Wicked As They Come by Dawson Delilah S

Author:Dawson, Delilah S. [Dawson, Delilah S.]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Romance, Science Fiction, Steampunk, Paranormal, Fantasy, Adult, Magic, Vampire, Urban Fantasy
ISBN: 9781451657883
Publisher: Pocket Books
Published: 2012-03-27T00:00:00+00:00

Before my eyes were open, before I was actually awake, I was drinking. Four great gulps and I gasped for more. I clawed at the little glass tube held to my mouth and flung it to the ground.

“More,” I rasped. “I demand more.”

“How long have you been hiding in that old suitcase?” someone asked.

I opened my eyes, suddenly aware of the unladylike nature of my predicament. A man’s arm was around my shoulders, his ungloved human hand holding another vial to my lips as I drank the blood as greedily as a child with holiday sweets. My hair had fallen into disarray, and some of the straggling locks around my face were tinted red with what smelled like old wine. I slapped the vial to the ground—after I’d finished the last drop, of course.

“You,” I said. My eyes narrowed, focused on him. I’d never seen so much exposed skin on a serf who wasn’t being offered as a meal. His eyes were bright blue, regarding me with curiosity and a noticeable absence of fear and respect.

“What did you do to me, offal?”

He chuckled and grinned. He had dimples. “I’m pretty sure I saved your life, right after you attacked me. I don’t hold it against you, though. Looks like you were drained.”

“Drained?”

“You can’t even stand, little girl.”

“Let us understand each other,” I said, enunciating every word. “I am not little, and I am not a girl. I am twenty-seven years old, and I am a princess. And you, whoever you are, are my subject. You owe me obeisance, fealty, and blood.”

“Come and get it, then,” he said with unexpected good humor. He held up a sparkling vial, the amber light glinting off the glass.

“You know very well I cannot,” I spat, struggling for control. I had never been so helpless, and it was untenable. Once I was strong again, he was going to pay.

“Then, we’ll have to strike a bargain, won’t we?”

“I don’t bargain.”

“Then, good luck.”

He stood and began walking back to his harpsichord. Long tangled copper hair rippled over his stained white shirt, and I pledged that I would one day make a mop out of it. Rage consumed me. Rage, and hunger.

“Wait,” I gasped, my black hands scrabbling against the ground. I heard my long white talons scritching over the wood, their sharp ends useless against the effects of being drained. He had to be right; only draining could reduce me to mewling like a kitten. To begging and desperation.

“Hmm?” he asked genially, turning around to grin at me again with those hateful dimples.

“Let’s make a bargain.”

“I knew you’d see it my way,” he said. He walked back to me, pulling another vial from his shirt pocket. He sat down cross-legged, just out of reach, and began flipping it over his knuckles. It reminded me of a wolfhound my father used to have, the way she would gulp under her jeweled collar when he forced her to balance a bone on her nose until he gave her the signal to eat it.

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