Dracula in Love by Karen Essex (15)

The black cliffs along the Irish coast sliced perpendicular lines into the sea, where watery tendrils sucked at the colossal jet walls with ferocity. The sun shone brightly upon the sea, but its rays did nothing to calm the water’s turbulence. The farther north we sailed, the more the landscape became austere and unforgiving. Black stone flags began to jut like tentacles into the ocean from the mainland. The gray-green waters merged on the horizon with purple-tinged skies, and the winds shimmied the waves into prancing white peaks.

We watched the winds whipping the water from the glass-enclosed promenade deck of the steamer, where the Count wrapped me in a fur blanket against the chilly afternoon. About an hour before twilight, the steamer dropped its anchor off Sligo Harbor, where two rowboats met us to take us to shore. The sea spray left us wet, and me very cold, but a carriage and coachman greeted us to take us to the castle.

For the last two days of the voyage, the Count had insisted that I rest. Not once did he touch me as he had on the first evening, though I am sure that he read my thoughts and knew that I craved it. Sometimes he dined with me, and at other times, he left me to myself, sending broths and potions in the evenings that would help me sleep. He insisted that I had to gather my strength for the days ahead. He would not even continue the story of his early life but promised that he would tell me the rest of it at the appropriate time once we were in Ireland. He often pressed his fingers to my pulse and listened to my body’s rhythms. Sometimes, he would say, “Good, good.” Sometimes he would frown and send me to bed. I yearned for him to come to my cabin with me, or to allow me into the quarters were he slept, but he refused on the grounds that I must have uninterrupted sleep. A silent and dutiful staff saw to my every need, often while remaining invisible. I was never certain who had been in my cabin while I slept, taking care of my clothing and preparing fresh dress for the following day, or who left the trays of nuts, fruits, and tea to refresh me upon waking from naps.

We rode now in the dark, the countryside vaguely lit by the carriage lamps. A light mist had drifted in from the sea, and I saw only shadows and silhouettes as the Count pointed out sights and landmarks.

“There is the great mountain Benbulbin. It sits on the earth like an anvil, and when it rains, the deep rivulets run with water as if the mountain is shedding tears.”

“I barely see its outline,” I said, squinting to see what he described.

“Ah, I forget that you do not see what I see. But you will, Mina, and you will be amazed at the secret beauty of the night,” he said.

“There is the castle. Do you see it on the promontory at the top of the hill?”

The monstrous stone structure, with a tall, thick watchtower, lorded over the headland, the walls slit by long, thin bars of yellow light emanating from its windows. The carriage began the long climb up the hill, where we gazed over the dark and glossy moonlit sea. At the top of the hill, we were turning onto the long curved lane that led to the castle, when I glimpsed its massive entryway lit by torches. As we came closer, I saw more clearly its two huge, turreted wings with long, tall windows, united by a great stone façade.

A tall, thin woman in a plain black dress with a swirl of gray and black hair piled on top of her head greeted us as we alighted from the carriage. “My lord,” she said with a low curtsy to the Count.

The Count nodded politely. “We are delighted to be in your care, madam,” he said, introducing her as Mrs. O’Dowd. She was not old, perhaps younger than Headmistress, and though her frame was bony, she had very correct posture, and her sallow skin was unlined. “This lady is from the clan of the fiercest warlords in Ireland,” he said, which brought a pleased look to her face, and I wondered if she was one of the Count’s kind and had been alive since the early days of her tribe’s existence.

Awed by the sheer size of the castle, I let the Count take my elbow and guide me. Refreshments awaited us in the grand reception hall, where a roaring fire burned in a hearth as tall as a man. Immense animal heads crowned the room-big-toothed bears, elk, and an animal with jagged, tiered antlers that I could not identify. A tripaneled stained-glass window with English kings and imposing crests presided over the wide staircase that curved around on either side of the well and disappeared into the upper stories of the castle.

I wanted to run about the rooms like a little girl and investigate this wondrous place, but Mrs. O’Dowd took my cloak and gestured for me to sit on the divan in front of the fire, where she poured me a cup of tea. She neither poured any for the Count nor offered it to him. “Shall I serve the young lady some food?” She did not address me, but asked the Count, who nodded his head. She selected an assortment of sandwiches and fruit, placed it before me, and then left the room.

I ate while the Count told me some of the castle’s history, how it had originally been built in the last years of the twelfth century by a French knight who abandoned it some years later. “It went to ruin and was rebuilt again in the era of Cromwell, and modernized about fifty years ago by its present owner.”

I was curious to know more of this mysterious owner, but the Count said that he had another story he would prefer to tell me. He took me by the hand through the castle to a parlor at its rear. I could not see much of the room in the dark except the glimmer of its chandeliers and the large gilded mirrors on the walls. From a bay window, in the distance, I saw a vine-covered ruin sitting beside a moonlit lake. Something inside me stirred. I felt dizzy, faint. I leaned against him.

“Do you recognize it, Mina?”

“I do not, and yet it is familiar.”

“Come,” he said, taking my hand. He opened a door that led outside. The temperature had dropped, and the night was cold. He put his arms around me. “You will be warm,” he said.

He picked me up and started to walk toward the ruin and the lake. In moments, he was no longer walking, nor was he flying, but we were moving at a rapid pace, as if gliding on an invisible track. I held my breath as the landscape sped by me and the castle drifted away. In another moment, time collapsed, and we blasted through a window of sorts and were inside the ruin.

He put me down, and I held on to him while I caught my breath. “As your body adapts to mine, it will get used to that sort of travel,” he said. The room was very dark, but enough moonlight came through a big hole in the roof to illuminate its outline. It was a small room, bare but for some big logs that sat beside an abandoned hearth. The Count picked up a few and stacked them inside. He closed his eyes and held his hands over the logs. His long fingers, stretched out in front of him, seemed to pulsate and glow. Somewhere in the distance, an owl screeched, and wings fluttered madly in a tree, but I was too spellbound by his powerful shape in the moonlight to move or to utter a sound. He stood motionless until the glow in his hands intensified. I heard crackling noises coming from the logs, and suddenly, his hands ceased to glow, but flames started to shoot up in the fireplace, first in one place and then in another, until the hearth was dancing with fire.

He took off his cloak and laid it on the floor for me to sit on. He smiled at my astonished face. “It is not difficult to summon a fire spirit,” he said. “I have seen you do it.”

As soon as I sat down, the room started to spin around me. He knelt beside me, putting his arm around my shoulders.

“I feel sick,” I said. My stomach was upset, and I thought I would throw up the food I had just eaten. He put his hand on my stomach. “Just breathe, Mina.” I did as he said. “You are not accustomed to rapid travel.” His hand grew warm as it sat over my belly, dissipating the uncomfortable feeling. “This room carries memories, and, as with any human life, not all that we shared here was good. Yet so much of it was glorious.”

“What happened here?” I asked.

“We lived here. You and I, together, long, long ago.”

“I do not remember anything, and yet the place has an effect on me.”

“As it would, because the memories are still here,” he said. “All time occurs at once, Mina. I have shown you that. In a place that exists just beyond a thin membrane that you cannot see, you and I are still living that life here together.”

“I don’t understand,” I said. My eyes welled with tears and I clenched my fists in frustration. “I want to understand but I cannot. This is all too much for me.” A few months ago, all I had wanted was a simple church wedding, a little home in Pimlico, and a baby. Now he was calling upon me to apprehend the secrets of the universe.

He pulled me close to him and pressed his lips against my forehead, soothing me. “It has taken me centuries to understand it myself. I expect too much of you. You are probably still in shock from what happened at the asylum. Perhaps I should have waited until you were stronger to bring you here.”

“I wanted a life that was secure and simple,” I said. “I yearned for it, and now it is all gone, and I must comprehend things that are beyond me.”

“You cannot have that life because that is not who you are, Mina. You must be who you are, not who you wish to be.”

He took my face in his hands and looked into my eyes, once again mesmerizing me, melting away my frustration and making me want only him-to understand him, to be a part of his world. “You asked me last night to tell you more of the story of my life before you and I met. I want you to know everything-everything in my life that drove me to you. It will help you to understand who you are-who you are at the very core of your being-and why you and I are here together at this moment in time.”

He took his hands from my face and sat back, one knee raised, his arm resting on it, his elegant hand dangling. For a moment, he looked like an ordinary man, but he moved his face, and the firelight caught his skin, exposing his radiance and highlighting his fiercely strong cheekbones. “How we have arrived here is a long story.” He seemed to be breathing in the room’s memories. I had to draw my attention away from his beauty to listen to the words as he began to speak.

“After a time with the Lionheart’s army, we fought and won major battles against the Saracens at Acre and Joppa, battles that went down in history and are still talked about today. By this time, we had become savage fighters. Our forbidden prayers and dark rituals seemed to have the magic that we had hoped for, and we believed more than ever that we were invincible. Our reputation spread through the land, not only for our courage but also for our preternatural strength and daring.

“Now we were joined by a band of mercenary warriors-murderers, really-known in the lands of the Saracens as the Assassins, for hire by anyone who could pay the price. The Assassins had been terrorizing the Christian pilgrims by the hundreds on their way to the Holy Land, raping them, robbing them of everything including their clothing, and leaving them for dead. The Assassins entered the service of the Lionheart, who paid them to protect the pilgrims rather than destroy them. They were a fearsome group of men, animalistic, and yet also practitioners of mysticism. Though we considered them sinister and uncivilized, in fact, we shared many of their characteristics as well as their obsessions, and they fascinated us.

“We heard rumors that in the dead of night, the Assassins practiced forbidden rituals, ancient secrets to awaken dark powers that would give them invincibility and immortality. We made it known to them that we too were a secret band with similar obsessions, and soon, we were communicating with them. We found that they made blood sacrifices to a heathen goddess of warriors called Kali by the mystics of India, who drained the blood of her enemies into a bowl and drank it. On Tuesday eves, they ate a substance called hashish, which made the real world disappear, and made sacrifices to this goddess. They claimed that she gave them the power to stop both time and death. They invited us to join them in this and in the ritual magic they practiced, which they called the path of the left hand. They taught us the seven hidden centers of the body, where power is stored and through which the life force may enter. In the rituals, we meditated on those hidden seats of power, and we were taught to stimulate the lowest and most powerful center in the genitalia, on ourselves and on each other, which brought ecstasy and climax. We learned to take in more energy and light with each ecstatic climax; and in time, our mental and physical powers grew stronger. We found that meditating on an event would influence it to happen or direct its unfolding. We believed that we had growing dominion over exterior forces as well as over our own beings.

“Later, when some of these things were revealed, the Church proclaimed our practices satanic, but it was not the devil we worshipped. We devoutly believed in the word of Christ. The monks had taught us that the Holy Grail-the very promise of Jesus-was nothing short of immortality. We believed that Jesus confirmed this with His words and with the blood ceremony that He made the centerpiece of worship.

“We were anxious to test our new powers in battle, but King Richard was more anxious for peace, and he signed a treaty with Saladin. That was the second day of September in the year of Our Lord 1192. Some of our members set off on a separate quest to find the sacred vessel carrying the immortal blood of Christ, which they believed still existed. Others went to Aquitaine and other parts of France and claimed the lands that were due them for their service.

“But a small group of us had never forgotten the stories of the Viscount of Poitou and the daughters that he had from his union with the fairy queen. Intrigued with the idea of cavorting with immortals, we requested and received large grants of land in Ireland. Before I left him, the viscount came to me and warned me again of the danger of my quest. ‘You are like a son to me, so I must tell you something that I do not admit to other men, and that is the deep sorrow that comes with abandonment by an immortal lover. They cannot help themselves; it is in their nature to love and to leave. They tire of mortal life with its illnesses and vulnerabilities. As we grow older, they tire of us and they leave. But to the one who is left behind, all is dark. That is why I have buried my grief and loneliness in war. Once lost, nothing can replace the divine pleasures they gave. Few are those who have the privilege of their love, but the loss of them is unendurable.’

“Because I was inexperienced in the ways of love, his words did not affect me. He saw that I would not be deterred, so he gave me his blessing and charged me with finding his youngest daughter. ‘She is special and dear to me,’ he said. ‘Of the three, she is the most likely to be human. She seemed to have a deeply human heart.’ He gave me a token to take to her, something precious that her mother had given to him for protection before he left France. I thanked him, and I took it with me. The next day, I set off with my cohorts for that foreign land.”

He stopped talking and stared into the fire.

“And did you find her?” I asked. Surely he was not finished with the story. He did not answer me, and I grew impatient. Did you find her?

He slipped his hand into a pocket and pulled out something wrapped in a linen handkerchief. He handed it to me, and I was surprised at the weight of it-heavy and substantial. I untied the piece of string that held the package together and carefully unfolded the linen, revealing a silver Celtic cross inlaid with a mosaic of dozens of stones-amethysts, tourmalines, emeralds, and rubies. I stared at it, entranced by its glimmering beauty. The gems flickered and pranced in the firelight.

I put the cross to my heart and fell into his chest, and the world around me disappeared.

My sister and I help each other dress in the black robes we have made for the ceremony to honor the Raven goddess who rules over the night, the moon, and its mysteries; who flies over battlefields protecting her beloved ones and destroying their enemies. The dresses are thick and heavy because it will be frigid cold this evening under the full ice-white moon. We cross the panels over our breasts and then tie them tight around our bodies with silver sashes. Our long hair-mine, midnight black and hers, dark copper-spills down our backs in thick waves, offering extra protection against the cold and the wind that whispers incessantly through our valley. This is the evening of the year when the invisible barrier between the two worlds falls and the deities reveal themselves to their faithful; a time when mortals and immortals may take delight in one another, a time when mortals are rewarded not only by the fruits of their labors in the fields but by the immortal ones as they bestow favor. This is the eve when the fairy mounds open and the riotous, pleasure-seeking Sidhe cavort with their chosen ones who live on the earthly plane. On this evening, mortal men too are restless. Knights and kings prowl the land, hoping to attract the Raven Lady, who bestows victories in battle upon her lovers, or one of her ladies, who will pray to the goddess for them, or a Sidhe woman who will give them both pleasure and protection.

We douse our necks with rose water because we know that the immortal princes who tonight may rise and come to us are attracted to the scent. My sister is betrothed to one of them, and tonight, she hopes that I will attract another so that we may remain together. The sweet fragrance fills my senses until I am dizzy with it. I am known to hear and smell and taste beyond what others do, even my sister, who is skilled in sorcery. We have made thick diadems of crimson roses to place on our heads. Careful not to prick ourselves on the thorns, we crown each other, and then slide our arms into the black gloves we have made with long talons at the fingers, turning our beautiful white hands into lethal weapons.

We slip out into the night and walk along the stream, following its babbling path until we are in the sacred grove, hidden from the sight of men, where the others have already lit two great bonfires. They sit in a circle, an unkindness of ravens, each draped to the lengths of their fingers in black, the elders hooded and the maidens crowned with flowers. Some of the women wear wide ruffs of black feathers that cover their necks and chests; and our leader, the high priestess, wears a tall, feathered hood, reminiscent of the hooded raven that represents our Divine Lady. They are passing around a bowl, an infusion of magic purple moonflower seeds that we have nurtured all year in our secret garden. Every year, foolish ones with no knowledge, curious about the tales they have heard of our powers, die from eating the poisonous blue and white moonflowers that grow wild. Little do they know of our sacred garden and the herbs and flowers that we cultivate for our brews.

Come, goddess of the crossroads,

With torch in her left hand and sword in the right,

Enemy of the daylight, friend of darkness,

Who rejoices when wolves howl and warm blood is spilt,

Who walks among the phantoms and tombs,

Whose thirst is for blood and who strikes fear into hearts mortal.

And cast your auspicious eye upon us.

With the fires blazing at pinnacle heights, we stand one by one and walk nine times around the fires to honor the priestesses of times past, preparing to walk between the flames that will purify our souls and make us worthy recipients of the goddess’s grace and power. I am behind my sister, who is older than I and has stronger magic and goes first in all things to protect me. I have never done this before, but I am unafraid because the broth has made me bold. The flames are calling to me, and I want to feel their scorching heat on my ivory-white skin, because I know that tonight I am invincible. The women walk between the bonfires, dancing to the rhythm of the drummers, twirling in the places where the flames meet, defying the fire to work its power. We know that the goddess gives us immunity and we can therefore be unafraid.

My sister turns to me before she enters the flames and whispers, “If you wish for it, you will see the face of your beloved in the fire.” I give her an encouraging smile and start swaying, throwing my shoulders from side to side as she walks straight between the blazes, her red-gold hair indistinguishable from the flames, her long, black-clad arms twirling above her head, her talons reaching into the night sky. I wait for her signal and then join her in the fire dance, walking fearlessly ahead until our bodies meet. Face-to-face, we grind against each other, heads thrown back as if we are offering our faces to the flames in sacrifice. I feel the crushing heat, so hot that I cannot breathe, but I remember what I am supposed to do, and I hold the image of the Raven Lady foremost in my mind as my sister and I dance together between the fires. She is the first to leave, looking me straight in the eye before she dances away to safety. I know that it is my duty to stay in the center, and I spin and spin, holding my arms above me in prayer as I let the flames lick my body.

From somewhere in the distance, I hear-no, I feel beneath my feet-hooves treading gently upon the earth, but because of my acute hearing, it sounds to my mind like rumbling. I know that a group of riders has approached, though they move stealthily. In my mind’s eye, or in the very flames, I have a vision of them as they dismount, tying their animals to trees, and creeping toward us, and I wonder if the Sidhe warriors have risen from the underworld. Over the cackle and roar of the fire, I hear them moving through the brush and see them standing behind the trees now, watching us. I feel eyes-intense, blue, curious eyes-upon me, and it breaks my trance.

Now I feel the flames on me and I throw my body out of the fire and into the arms of my sister, who is waiting to catch me. She pats my hair, and I can smell that the fire has scorched it. She holds me in her arms, and I am dizzy from the heat and the dance and the broth. I close my eyes, but I hear the other women start to scream, and when I open them, I see you-the owner of those curious blue eyes-standing in the grove and staring at me. You stand alone, but others, perhaps a dozen warriors, soon emerge from the thicket where they too have been watching us, and they flank you. You and your men wear heavy riding cloaks, some trimmed in fur, all of a more luxurious kind than what we are accustomed to seeing, and I can tell by the reaction of the other women that none of us is sure whether you are mortal or from the other side of the veil.

You are clearly their leader, and you hold my gaze and walk toward me very slowly. As you approach, I catch your scent-the musk and sweat of human male. The others stay behind, and they seem uncertain of what you are going to do. None of you have weapons, or if you do, they are not drawn. You come straight up to me, and the flames light up your features-enormous deep-set eyes beneath a strong, almost feral brow, your cheekbones rising up as if to meet your eyes. Your red lips defy the beard that surrounds them and protrude in a sensuous pout. Though you hair is long, I can see that it is clean, and that your curls have been combed in recent days. Beneath your coat, the flames highlight a low-slung belt of gold, something that looks as if you stole it from a god.

The high priestess does not like your boldness, not in her sacred grove, and she begins the chant of the raven, a loud, croaking caw, shrill against the silence of the night. The others join her, their cries escalating as you come closer to me. The women begin to move toward me with their arms outstretched, fierce shrieks coming from their wide mouths. Though I am staring only at you, I can see my sisters in my mind’s eye with their teeth bared to you and to your men, who are slowly receding in the face of the priestesses’ threats.

The women form a half circle around me to protect me, showing teeth and claws and chanting in a taunting chorus of tocks and cackles. Unflinching, you stand right in front of me, looking down at me, and I am trembling. I try to stand tall and regal to let you know that I am filled with the grace and protection of the Raven Lady. You watch me intently, unblinking, for a good long while, and then you drop to your knees.

With this unexpected move, the women stop their cries. “Princess of the night, I have come to offer myself to you,” you say in French, the language of my homeland. “Come with me.” I am trying to look inside you, to foresee your intentions-lust, rape, or ransom-but your beauty clouds my sight.

“Why should I go with you, stranger?” I ask, though I am thrilled by the candor of your request and the desire and enthrallment in your eyes.

I am gazing at you, weighing your flattery, when, from somewhere in the night, we hear the cries of a raven. Everyone looks around to see who is entering the grove. Suddenly, out of the night sky, a wide pair of black wings is soaring above us. The large bird penetrates the sacred space with its strident cries. In the moonlight, I can see its long, thick ruff of feathers and its spiky talons, as it swoops and soars above me.

“She is warning us,” the high priestess says.

In the distance, I hear hooves beating the earth, unmistakably coming our way, but louder this time than the approach of you and your men. This band on horseback comes not in stealth but announcing its arrival with music-tinkling chimes, pipes, and cymbals-drifting in on the wind, which picks up force and grows stronger, sweeping through the grove. “Someone approaches,” I say.

“I hear them,” my sister says. “It is the Sidhe.” I can feel her exhilaration rise at the thought of seeing the fairy prince with whom she is in love.

You stand, but you do not leave, though your men are calling out to you. None of them wants to do battle with the Sidhe warriors, but you do not move, and I wonder if this is the real challenge you have come for.

“Come with me.” You try to take my hand, but recoil when you feel the talons on my glove. There is something in me that wants to go with you, but my sister is yelling at you to go away. She reads my mind and knows that you are tempting me.

“Are you mad?” she asks me. She and I have discussed that mating with a fairy prince will deepen my powers and carry on our mother’s lineage. Tonight would be that opportunity. “Go away before they find you here,” she says to you. “My sister is not for you. Leave!”

“Not without her,” you say, reaching into the neckline of your tunic, and I wonder if you are going to produce a weapon and try to take me by force.

But you are not listening to me. You wrestle with your garment, pulling out a bejeweled cross that hangs on a leather thong. My anger rises at the sight of it. I grab the leather, clutching it around your neck so that I am choking you. Your eyes pop out and your face turns red. You are surprised to be attacked this way by a woman. “That belongs to my mother,” I say, hissing at you, pulling your face closer to mind. “You stole it from her.” My sister and I are exchanging thoughts and we arrive at the same conclusions-you are just another mortal who spied my mother in the woods; just another whom she has taken for a lover and cast aside, and you, vengeful, stole her cross. “Damned is the man who steals from the Sidhe,” my sister tells him, looking him up and down. Suddenly, though, she bursts out laughing. I look to see what she is laughing at, and I am amused to see that even though I mean to choke you, being this close to me has given you an erection.

Now it is my turn to be shocked. I release you so that you can catch your breath. I have not seen my father in years but know from my inner sight that he left Aquitaine to fight in the Holy Wars. I do not know where he is, but I know that he is alive. But the cacophony of the Sidhe is upon us. The drumbeat of their galloping horses, the sharp barking of the dogs that accompany them everywhere, and their music that sounds strangely like the color silver grow louder and louder, and we can hear them singing one of their rowdy songs as they come in pursuit of pleasure with us.

Spurred on by the approach of the fairies, your men have readied their horses. One of them doubles up with another so that I can ride his horse, a moon-white stallion with a long mane. Before you help me mount, you pull the claw gloves off my hands, so that I can ride, and throw them into the bushes. As we start to ride away, the Sidhe warriors leap into the grove on their horses, slipping through the trees and the brush as if they did not exist, lighting up the dark space with their celestial glow. Glimpsing the dazzling Sidhe, with their radiant skin, bronze colored hair, and shimmering green mantles, I have a moment of regret, wondering what might have been.

But there is no time for wistfulness. You come behind me and kick my horse hard, making him bolt away. Ahead of us, your men fly through the night, and we follow. The animals know the terrain and gallop down the path so that the landscape is a blur. My head is still clouded by the moonflower broth, so I close my eyes and make myself one with the steed until I can no longer feel my own body but have melted into his. I feel his animal strength infusing my body with his power, and his with mine, and when I open my eyes again, it is to look up at the stars, which swirl above in a greenish glow.

After a time, we approach a stone castle guarded by men in the torchlit watchtower and surrounded by a deep ditch. One of the riders calls out to them, and they lower the bridge so that we can enter. Inside the gate, you, my blue-eyed captor, help me off my horse, and I fall into your arms, where it feels as familiar as if I have done this one thousand times and will do it one thousand times more. Someone lets us inside, and we pass through a large room with men sitting round a fire, who look at us as if this is just another ordinary sight. You carry me through a torchlit hall and into a bare room with a tall hearth and iron bars slashing the two windows high in the walls.

You place me on a mattress on the floor covered in furs near the hearth, and I yelp in pain as a thorn in the back of my crown pierces my scalp. Gently, you remove the crown and kiss my wound. But as you toss the crown aside, another thorn tears your finger, making a slit in the skin that soon fills with red. We are both startled at the sight, but I take your finger into my mouth and suck some of the blood, savoring its fresh taste and your salty iron flavor.

I want to show you my magic, so I when I have had my fill of tasting you and of watching your desire rise, I take your finger out of my mouth and show you the cut again. Then concentrating deeply, I run the tip of my tongue along the incision very slowly, first once, and then a few more times, sliding my tongue sensuously along the cut. In my mind’s eye I see you watching me in wonder, those gemstone eyes of yours sparkling with arousal.

When I stop, I show you that the wound is closed and the skin, unbroken.

I thought that you would be awed by my magic, but, instead, without a word, your lips are on mine. Your hands have untied my silver sash and are inside my robes, grasping greedily at my body. I feel your raw, human hunger and I answer it. It is not my first time making love with a mortal. I love the body heat that comes with palpable human desire, and the scent and taste of flesh and blood. Earth time collapses, and we enter a timeless space, kissing with great care, exploring every inch of our lips, tongues, faces, and necks. You discard your braies and hose and you pull up my dress to look at my body, touching the wine-red mark on my thigh, tracing its winglike shape with your finger.

“The mark of the Sidhe.” Some ignorant men think it the mark of the devil, and I hope that you are not one of them. But your look tells me that you are feeling something else, something closer to wonder. Because I am infatuated with you, I cannot read you as clearly as I would like.

“Why are you not living with the Sidhe?” you ask.

At this moment, my Sidhe blood is taking over as I inhale your scent. That small taste of your blood has aroused me, and I want to drink more, but I do not want to weaken you or kill you. My mother would be angry with me for these feelings. She hates me to question my nature.

“You have endangered yourself by bringing me here,” I say. I am looking at your bare legs, and they draw me like a magnet. I push them apart, my fingers slowly creeping up the length of your thighs as I lick my lips, anticipating the thrill of tasting you. Your eyes are wide now, straining to see what I will do to you, but I have paralyzed you with my touch. Without warning, I bring my mouth to the muscle at the innermost part of your thigh, surrounding the flesh with my lips, teasing, licking, kissing, and nibbling, first one side of the groin and then the other. You open your legs wider, making yourself vulnerable to me. You let me take more of your inner thigh into my mouth, so that my cheek rests on your sac, and I fondle it very gently with one hand while the other holds your bare, tense buttock. You close your eyes and moan with pleasure and anticipation. But I use that moment of weakness to break your skin with my teeth and bite into your tender flesh, taking what I want from you while you cry out in ecstasy and surprise. When I am done, you are panting and glowing with your own sweat.

But unlike some of the others I have been with, you quickly recover. “You are not ordinary,” I say.

“I am accustomed to danger and practiced in the ways of mysticism. Even if I were not, a night with you would be worth my life,” you say.

I push your shoulders back so I can look you in the face. “You do not know what you ask,” I say. Few humans know the secrets of the blood, and I wonder where you have obtained such knowledge.

You look as if I have insulted your manly pride. “I have drunk the blood of others and have only grown stronger.” Your blue eyes are angry and indignant.

I have enough magic in me to open a place at the base of my throat with a light touch of my fingernail, an incision just big enough for your mouth. I let it fill with the red substance that is my blood. It is brighter than mortal blood, the color of cranberries, and more luminous, and I see that this surprises you. Without giving you a chance to change your mind, I press your head to my throat and let you drink.