demi was an Earth feminist in a Sangish Bludwoman’s body. Her girls were free to choose where, when, and if to share their favors, which meant the joy daimons were just as happy as the lust daimons. Such high morale, plus Casper’s music, meant that Demi’s shows were always sold out. Criminy Stain could not have been prouder.

He and I were ensconced in Demi’s spare room, the one not reserved for Casper and Ahna, who kept a private suite on the premises. Ever since Tsarina Ahna had threatened to rip out the Magistrate’s throat during a trade discussion in Parliament, she was technically forbidden to visit London, but the crowds loved Casper so much that they kept sneaking in anyway. As far as Criminy was concerned, this only made Ahna all the more worthy a leader for the Blud people.

The bed was big and fluffy, the fire cozy, and my belly full to bursting. In a borrowed night shift, I turned to fit myself against Criminy, my arm thrown over his waist and my chin on his shoulder. He was reading, of course, something new from Demi’s library, and he stroked my arm absentmindedly.

“If you poke me too hard, I’m going to start leaking blood,” I groaned.

“Oh, I think you’ve been poked more than enough today, love.” He kissed my head and turned the page.

“I had no idea sex could be better than it was as a human,” I said. “That was insane.”

“Well, it’s always better for you when you’re in season.”

I stopped my snuggling and pulled back to stare at him. “Uh, what?”

“Can’t you sense it? When you’re fertile?”

I swallowed and looked down. “Look, Crim, I told you a long time ago. No matter what my hormones or my scent or whatever tells you, I’m never fertile. Something broke inside me. It doesn’t matter what we want. I can’t get pregnant.”

He put down his book and turned to face me, sniffing along my neck, down my armpit, and right, oddly, to my groin, which made me pull the covers up higher and stare at him as if he’d gone mad.

“So you say, love. But I know what I smell, and there’s nothing broken about it.”

I huffed. “Look, you probably don’t know how biology works. The eggs and pheromones, they’re normal. But my uterus is too scarred to carry a child. The doctors all said so. A physical problem, irrevocably damaged. Even if egg and sperm meet and get fertilized, it’s not going to stick. It’s been oblated. It’s like . . . like trying to climb up a slick wall.”

He cocked his head and stared at me. “Love, you’ve watched me climb up a slick wall. Many times. There are hidden handholds, places my claws can dig in.”

“My goddamn eggs aren’t claws, okay? I’m sorry! I know you want kids. But . . . it’s just not going to happen. And I’m sorry. I’m just sorry.”

Feeling guilty for shouting at him in Demi’s house and overcome with self-pity and wretchedness, I rolled over and turned off the bedside light. Carefully, as if I might randomly explode if jostled, Criminy slid down under the covers, not touching me. I could hear him breathing, feel the tension in his beautiful body.

It was strange for us both to want something so bad and never discuss it, never be able to make it happen. With all his magic and all my medical knowledge and all the amazing things in Sang, it was still impossible. And I felt guilty about it, all the time. I guessed I’d hoped that would go away, once I was a Bludman. I had hoped that I would be enough for Criminy. Still, he’d have made such a marvelous father.

As I was drifting off, tears drying on my cheeks, he put a hand on my belly, soft as a feather, and whispered, “You never know, love.”

I allowed myself one glorious moment of hope. Maybe he was right. I’d seen the blud transformation cure my grandmother’s cancer, after all, not to mention changing living tissue and growing lustrous hair, right before my eyes. Was it possible that I could still have children? That the damage inside could be reversed by the topsy-turvy magic that ruled this world?

I put my hand on top of his where it lay over my navel and moved them both to the bed. I didn’t have time for hope right now.

Sometimes hope just made things harder.

I had to save Nana first.

We woke at dawn the
next morning, grim as soldiers. Criminy helped tighten my corset laces, and I tied his cravat, making him gag just a little for fun. Breakfast was a small affair in Demi’s parlor, as the daimons slept late and didn’t eat, anyway. It felt like a council of war as Crim, Demi, Ahna, Casper, and I sipped hot blood and Vale quietly devoured a wrappy of eggs and sausage that now turned my stomach. How strange that he was the last human among us, and the only one that could never be turned, thanks to his poisonous blood.

“He is proud,” Ahna said, breaking the charged silence. “This Sweeting. Thinks he knows everything. Use that against him, I beg you.”

“He has a clockwork fox,” Casper added. “Sneaky little bastard. You might not see it until it attacks. The damn thing has wings, although it can’t fly.” He pulled back his sleeve to show four evenly spaced white scars. “It has teeth, too.”

Criminy took the scorpion’s wooden box from his pocket and rolled it around on the table. “You lot are all assuming the worst. Perhaps he’ll be willing to tell us where the witch hides just to get rid of an enemy easily.” His grin quirked up. “Or maybe we’ll hit it off, trade some magic.”

With a shake of her head that was all American teen, Demi said, “Yeah, and monkeys might fly out of my butt.”

Casper had warned us about
the peculiar key required to access Mr. Sweeting’s shop in Deep Darkside, and we were ready. Our walk there was dreary and quick under an oppressive gray sky, and even the umbrella with a cleverly concealed sword in the handle that Criminy had bought for me on the way didn’t raise my spirits. I couldn’t help wishing I was outfitted for a fight the way cops were in movies: guns strapped to everything strappable, bulletproof vest under a sharp coat, grim-faced slow-mo walk.

But then again, I had my own sort of sharpness. My corset was pretty damn close to bulletproof, and I came equipped with razor-blade teeth and newly grown talons. And there was the scorpion in its fine wooden box; I’d taken the liberty of naming him Sourpuss, considering that he was very grouchy and that it seemed a fitting way to take down someone named Sweeting. And best of all, I had Criminy Stain, one of the most dangerous creatures I’d ever had the pleasure of meeting.

And doing other things with. Other things I couldn’t stop thinking about, even though it was distracting. Reve’s clothes made him look like half rakish earl, half vampire Lothario, and everyone we passed had to recognize and admire the predatory swagger in his walk as he contemplated ripping out the daimon’s throat in a loud sort of fight—after we had our answer regarding the whereabouts of a certain witch, of course.

As we passed through the gates to Deep Darkside—and London was said to have the deepest Darkside in all of Sangland—I carefully inspected every shopfront, every sign, every hag at a pushcart, for evidence of the villainous bitch who’d temporarily stolen my youth and my grandmother. The last time I’d seen Hepzibah, she’d been smoking a long pipe on the back of her wagon and laughing at my folly, a few lines on her ancient face erased by the years she’d absorbed from my life. It didn’t matter how young she seemed now. I wanted to punch her in her smug teeth.

No.

More than that.

I wanted to rip out her throat with my fangs, feel her blud spray across my cheeks and catch in my eyelashes.

Killing her would feel as good as a goddamn shampoo commercial in my world.

Criminy had explained long ago that an enemy’s blood or blud tasted sweeter, and considering that I’d never drunk from a living creature (other than my husband, which surely didn’t count), I was anxious to test his theory and rid the world of someone who brought destruction wherever she went.

But of course it wasn’t that easy. Nothing worthwhile ever is.

Darkside started out like a charming flea market that quickly became a charred, sinister abattoir. The bricks went from dark red to shiny black, and a thick, strange fog rolled along the slick cobblestones. The pushcarts hawking violets, blood slush, and secondhand jewelry were replaced by vendors selling a secretive mix of potions, polished bones, poisonous flowers, and treats that, unlike blood, couldn’t be donated freely and legally—because humans can’t live without their livers or hearts. I was a little ashamed to drool over one such cart featuring a small brazier, but damn if it didn’t smell a lot like bacon.