Chapter 12

CHAPTER TWELVE

S he would not become obsessive, an addict desiring more from him. Everything he'd done, she could do for herself, after all. With or without electronics. Except…

You don't control the pleasure. I do. She could interpret that as an indirect command. Don't give yourself pleasure. That's my job.

A Master could require that. She'd told him he wasn't her Master. Couldn't be. She just had to tell herself not to act like he was, pathetically because she'd gotten her first taste of what she'd wanted for so long.

It was bad enough, how her mind dwelled on the ways he'd touched her, his unforgettable attention to detail. But then there were other things.

The very next night, she'd passed through the Big Top and noted a roustabout sanding the pipe where she'd cut herself.

"What are you doing?"

"There was a burr on it," he said. "Merc pointed it out to me, and suggested I get it fixed."

His expression said that "suggestion" had been delivered in a manner that catapulted it to the top of the to-do list.

How had Merc found the spot, in a maze of scaffolding? A trace of her blood would have been left on it. Of course.

The scary sex demon who enjoyed women's fear had been bothered about her simple cut. She thought of that glimpse of yearning she'd seen in his face while they were together.

He'd had her take his blood. Normally she had to fight the urge to take a nap halfway through her waking hours. An extra draught of human blood and self-discipline pushed her through it, but tonight, she didn't experience it. She even had an extra spring to her step, though there could be several reasons for that.

She needed the energy, though. Marcellus and Dollar had doubled up on everything security-related for the second night of the Circus's three-day performance run. Clara was determined to work. She didn't want anything to keep her from doing what she normally did. Ruth planned to stop by her tent frequently. She'd make it seem less like hovering by sharing some titillating details of her flight with Merc, to distract the girl and make her smile.

Ruth passed the popcorn vendor's cart. It wasn't yet open, but the aroma of popped kernels, butter and salt lingered around it. As well as another pleasing scent she recognized. Even before the owner of it spoke, she was grinning and turning his way.

"Don't tell me they're so hard up for security at this outfit they're hiring skinny little girls now."

Gideon Green, Jacob's brother, was sitting on a sturdy crate and applying a wicked knife to sharpening a wooden stake. A half dozen of them were piled at his feet.

She affected a disapproving look. "I see you still lack respect for your betters, servant."

His shrug was unapologetically insolent. "Haven't had anyone beat it into me yet. Want to give it a go?"

He tossed the stake in the pile and rose, assuming a sparring stance. She went in under his guard, but Gideon compensated, countered, blocked her. She kept their strength on an even par, making the fight about skill. When she saw her opening, she spun, kicked and knocked him back a few steps. He rallied in a heartbeat, but she'd winded him.

Gideon was the one who'd told her not to avoid those "undignified" moves she'd used on the Trad. He'd informed her there was no such thing in a fight to the death. He'd also taught her never to take herself too seriously. "If you and an opponent walk away from a fight together, share a beer," he'd told her. "Finding common ground means he or she might be your ally down the road."

Gideon kept the match going long enough to test her range before she got him on his back and sat on his muscled abdomen, crossing her arms and giving him a look of triumph.

"So there."

He chuckled, patting her thigh. "Work on the leg sweep."

"It knocked you on your ass."

"But a vampire with greater speed and strength would have had you on your ass. And put a stake in your heart." He thumped her chest with a light finger. "So work on it."

"Got it." She offered him a hand up, nodding to the stakes. "Used up your current stock?" she asked.

A smile warmed his midnight blue eyes. His unruly dark hair reached his broad shoulders. The jeans and plain black T-shirt were as much of a fashion statement as Gideon Green ever made, unless his vampire Master and Mistress wanted to dress him up.

"Always good to have extra on hand."

"Then there's the added benefit of pissing off Lady Yvette if she sees you doing it."

"I get my joy where I can find it."

She laughed and jumped into his arms, accepting the firm hug. "You ever going to grow up and act like a properly uptight, stick-up-your-ass vampire?" he asked.

"Soon as you learn how to act like a proper servant."

She returned to her feet and slipped her hands into her back jeans pockets before cocking a hip. "What are you doing here?"

"Lyssa wants us to stay in the loop with what Clara has told Yvette and Maddock. If we can ever get some concrete idea of where these Trads are, Daegan and I can go on the hunt. Last night's attack was too aggressive to let pass."

"Yeah."

He gave her a considering look. "I understand you got in a Trad's way."

"I had some help."

"Yeah. Eventually. You took first blood. That's pretty tough, as well as stupid." He grinned. "My preferred MO."

"You stole my line."

"That's why I said it." He sheathed his knife and tucked a stake in behind it, adding the others to a bag he shouldered. "Do you have time to see a good sword fight?"

"Who?"

"Merc and Daegan."

Her eyes widened. "Does Merc have a death wish?"

"Absolutely. But not for this. Merc's pretty damn good. A blade is one of his favorite weapons. Daegan considers him a decent opponent, and that's saying something."

She'd learned something new about her incubus. She should try to push past the tidal wave of sexual power he emanated to find out other things about him. Did he have hobbies beyond sword play? Favorite foods?

Other than the life energy he could summon from a woman when he aroused her.

In addition to being the servant of Anwyn, Mistress of Club Atlantis, Gideon was also bound to Daegan, the Council's hunter and enforcer. Over the years, the three had been to the island several times to spend a few days, helping out while taking a break from work. Unless a vampire was personally invited by Mal, usually that was a privilege reserved for higher ranking vampires. As a young, made vampire, Anwyn didn't really qualify.

Daegan was a different matter.

While initially his identity had been a closely guarded secret in the vampire world, it was now generally known how he served the Council. If a vampire stepped out of line, or a threat to the vampire world required a hunter who could track it down and take it out, he was their choice.

Watching Daegan practice with his katana on the island, Ruth had witnessed a warrior's integration with the weapon he wielded.

"Calling him a hunter suggests the prey might have a chance," Mal had murmured to her. "He's more like an exterminator."

Daegan had not only occasionally observed her sparring with Gideon, he'd helped enhance the knife skills Mal had taught her.

She might not have been given the strength of other vampires, but they hadn't had the opportunity to learn their fight skills from the very best. She'd survived the fight with the Trad, and done him damage, because of those skills.

She fell into step with Gideon as they went down the midway, headed for the Big Top. "Yvette considered giving Merc an act that uses his sword skills," Gideon told her. "But at the time, Marcellus said he might decapitate someone if they pissed him off."

"They should re-evaluate that. His control seems pretty good."

"You've been here what, less than a week?"

She stiffened, but it was a valid point, and her defensive reaction was too telling. She covered it with a question. "I don't know much about him, just impressions. Do you know his background?"

Gideon gave her a studied look. "He was young when a Dark Guardian found him, living in a sparsely populated area of Russia. He was near a fault line portal, so the theory is something thrust him through it and left him, like dumping a dog out of a car and driving off. They couldn't bring themselves to kill him, but they didn't want any association, either. Probably thought leaving him as a kid in the wilderness in the middle of winter would do the job."

Ruth came to a full stop. "How young?"

"Maybe eight or nine years old, best guess. He was taken down to Hell, Lucifer's domain, because it was safest to have him there." Gideon grimaced. "Sounds bad, but they couldn't treat him like a child. There was nothing childlike about him. They made zero headway with him until someone realized how much he liked to fight, and wanted to do it even better. So as Lucifer taught him, that became an avenue for Merc to learn other things. Like language and reading, wearing clothes, learning about the modern world. And how not to act like a stray, draining every female in reach because every meal might be his last."

Gideon paused. "I'm not sure if I should be telling you this, but it's not a secret. And maybe you need to hear it."

She shot him an even look. "I'm not a child. Tell me."

Gideon sighed. "He made them believe he was on board with all their plans to ‘civilize' him, until he'd increased his skills enough to make him think he could handle being on his own again. Then he escaped. Hid out for about three decades before he was located again. Thanks to the trail of bodies he left behind."

Gideon glanced at her. "The same Guardian was sent to track and execute him, which is what they do to any sex demon when their hungers take control. Because they weren't sure what kind of abilities his angel blood gave him, they sent a Prime Legion captain as backup."

Though that "trail of bodies" comment tightened the fist in her lower belly, another light dawned. "Marcellus."

"Yeah, Marcellus."

"So what happened?"

"Marcellus said any other incubus in that state would have been as mad as a rabid dog. When they found him, Merc wasn't. They didn't know if that was because of the angel blood, or because supposedly there was some black magic involved in his conception that changed the makeup of his incubus side. Regardless, he was brought back to Hell, where Marcellus recommended he be evaluated by a witch who's more than a witch, and not just because she's mated to an angel.

"She concurred with Marcellus, that there was a slim possibility of redemption. Under her guidance, he was kept in the Underworld for a while and ‘rehabilitated.' Fuck all knows what was involved with that, but he did okay enough that eventually he was deemed ready to try the world again, under close supervision. And with the understanding there are no more free passes. He fucks up again, he's done."

She remembered what he'd said. Otherwise, you incur a death sentence for the crime of being who you are .

"Marcellus wasn't fighting with the Legion at the time, thanks to an injury. He'd been assigned temporary guard duty over a clairvoyant who was deemed important to the angelic realms."

"Clara."

"Yep. He brought Merc along with him, after they got Yvette on board with it, which took some convincing. Merc doesn't go out of his way to be charming."

At her arch look, Gideon made a face. "Yeah, Miss Smartass, I know I'm one to talk."

"There are still plenty of vampires who want you dead." She gave him a nudge. Before being bound to Daegan and Anwyn, Gideon had been the most successful human vampire hunter their world had ever encountered. If not for the binding with his two vampires, he would still be on the most wanted list. Or already executed.

"What can I say? I have a devoted anti-fan club." Gideon shrugged, then sobered. "Even after all these years, jury's still out on him, Ruth. Don't get too attached."

She understood. Even so, she thought about the child Merc, being dumped like trash, and anger surged within her. As well as gratitude toward Marcellus and the others Gideon had mentioned, who'd recognized such desolate circumstances had earned that "child" a second chance.

What were Merc's feelings on all of it? And was he "rehabilitated," or merely toeing the line to stay alive? The word smacked of turning him into something he wasn't, but in her world, it meant other things, too. Teaching new and better survival skills, while healing an injury, whether to the soul or body.

Gideon quickened his steps. "They're about to start."

His eagerness was more than a desire to view the competition. He didn't want his Master without backup. Which reinforced what he'd said about Merc.

Jury's still out on him.

The match was taking place in the Big Top's center ring. Daegan was a tall, lean vampire with dark eyes and close-cropped hair. He wore a tank shirt and gi pants, appropriate for a workout. As he moved in a series of muscle-rippling warmups, his katana was still sheathed.

Merc had chosen the same kind of blade. She didn't know if it was his or if it had been borrowed from Daegan, but he looked exceptionally comfortable with it.

A few roustabouts and performers were scattered at safe distances to watch. With a spurt of happiness, Ruth saw Adan sitting on the low wall in front of audience seating. As she and Gideon joined him there, she sat down between them and gave her brother a fond nudge. "Didn't expect to see you back so soon."

"It's not too often I get to be in the same area for more than a few days, so I'm taking advantage of it. Thought I'd check in." He did the obligatory tug of her braid and she responded in kind with a side punch. "Heard you held your own yesterday pretty damn well."

"I did okay."

I'm all right, big brother. This is what I'm here to do. And I kicked ass.

Adan draped an arm around her, a quick, hard squeeze. "I don't doubt it."

Merc had noted her arrival. His gaze touched hers, then it returned to Daegan. She squelched a shiver, hoping the distraction of the fight would keep Adan from noticing.

Nope. His blue eyes narrowed on Merc before they turned toward her again.

You know you don't want to mess with him.

He's all right. He pulled the Trad off of me yesterday. After I kicked his ass, she repeated.

Merc was stripped down to jeans and his bare feet. An outfit that differed from the other day only in that the jeans were faded blue, thinner and more worn. She approved, the denim creasing in all sorts of distracting ways.

As he limbered up with his own blade, she saw the mental stillness and controlled movements of a trained fighter, comparable to Daegan's, though each man had his own style. She forgot to be self-conscious about staring. Fortunately, the rest of their audience was equally involved.

A warrior practices endlessly. When he drills down into the heart of the forms he learns, he finds their spiritual essence. The end intent is to protect, defend, and yes, to kill if necessary. But there is an art to fighting, just as there is to living and dying. All of it is part of creation.

When Daegan had told her that, he'd been showing her the beauty among the brutality. He'd given her a stick to use as a practice sword. They'd stood on a rocky crest and he'd put her through several simple forms while the moon shone on the gazelle herd grazing on the wide plain below them. "If you can't stop the blade a hair's breadth from your opponent's throat," he said, "then you haven't trained enough."

"So I'll never be good enough," she'd complained.

He rapped her on the head with his own stick. "None of us is ever good enough."

Daegan was mirroring Merc now. Lights in the Big Top touched the blades, making them look like silvery water as the flashes advanced and receded.

They started to draw closer to one another.

Ruth leaned forward. Gideon was right. Merc's form was almost as flawless as Daegan's. When the two men at last engaged, a roomful of held breath released, blending into the sound of blades meeting, a chime of metal, a sliding together that drew sparks.

Extraordinary footwork took over. The katanas could decapitate, slice through flesh and bone as if it were nothing. But the dance and control were the thing here. They weren't seeking the kill or a decisive win. Anticipating and countering the other man's movements, that was the competition.

It was awe-inspiring to watch. Forward, back, a leap from Daegan, a lift from Merc, using his wings. Spinning, and now they brought more hand-to-hand into it, incorporating kicks, strikes with a free fist, the hilt of the sword. The dust they put on the Big Top floor for traction was kicked up in small plumes.

Above them, in the upper levels of the Big Top, the bright, glittery motes of pixies darted about like hyperactive fireflies, excited by the match. Since Clara had told Ruth how alert the tiny Fae were to the bigger life forms occupying their space, what happened next took everyone by surprise.

One of those frenetic sparkles shot downward, right into the path of Daegan's blade. Proving his words to Ruth, he was able to check the sweep, but seeing the pixie barreling right at the katana's edge, no time to change course, Daegan knocked the creature off track with as gentle a strike from the back of his hand as he could manage.

It still sent the pixie spinning through the air. He plunged downward and thumped to a halt against the base of the wall near where Gideon, Ruth and Adan were sitting.

A gasp snapped Ruth's gaze back to the center ring. Merc, in the middle of a spin, wasn't expecting Daegan to be where he was. There was no avoiding the contact, perhaps the rare exception to Daegan's rule. Merc's sword sliced across Daegan's shoulder. Blood spurted and Daegan staggered, causing another exclamation from those watching.

Yvette's piercing gaze shot to the cloud of pixies above the center ring. In a heartbeat, the bulk of them vanished, slipping out the nearest tent seams.

All except two young male pixies, who zoomed down to check on their fallen comrade. As Gideon surged to his feet to go to Daegan, Ruth grabbed and pushed him, to make him sidestep. At his startled gaze, she directed his attention to the fallen pixie who would have been trampled under his boot.

"I've got this. Check on Daegan."

Ruth knelt over the pixie, aware of the other two chattering. They were on her shoulders, grabbing her hair. The pixie blinked blearily. Seeing he was conscious, the other two crowed and bounced up and down on her collarbone, hanging onto her hair.

Even without interpreting the language, she could tell his friends had dared him to "dash" between the blades. Ruth barely resisted the urge to swat them.

Fortunately, someone else was willing to do the honors. An older female pixie with a stern matronly air descended upon them. She flitted in front of Ruth's face as if she wasn't there. Her focus was on the dazed male she hovered over, her fussing also requiring no translation. She landed next to him to do a closer check.

"Is he all right?"

Ruth looked up. Daegan stood a couple feet away. He appeared unconcerned about the blood soaking the towel Gideon held against his shoulder, but his arm hung at his side, suggesting some muscle tissue had been cut.

With his strength and age, he'd heal fast. Especially with Gideon providing him whatever extra blood he needed. It still spoke well of the male vampire that, instead of being angry with the tiny creature, he was worried he'd done him irreparable harm.

Ruth looked back down to see the male pixie get to his feet. He was testing his wings and stretching all his limbs, likely to reassure his mother. With a smug smile, he gave a thumbs up to his friends.

The mother rolled her eyes and slapped his head, evoking an indignant retort. Ignoring it, she pulled him airborne by a wing and fired a machine gun of words at the other two, ordering them along in her wake as they exited the tent.

"Right now, yes," she told Daegan. "Maybe not after his mother and Lady Yvette are done with him."

"Better bisected by her tongue than my blade," the vampire responded.

Gideon touched his arm, still holding the towel in place. He tilted his head toward an empty section of the tiered seating behind the wall. "Let's get you the blood you need. Anwyn is having a conniption in my head. Next time you get clipped, do it out of range of Atlanta."

Daegan gave him a half smile and nodded, allowing himself to be guided by his worried servant.

Though it was considered rude to stare at a senior vampire feeding for functional purposes, versus ceremonial ones or public sexual play, Ruth watched out of the corner of her eye as Daegan took a seat and Gideon sat beside him, offering a wrist. Daegan slid a hand behind his nape, caressing his servant's shoulder and hair, while he lifted the wrist to his mouth and bit.

Even knowing the same thing she knew about Daegan's healing abilities, Gideon's eyes never left him, and he kept holding the towel to his Master's shoulder, helping the blood to clot.

Gideon wasn't unaffected by the contact, aroused by it as servants inevitably were. Just like vampires. She didn't look toward her brother or Yvette, knowing they'd have their own response. It was how they were made, no shame to it, but it was why the courtesies were observed.

She could look toward Merc, though. He'd sheathed the blade after cleaning it and set it aside, and was watching Daegan feed off Gideon with undisguised attention. He wasn't a vampire, and any sexual energy would capture his interest, whether or not it was meant for him.

When his gaze slid to her, she thought of the way he'd fed off her. That pull hadn't only affected the obvious erogenous zones. All of her, her whole body, had been his to command, to take, to use for his needs, and she'd only wanted to give him more.

Maybe it was hazardous, her encouraging him down that road, but his longing to feed fully from her had been so obvious, and called to the part of her that wanted to satisfy him. She'd told him it shouldn't be fatal to her, but he'd resisted.

Was he more concerned about the consequences of her being wrong, or of her being right?

Daegan closed the wound in Gideon's wrist, leaning in to brush his mouth over his servant's, the hair on their brows brushing as Daegan nuzzled his nose and cheekbone. When he rose, he stripped off the bloody shirt and put it in a trash barrel, along with the towel he'd used.

Merc had moved to the middle of the ring and now faced the vampire, drawing Daegan's attention. He'd picked up the sheathed katana and held it before him. As Daegan approached him, he executed a bow, and the enforcer responded with the same, as well as a compliment.

"A good match."

Merc handed over the blade, confirming it was borrowed. He then drew his own dagger, removing the smaller blade from the hilt and offering it to Daegan. "Take an equal measure," Merc said.

"There's no need," Daegan said.

"A good swordsman is prepared for any eventuality," Merc said. "I should have been prepared to pull back."

He said nothing more. He simply waited.

The tent had gone silent. Daegan glanced at Gideon, a mind message spoken and received. His servant stepped back.

Daegan took the shorter blade with a courteous nod. Merc dropped to a knee, offering the same shoulder. Daegan swept the blade over it, a cut Ruth had no doubt was identical in length and depth, within a hair's breadth. Merc didn't flinch, but something eased in his expression.

Ruth moved to the stack of towels Gideon had found, placed next to the ladder leading up to the trapezes and high wire. As she picked up another one and came to Merc, she was aware of her brother and Gideon's attention.

Merc rose to his feet. After the barest of pauses—not so much to be noticeable to others, but meaning a great deal to her—he nodded. Permission. She put the towel over the wound, applying pressure.

He would heal as Daegan did. She'd wanted to help, regardless, but now she had another problem. She kept her lips pressed firmly together, so no one saw her fangs elongate as she inhaled the scent of his blood and remembered its rich taste.

"A good bout," Yvette said, breaking the silence. "Lord Daegan, if you will join me in my quarters, Marcellus will meet us there and I can update you on the Trad attack. Lord Adan, you are welcome to sit in if you feel it's relevant to Guardian business."

Daegan gave Merc a nod and turned, taking his leave with Gideon. Adan had joined her and Merc in the ring. She hadn't moved, holding the towel on Merc's shoulder.

"How could it not be relevant to Guardian business?" she asked.

"Guardians, like angels, have boundaries on what they can be involved in," Adan said, but he didn't clarify if this situation fell outside of it. "Regardless, you should go, too."

"She would have invited me if she wanted me there. I'm part of the security detail. Dollar will tell me what I'm supposed to know."

She wouldn't overstep her role because of family connections. She wanted to work her way up the ladder. "Plus, this way you can ask Yvette if I'm really all right, without me there to tell you to kiss my ass."

She said it mildly, a gentle tease, but Adan's gaze had shifted to Merc. Before she could figure out what that was about, she felt a vibration under her hand and looked up, startled to see Merc expose his own fangs in a decidedly unfriendly way.

The aggressive testosterone surge wasn't helping her manage the rising bloodlust.

I'm fine, Adan, she added, with a touch of urgency. Really. I'm safe with him. I promise. Males get him riled up. That's all. Go see Yvette. Please.

Adan's gaze narrowed, but he offered a curt nod. "I'll be close," he told her. "Call if you need me."

When he departed, they were alone, the roustabouts and performers having drifted out of the tent to other duties. Covering her hand with his, Merc moved the towel out of the way. "Clean the wound in the way you wish," he said.

His arm slid around her waist, fingers dipping into the pocket of her jeans to grip her buttock as she put her mouth on the still wet blood.

When she was younger, she'd experienced the "crush" born vampires sometimes developed toward their donors, a result of first discovering the intimacy of the act. Infatuation, not to be equated with "real" love.

With him, the desire to drink deeper, consume more, was strong. It nourished far more than the physical body. Watching Daegan drinking from his servant had been arousing. Merc's blood, the taste of it, actually was arousing, as if his ability to command sexual desire permeated his blood, bones, muscle…all of him.

Merc's head dipped as he lifted her off her feet. He moved his mouth to her shoulder, teasing her collar bone. He explored her throat as she licked his shoulder, his flesh, taking every drop of blood she could, coming back to his wound and tracing the cut with the tip of her tongue.

She wrapped her leg around his hip, the contact of his stiff cock against her core making her moan, which he answered with a growl. He tightened his hold on her waist, keeping her where she was. When she drove her fangs into either side of the wound, blood spurted into her mouth again.

Could someone get addicted to an incubus's blood?

She was close to orgasm, her body quivering. She'd learned her lesson the previous night and restrained herself, even as she could feel the desire to beg rise within her.

He didn't give her the option or opportunity.

Spreading his wings, he carried them up over one section of tiered seating and dropped them behind it. The area beneath was screened because they kept extra props there, shielded from audience view. He pushed her into that space, turned her toward a waist-high cabinet and shoved her down on it, opening her jeans and pulling them to her knees. He didn't ask, didn't prepare her, but she needed no preparation. She was drenched with need as he thrust into her.

"Come now," he hissed.

The orgasm detonated through her. When he braced his hand by her shoulder, she sank her teeth back into his forearm to muffle her cries. He worked himself in her, a smooth yet forceful taking that had her losing awareness of anything but him and this moment.

She'd been in control for so long. Had to be. He'd taken it away from her. Reminding her of what he'd told her.

If a Master decides he wants you, he won't give you a choice.

He released with a groan, his wings draping over her, over them both, a cloak that held them in darkness. She gathered them to her, holding the feathers against her face.

"You haven't even properly kissed me yet," she said at last. Softly. Breathless.

"I don't kiss women," he said.

That hurt, but she refused to let the implication that she was nothing different from other females take away from the moment. "Why not?" she asked instead.

A dozen heartbeats, breaths slowing, synchronizing. "This isn't a time for talking," he said. "Be still, Ruth."

She would have pursued it further, maybe even lashed out, but he laid his forehead against her back, between her shoulder blades. The moistness of his breath through her shirt, the heat, had a strange vulnerability to it.

"Okay," she said. Held the feathers closer. Okay.