The spicy scent of the Japanese Choji clove oil saturating the rag usually calmed him, but after his talk with Chrysabelle, his insides were torn by the need to be left alone and the hunger for companionship. No, he told himself, his desire to help her stemmed from his search to remove his curse, not for any other reasons. A sharp pain erupted in his fingers. He snatched them off the weapon where they’d come to rest over the blade’s inscription. Deus misereatur. May God have mercy.

Where was his mercy? He’d never asked for this life, such as it was. He’d never asked to become a creature so vile he’d thought numerous times about ending his own existence. This life had been thrust upon him like a disease. And he’d become its carrier, spreading the infection to his beloved wife.

‘Shaya,’ he whispered her name, something he never allowed himself, and his dead heart burned with her memory. His beautiful Gypsy wife. What a scandalous creature she’d been. He’d saved her from the gallows. He shook his head. As though being a Gypsy was a crime worthy of death. She’d been a good wife. Faithful. Given him a child. And yet he couldn’t deny he’d questioned more than once if she’d loved him because he’d saved her life or because she’d seen something more in him. Something worthy. He wanted to think it was the latter, but deep down, he wasn’t sure.

She’d married him when no one else would and that was all that had mattered, but for what reward? He’d lost her. Lost her to the same monsters who’d taken his life. He slammed his fist on the desk, making the blade clatter against the wood.

If only … if only … but he wouldn’t let himself go down that path. He’d been right not to turn Sofia. Eternity was hard enough in an adult body, but for a child … he shook his head. No. This was no life for such an innocent.

And this was why he’d help Chrysabelle, for the chance to find those who’d destroyed his life and make them pay. If he lost his life again, so be it. He had lived too long already.

He took up the oilcloth again. Someone knocked at the office door. Chrysabelle, by her scent. Stronger than usual. Odd. He refocused. She must have found clothes. She’d certainly taken her time.

‘Come in.’ No, the voices screeched.

The door opened, and with one hand behind her back she slipped inside wearing her white trousers and a shirt of Doc’s, probably the only white one he owned. The perfume of her blood hit him hard. No, no, no … Oil oozed between his fingers from the rag in his hand. He eased his grip.

‘Here.’ She planted a tumbler full of crimson liquid in front of him. Her gaze hovered on the long, two-handed sword he’d been cleaning, causing her hand to pause. A small nick marred the inside of her pale wrist. She tucked it to her side and lifted her chin. ‘Don’t argue. Just drink it.’

No wonder her scent had been so strong. Kill her. He stared at the glass, fangs jutting into the edge of his tongue, saliva pooling. He pushed his chair away from the desk, but stayed seated. ‘I said—’

‘It’s not like drinking directly from the vein. If you don’t want it, dump it down the sink. But we both know you need it.’ She turned on her heels and walked out, shutting the door firmly.

Memories forgotten, his mouth came open as he inhaled, dragging the honeyed fragrance over his tongue. His gums ached. The voices railed. His fingers wrapped around the tumbler before he realized what he’d done.

The heat from the glass shot into his gut like a fist. For some reason, he hadn’t expected that, but of course it would be warm. It was fresh. Spoiled.

He pulled his hand away, dragged his fingers through his hair. He should empty the blood into the sink, turn the faucet on and wash it away. Or just throw the whole lot overboard. Yes, yes, yes …

The scent burrowed down his throat, filling his lungs with thick, sweet pressure.

His fingers strayed back to the warmth. The thought of pouring that blood out, of wasting it, seemed like blasphemy. That wasn’t just any blood. That was comarré blood. Freely given. Chrysabelle wanted him to have it. Wants you to die.

He stared at the glass. Tapped his fingers against it. Inhaled the heady aroma already infusing his body with need. Hell and damnation, it smelled good.

One taste wouldn’t hurt, would it? Yes. Like she said, it wasn’t as if he was taking it from her vein. No chance he’d drain her dry.

But what if one taste was all it took? What if that one taste made him hunt her down and … the sweetness of it fogged his head with a strange euphoria, blocking out the voices? Unlike the time Preacher had been present, or she’d pricked her leg to get his attention, this blood was no longer forbidden fruit. It was his for the drinking.

So he should drink it.

He lifted the tumbler.

Put it to his mouth.

And took a sip.

He swallowed and a sound so animalistic welled out of his throat, he wasn’t sure it had come from him. His body tensed like he’d been electrocuted. Heat and cold rushed through his veins. His face shifted, his muscles throbbed. He lifted the glass again and drained it in one long draught.

A thrum rose up around him, a pulsing, thumping noise that filled his ears until he heard nothing else.

His heart. He slammed the glass down onto the desk.

For the first time in more than five hundred years, it pumped with life. He didn’t have time to question how that was possible when the pain kicked in. It started in the marrow of his bones, radiated through his veins and into his muscles until it burnished his skin with a searing heat. His hands dug into the arms of his chair. Sweat dripped down the back of his neck.