Yay, a chapter!

Chapter 15: bite

Vampyre. Vampyre.

Christine tossed the word around within her head, tried to find meaning in it. Erik had put a name to himself, and in doing so, he had given her an opening into his world, his reality. All she had to do was step through.

And so she did.

It was a leap of faith. She needed so badly to trust him, to give herself over to him body, mind, and heart and have confidence that he would not bruise them. If she wanted him to open to her, to trust her with his own truth, then she had no choice but to let him lead her forward.

They walked in silence for what seemed like a long time, Erik never letting go of her hand. He was careful with her, making certain her feet found the correct places to step, having her duck around a protruding rock or watch out for a damp spot on the path. Their journey had turned into one of weaving through the bowels of the Earth. Now and then, Erik showed her how to unlock a gate or choose the correct path. The teacher guided the pupil.

And then they came to the lake.

She shrank back from the sight of that wide expanse of still darkness stretching far beyond the reach of their lantern. She could feel the dampness on her skin, the air cooler here, and she knew without doubt that the water would be ice-cold. How deep did those depths wander? If she fell in, would they pull her down?

"Christine." The sound of her name within his voice drew her thoughts away from the gloom. "I will keep you safe."

Safe from this place? Or safe from him? She took a deep breath and blew it out.

"There is only one boat," Erik said of the small dingy tied at the edge of the water. "Do you see those pillars there?" He lifted the lantern and designated the posts in various positions across the lake. "Always stay to the left of them."

Christine did not ask why. She had seen enough in their expedition into the depths beneath Paris to know that this was a placed filled with traps for the unaware, a protected place that could keep intruders out. Erik stepped into the boat and she lifted her skirts to be able to join him. There was a narrow board across the back, and she sat there, watching as Erik hung the lantern at the bow and picked up a long pole braced along the edge of the boat.

He began to dip the pole into the inky water and push them across. For a while, only gnawing silence passed between them, broken now and then by the scrape of the pole against the wooden boat or the dripping of unseen water.

Christine bit the inside of her cheek. Needing a distraction, she asked, "What is a vampyre?"

He did not look back at her, his eyes focused on their path ahead. "Vampyre are those who have died but continue to walk amongst the living, bound to the night because the sun burns their skin."

Those who have died, those who have died. Erik had… died? "How… how can you be dead but also alive?"

"Their race dwells outside the boundaries of what you might call living. They are transformed humans – humans turned vampyre. For the most part, they live in secret. Any notice of them continues only within local folklore. The dhampir or haugbui or vetalas. The shtriga. The draugar."

Christine picked at a bit of lace detailing on her sleeve. "I heard tales of the draugar in Sweden when I was a little girl. Ghost stories told around campfires to scare children to bed. They can enter the dreams of the living and leave little gifts of their visit."

"The visitant," Erik grunted. "A nicer version of the truth, I suppose."

Christine shook her head. "They might also curse you, especially if they grow jealous of those who are still alive."

Erik was silent a moment, driving the pole deep into the black waters. "Why wouldn't they be? The living have everything they used to possess: sunlight, a life, choice." He snarled this last word, and Christine hugged her arms about her middle.

"I want to understand."

"The draugar and all other incarnations of vampyre exist only in the minds of humans as fairy tales. The truth is so much worse."

"That is all I want."

He looked over his shoulder at her, one piercing eye glittering in the lamplight. "Is it?" He turned back around. "We shall see."

Staying ever to the left, they made it across the eerie stillness of the lake. Erik eased the boat to a small dock drilled into the stone. Here, the edge of the water seemed purposefully shaped, edged in such a way to make stepping from the boat more natural. Cobblestone had been inlaid in a wide path from the shoreline. Erik stepped out, and his hand was once more a firm grip upon hers as he helped her to follow.

He did not retrieve the lamp, instead leaning over to twist the knob to extinguish it. For a moment, they were cast in the most solid darkness that Christine had ever encountered, and she gasped at the sensation of total blindness. Before her eyes could adjust, she could feel Erik moving. Flickering candles began to blaze into existence, first those closest to them arranged upon pedestals, then further up, lining a path that curved gently to a…

"It is a house," Christine said in wonder.

The little cottage was built into the side of the cavern, looking so normal despite its surroundings. The door was a soft shade of blue, and it was unlocked, allowing them to step inside without fuss. Erik waved his empty hand to alight sconces upon the walls, revealing a modest parlor and a more spacious living area beyond. Cream-colored sheets covered the pieces of furniture to protect against dust and the elements. Her shoes clunked upon rich wooden floors, most of which were covered in thick, decorative carpets.

Erik shut the door behind them, not bothering with a lock, and let go of her hand here. The house was as chilly as the caves had been, but Erik set to piling wood into a large fireplace. He retrieved some kindling and began to strike flint to light it.

Christine edged a little closer, curious. "You are able to light candles with the flick of your hand. Are you not able to do so in a hearth?"

The kindling caught the spark and held it, blazing to life as Erik cupped his hands around it. She noticed he did not blow to grow the flame. Soon, however, he had enough fire to pile on sticks, and then he straightened.

"The lighting of candles is mostly a parlor trick," he said. "Vampyre can do these things, talented or not. They can flick lights on and off, unlock human-made locks, cross long distances without tiring, cloak themselves in shadow."

"Or hide your true face," she added.

His eyes flickered to hers. "Yes. The glamour."

This conversation bothered him; she could tell by the stiff way he stood, by the way he tried to watch her without watching her. He seemed to shake himself and went about the expansive room to tug off the sheets and pile them in a corner. She swung her own attention to what he revealed, taking in the bookshelves, the ornate but comfortable furniture, the sleek black piano in the corner.

She moved to the far wall and glanced at the titles and saw mostly books in other languages. There was so much about this man, this… vampyre, that she did not know.

She turned back toward him. "You wore a different face when we first met, but I remember how much your glamour made my head ache. I much prefer your true self – why did you try to hide from me?"

"The glamour allows us to walk amongst humans without being noticed. It softens our appearance, makes humans less likely to grow afraid of us, and ensures we will be forgotten when we leave."

"Why would you need the ability to do such a thing?"

He shifted from one foot to another. His hands white-fisted at his sides. "Christine."

"Erik."

"I am what I am, Christine!" he said with sudden ferocity, throwing his long arms wide. "Do you truly have a need to expose all of my secrets? Is that what you must demand of me?"

Her heart thudded in her chest. "I have already told you. I just want the truth. What was the point of bringing me here if you did not want to have this conversation? Did you think I wouldn't want to know? I want to know everything, Erik!"

"Everything? Everything?" His voice grew to a roar, and the walls seemed to shudder around them from the force of it. "Would you enjoy hearing the truth about why I took you away from the Daroga and Darius? I brought you down here like a dog might try to bury its bone. To keep you away from the others who might want a taste. To ensure that you would be mine and mine alone without interference."

In a blink, he was in front of her. She stumbled back into the shelves. She had not even been able to see him move. He pressed close, his hands landing on either side of hers upon the shelves behind her. His large body was large and statuesque, and thin wisps of fog seeped around him. He bent and tucked his face into the crook of her neck, his hard mask cold against her skin.

She could feel his lips move, his voice a hoarse rumble in her ear. "If you knew the thoughts swirling in my head right now, you would never concede to be alone with me again. I am truly a monster, Christine. A monster I was made into without my accord, but a monster nonetheless. I did not choose to be this way, and I spent a century seeking a way out, but when I thought I had found my path, I also found that I could not follow it."

He pressed closer still. The shelves dug into her shoulders and lower back, and her heart thundered in her ears.

"Ah, Christine," he said against her neck just above the high collar of her black bodice. She should have felt his breath, only felt the cold caress of his lips. "The moment I saw you standing in that pavilion, your hair shining like sunlight, I knew you could finally be the true death of me. And now that moment has come, and I am too much a coward to take the opportunity."

"Is- is this what Nadir meant? Th-That all you had to do to end your life was nothing?"

"Yes." He shifted, hips digging into hers as though he was trying to meld their bodies together. She had not been this close to him in so long, and she felt a stirring within her, a longing for more than even this closeness.

"I saw my end in you, Christine, and instead you may have saved me. I only wish I could ease your way."

"You… you mean the glamour?"

It was the last bit of a puzzle she so desperately yearned to complete. The first time they had met, when he had curved his body around hers like he was now, when he had shielded her from the rain, she had been overcome with the feeling that she was being stalked like a predator tracked its prey. That feeling had eased as she had spent more time with him, but his lips at her throat now sent her pulse racing.

Erik's lips parted. She tensed, expecting the pierce of fangs, but he only brushed his lips across the edge of the collar of her dress.

"I can sense that you are frightened," he said at last, his voice low. "I can hear the rapid pulse of your heartbeat. I can see your veins throb with the increased rush of blood. The glamour soothes these instinctual fears and makes the human more pliant, more easily seduced."

"S-Seduced?"

He pulled back. His eyes glowed like silken honey, his pupils large. His fangs protruded from his mouth, and she had never seen them this close, this long and gleaming. She could not remove her focus from them.

"The relationship between human and vampyre should be symbiotic. We are not meant to be feared."

"We are not meant to be feared." His own words echoed in his mind. Now that he had said them, he found them to be true. He yearned to soothe Christine's fear of him, to calm her flittering heartbeat, to have her accept him in all ways.

But how could he demand such a thing from her if he did not accept himself?

He pulled further back, suddenly far too aware of her penetrating stare. Her hands lashed out and grabbed onto the lapels of his coat. He could have easily wrenched away. Instead, he allowed her to hold him in place. He was the one who trembled under the weight of her examination.

"I am glad your glamour does not work on me," she said softly. "Whatever I feel, I feel it unaltered, with my own self. I can tell you are still holding back on me, Erik. Why can't you trust me?"

The words spilled from him, no longer kept at bay by caution. "How can you trust me? You married me under false pretenses, Christine. My human body died long ago. The papers I used to make our marriage legal were forged. My body has become so withered and useless that I could not even make you mine on our wedding night! If you want out, the out is yours. This marriage can be annulled. You do not owe me your life!"

How much it pained him to say such things to her! His eyes burned with the need to shed tears but none came.

Her eyes were wide, her irises dark blue in the firelight. Her chest rose and fell in quick succession. He watched as she regained control of herself until she could speak without trembling.

"We… we will have to discuss these things more, Erik, but I know that in that church, I made a vow. I promised to be your wife for better or for worse, in sickness and in health. Until death."

Sweet, naïve girl.

"I am already dead," he whispered.

Her hands loosened and pressed flat to his chest, one of them slipping under his cravat to find the slow rhythm of his own revived heart.

"You are very much alive to me despite the way you have been changed."

She brought her hands up slowly, keeping them where he could track her movement, and settled her palms to either side of his mask. His first instinct was to wrench away, but he forced himself still. Let her strip off his mask if she dared.

However, she merely traced his jawline, her fingertips studying him. "Did you bring me here to try and keep me, Erik? You already have me." She leaned in as though to kiss him, her fingertips traveling to his lips.

"Ow!"

She hissed in a sharp breath, and in a flash, he caught her wrist in his immobilizing grip. A pinprick of blood dotted her slender index finger. He should not have let her venture too close; his fangs were far too eager tonight.

He may not have had a nose, but there were some scents too instinctive to a vampyre's senses to be ignored. A heady aroma like burgundy wine assailed him, combined with swirls of copper and honeysuckle. It was a complex scent, as complicated as the woman before him, and he felt his fangs lengthen further.

Christine gave a tug, but he did not let her go. "Let me have a taste of you, Christine," he said huskily.

Before she could respond, he brought her finger between his lips and laid the pierced drop flat upon his tongue.

Pure enlightenment.

Fresh, alive blood, thrumming with Christine's life, met his parched tongue. He did not suck, let himself give enough of a lick to clean the droplet from her warm skin. Never had he tasted a substance that could wring addiction from him as swiftly as the sweet taste of her. Quickly, before he lost control, he pierced the edge of his tongue and healed the puncture his fang had caused.

He could not bring himself to let go of her wrist, but he lowered their hands, well-aware of her quickened heartbeat. She seemed stunned by what had transpired between them. He wanted to calm her, to help her across the crest of rejection. Perhaps he could never have her grow to love him, but he would gladly accept an eternity of mere acceptance.

She needed a distraction, and he could offer up one. Gently, he pulled her toward the sleek black piano across the room. He left her standing by the piano bench, then sat and pulled up the keyboard cover.

Slowly, as not to startle her, he began to play, compensating for the out of tune keys that had gone too long unused. The ballad poured from his fingertips, steady in its tempo, a calm melody unlike what he might play when alone. He was well-aware of her stillness at his back, how she might be studying the tightness in his shoulders, the seam of where his wig met his skin, the thin bit of cord that held his mask in place. He forced his attention upon his hands; he detested his spidery digits, but at least they could wring music from any instrument he touched.

He flowed from one sonata to the next, beginning to choose pieces more familiar to her. He strayed away from Swedish melodies, not wanting to stir up such memories, instead leading her into his own catalog and other well-known operatic solos.

Behind him, her breathing began to ease, her chest loosening. He could only imagine the thoughts swirling behind those silken golden curls.

And then he heard her begin to sing.

She startled with only humming along with the notes his fingers plucked. Gradually, she found the main thread and followed it, stirring new life into the concerto. He stumbled, caught himself, and then he felt a gentle pressure upon his shoulders.

"Keep playing? Please?" she said softly, now so close, her hands alighted to either side of his collar.

He refocused his attention, swept back into the song, matching tempo to her wordless string of notes, but she was so close to him. Her scent wafted around his shoulders, and he could feel the heat of her against his back. His tongue rubbed against the roof of his mouth, seeking any lasting flavor of her. His fangs elongated once again.

One of her thumbs swept along his jaw. What was she doing? Was she trying to push him back again toward the edge of madness? He'd had a taste of her, and by the gods, he yearned for more of her than he had ever wanted anything alive or dead. How could she not now have become aware of just how sharp his teeth could be?

Or was she trying to push past her own fear?

By pushing him.

He sped into another sonata, and her voice matched his increased pace, beginning to form the Italian words, her pronunciation hesitant. A shiver raced up his bony spine. For two decades he had eaten little to nothing, and his belly ached, his veins cried out for nourishment, his heart pumped the dry beat of starvation.

Her hand shifted as though to return to his shoulder. The fleshy part of her palm brushed along the edge of his mouth, so soft, so warm. He could turn his head ever so slightly, part his lips, and –

Blood.

The scent of blood hit him. His fangs were wedged deep within Christine's palm, living skin and flesh pulsing around his lips. He reached up to grasp the back of her hand, to keep her still, but she wrenched away from him. His fangs dragged across her palm, slicing, and he felt the hot wash of blood across his mouth and jaw.

Pain.

Christine staggered away, eye wide, as Erik half rose from the bench. She cradled her injured hand against her chest. Her palm was aflame, pulsing in time with her heartbeat. Fear flooded her system, causing tremors that made her unsteady. Blood trickled down her wrist, hot and tickling.

"You- you bit me," she said, her voice sounding far too shrill.

He stood fully but did not move toward her, hands loose at his sides. A smear of blood was shockingly red across the edge of his mouth.

"Do you enjoy this game, Christine?"

"W-what?"

He skirted around the piano bench. His eyes were golden-bright but the pupils had blown huge. "I am vampyre. These fangs serve a vicious purpose, and twice now you have ventured too close to them of your own accord."

Her face flushed hotly, but she could not tell the source – anger or embarrassment or otherwise. The front of her bodice began to grow damp. She glanced down, appalled at the startling spread of blood across her hand and down her wrist.

"Erik, I- I need a bathroom." She could not think of anything else to say to try to get away from him.

"Behind you," he growled.

Christine spun on her heel and fled through an open doorway past the piano. The door led to a small bedroom with an attached powder room. The bathroom was large enough for a claw-footed tub, toilet, and sink with far more sophisticated pumping than she expected in an underground house.

She spun open the faucet with her cleaner hand. Brownish water spurted out, but it soon cleared, and she stuck her hand beneath the stream, hissing at the coldness of it upon the gash. Splashes of pink and red blotched the white porcelain. With the blood rinsed away, she could see the deep gash in her hand; it began at her wrist and traveled to the center of her palm. She ached all the way up to her elbow.

"What are you doing, Christine?"

She jerked her head to stare up at Erik who stood in the doorway. He had wiped his own face clean. He seemed to have calmed, his movements slow and controlled, though his eyes were still far too bright.

"What…" She wet her lips. "What do you mean?"

He stepped closer. She watched as he lifted one of his hands and plucked a stray curl that had fallen from her chignon, tucking it around her ear with long fingers. Then he cupped her cheek, and the gesture was so tender, she forgot all her other fears for a brief, breath-holding moment.

"Give me your hand," he said, his voice firmer than the soft touch upon her cheek. "I will heal you."

She sucked in a sharp, audible breath. "Erik…"

"Do not deny me, Christine. Give me your hand."

Stinging rose behind her eyes, the first sign of tears tonight. However, when he straightened and held out for her to comply, she found herself obeying his command. Long fingers curled around her hand, grip immobilizing but careful not to touch her wound. He lifted her hand at the same time as he lowered his mouth to her palm. Remembrance of those sharp teeth flashed in her mind, and she tried to wrench away again; she had no more success than begging stone to bend.

"Be still," he hissed. "Trust that I will not harm you."

She blinked away another rush of tears. "I am trying."

His eyes narrowed at that, but he did not comment further. Quickly, he pressed his lips to her palm, the touch a cool firmness that brought instant relief to her inflamed flesh. As she watched, he drew back enough to flick his tongue against one of his fangs, drawing a welling of black blood.

Then he was back upon her palm, his tongue lashing across the gash there in broad, sure strokes. Heat spread deep within her, pooling low in her stomach, as she watched in rapt fascination. He licked across her palm, and within seconds, her wound began to close. He continued his ministrations, swiping the pad of his tongue against her skin over and over, his eyes sliding closed, until her pain faded into a dull ache and the blood was cleaned away, and all of her nerve endings seem to be firing off at once.

Slowly, he straightened, lowering her hand until she could gently tug it free. "Give me a moment," he said, voice deeper than she had ever heard it.

They stood there in silence. Christine wished she could see more of his expression behind the mask; with his eyes closed, he was even more detached. Finally, she could stand it no more.

"Tell me how you did that. How did you heal me?"

He gave a shake of his shoulders and finally opened his eyes again. They were even brighter than before. "Some vampyre only take, and their fangs bring only pain, but that is not meant to be the way of things. Your blood gives me the life I no longer have of my own, and in the process of receiving it, I am not meant to take yours."

"But your fangs," she said, looking down at her now unmarked palm. "Both times, they hurt so much."

"You touched them of your own accord."

He was right. Her thoughts fled back to the feeling of his tongue upon her skin, of how her own body had reacted to his attention, and she found she could not put aside her desire to know him… in all ways.

"Show me how it can be different."

The words fled from her mouth before she could chase them back. Her lips parted to explain, to say she did not intend to allow him to bite her. And yet his reaction made her pause.

His pupils blew again, swallowing nearly his entire golden iris. His hands flexed at his sides, his long fingers pumping the air as though they were being back from touching her. His shadow extended and flailed at the wall behind him, stretching over the doorway; an extension of himself barely kept in check.

"Do not toy with me, Christine. The scent of blood is still strong upon you. My endurance can only be stretched so thin."

"I mean what I say."

He bared his teeth at her. His fangs were as bone-white as his mask, and she stared openly. Fear made her heart flutter, yes, but longing stirred deep in her belly again. The memory of his mouth upon her beckoned a flush that crept up her throat.

She met his intense gaze. "I- I trust you."

He stepped toward her, not relenting until her back pressed flat to the smooth surface of the wall behind her. Her chest bumped against the silken waistcoat covering his ribcage. God, he was so tall.

He paused.

Slowly, deliberately, she tilted her head to the side.

He snarled and dove, lips at the line of throat she had just curved, open to his perusal. His hands encircled both of her wrists and pressed them to either side of her head, holding them to the wall. She cried out, expecting the pain of teeth, but she felt only the cool firmness of his lips and the tingle of his rumbling voice upon her sensitive skin.

"You test every piece of resistance that I have, my dear wife. You know what I am, and yet here you are, offering your throat to a vampyre."

She swallowed. "Not any vampyre…" My vampyre, she thought. You are mine as much as I am yours.

"I cannot go back from this, Christine," he said, words against her rapid pulse. "You may be my human wife, but you are also my bonded. And the sealed bond cannot be undone except by death. Once I break your willing skin, you are mine."

And then she did feel the sharpness of teeth against her neck, ghosting the edge of danger.

"I trust you, Erik," she said again.

The following growl rose gooseflesh along her skin. He took her hands, and tucked them between their bodies, and pressed them to his chest.

"Push me away, if you must," he snarled. "And if you cannot, remove my mask to make me stop."

And then he struck.

Pain. She felt pain, like two sharp nails sinking into the side of her throat. They slid in so easily, a hot knife through cool butter, and she felt herself part around his fangs, her senses burning with heat and the intimate feel of him penetrating and –

Ease. The pain eased, sinking into a relieving sort of ache, like muscles pushed too hard the day before, an ache that promised the development of something more in the future. The cry that had rose within her evaporated. She was pinned between his hard body and the wall, and his lips fastened around his fangs.

She whimpered, waiting.

Pulse. A different sort of cry emerged from her mouth, catching on the edge of a sob as he began to suck. She could still feel the unforgiving lines of his fangs, but he began to draw from her in steady, long pulls that sent heat racing south, throbbing between her legs, matching his tempo. His tongue lapped at her, so very damp and far warmer than she had ever felt him before.

She fisted the rough linen upon his chest, but not to push him away, to draw him closer. He huffed a moan against her skin, air blowing out through the nose holes in his mask, the first sign of his breath she had witnessed. Her thighs squeezed together, welcoming the deep burn building at her core, trying to both relieve the pressure and encourage further friction.

He shifted, and his hands delved into her hair, fingers tugging deliciously at her scalp, pins popping onto the floor, guiding her head further to the side with gentle but insistent force. His mouth was clamped on the curve of her neck, and she thought she might break from that steady draw, the streaming suck felt all the way into her very existence.

"God, Erik!"

She shattered, saw flashes of light behind her clenched eyelids, felt her body quake within the circle of his strong arms. She clung to him white-knuckled as though she could pull him further into her, meld their two bodies together more intimately than the way he was deep-seated in her now. She wanted, she hungered, she thought she might perish if she did not free the crescendo building within her.

She felt his knee between her legs, the hard ridge jutting at her hip, and though he had told her to push him away, she could no more do so than she could remember why she had been so afraid.