one knew where we were going. If all dead . . .” Her brow furrowed. “Dawud. His village . . . I wanted to help his village. Now his mother will never know what happened. Like my mother.” She raised her lids then, and Mason found himself confronting a pair of gray eyes that didn’t match the gaunt face. They were determined and pleading at once. “If any part of it was true, if you have any mercy or love for her, as she believed you did—” A cough bucked her up from the ground, and her face contorted with pain, blood spewing from her lips.
Automatically, he moved to the side, sliding his arm behind her back to steady her. Despite how weak she was, she struck at him, twisting, making the coughing worse. The blanket fell open down the front, but she seemed unconcerned with her lack of clothes, or perhaps she didn’t notice.
“Don’t touch me.” The panic and rage in her voice was startling, that of a trapped, wounded animal.
“Shhh,” he said firmly, though he couldn’t prevent another spear of compassion through his gut, damn the woman. “I intend you no harm. Steady. Try to relax. Easy.”
As he stroked her shorn hair, which felt as stiff as straw under his hands, some of it came away with his touch. He wasn’t repelled by it, only by what this young woman had become. What the hell had happened?
She’d gotten the coughing under control. Her body remained stiff under his hands, her revulsion at his touch obvious, but he sensed she needed the support as she gasped out the words. “Will you go to his village . . . tell his mother he died helping me? That he served God to . . . the end. In Cairo . . . there is an account. The contents should go to his village. I’ll . . . tell you how to get it.
You won’t do it . . . likely take them yourself, but no one else will . . . so it doesn’t matter, does it?”
Spittle drained out of the corner of her mouth, a green, foul substance. He wiped it away with a cloth. Her reflexes had dulled, because it wasn’t until well after he’d finished that she swiped at a hand no longer there. “Don’t touch me,” she repeated. “Why . . .
holding me? Stop.”
“Why are you sick, Jessica? What happened?”
“Didn’t . . . finish. He died in . . . middle of it. Third mark.” Her lips pulled back in a discomfiting feral smile. “Drove it right into his chest. One gurgle . . . dead. So easy, that night, when it had always been . . . impossible. I wanted to laugh, but it hurt so badly . . .
Jesus, it hurt. One thing. Just one thing left.”
Allah, be merciful. That was it. She was only partially third-marked. He’d never heard of such a thing happening, but here it was before his eyes. It was a miracle she was alive at all. She’d been a fugitive for months, so it seemed that half-finished third mark had been waging a tug-of-war with the death of the Master who’d inflicted it, giving her strength and leeching it at once. Of course, what he saw in those snapping gray eyes reminded him that burning hatred could keep the body going far beyond where science said it could.
She spoke again, though the words were getting lost in the heavy wheezing. “Won’t mean anything to you, won’t understand, because you’re the same as him. But will say . . . for her. I . . . She kept me alive, her story, her love for you . . . kept me going.
And now, he can’t hurt anyone else. That’s got to be worth something. Even if nothing else means anything . . . that means something.”
Mason stared at her a long moment. “Yes,” he said at last. “It does mean something. I’m sorry that happened to you. What Lord Raithe did to you was wrong. He never should have forced you to serve him, Jessica. That’s not the way it’s supposed to work, for vampires and their servants.”
That penetrated, such that those eyes came back up to him again, revealing shock. The distant smile of a woman in her grave crossed her face, startling in its sweetness, a haunting suggestion
Automatically, he moved to the side, sliding his arm behind her back to steady her. Despite how weak she was, she struck at him, twisting, making the coughing worse. The blanket fell open down the front, but she seemed unconcerned with her lack of clothes, or perhaps she didn’t notice.
“Don’t touch me.” The panic and rage in her voice was startling, that of a trapped, wounded animal.
“Shhh,” he said firmly, though he couldn’t prevent another spear of compassion through his gut, damn the woman. “I intend you no harm. Steady. Try to relax. Easy.”
As he stroked her shorn hair, which felt as stiff as straw under his hands, some of it came away with his touch. He wasn’t repelled by it, only by what this young woman had become. What the hell had happened?
She’d gotten the coughing under control. Her body remained stiff under his hands, her revulsion at his touch obvious, but he sensed she needed the support as she gasped out the words. “Will you go to his village . . . tell his mother he died helping me? That he served God to . . . the end. In Cairo . . . there is an account. The contents should go to his village. I’ll . . . tell you how to get it.
You won’t do it . . . likely take them yourself, but no one else will . . . so it doesn’t matter, does it?”
Spittle drained out of the corner of her mouth, a green, foul substance. He wiped it away with a cloth. Her reflexes had dulled, because it wasn’t until well after he’d finished that she swiped at a hand no longer there. “Don’t touch me,” she repeated. “Why . . .
holding me? Stop.”
“Why are you sick, Jessica? What happened?”
“Didn’t . . . finish. He died in . . . middle of it. Third mark.” Her lips pulled back in a discomfiting feral smile. “Drove it right into his chest. One gurgle . . . dead. So easy, that night, when it had always been . . . impossible. I wanted to laugh, but it hurt so badly . . .
Jesus, it hurt. One thing. Just one thing left.”
Allah, be merciful. That was it. She was only partially third-marked. He’d never heard of such a thing happening, but here it was before his eyes. It was a miracle she was alive at all. She’d been a fugitive for months, so it seemed that half-finished third mark had been waging a tug-of-war with the death of the Master who’d inflicted it, giving her strength and leeching it at once. Of course, what he saw in those snapping gray eyes reminded him that burning hatred could keep the body going far beyond where science said it could.
She spoke again, though the words were getting lost in the heavy wheezing. “Won’t mean anything to you, won’t understand, because you’re the same as him. But will say . . . for her. I . . . She kept me alive, her story, her love for you . . . kept me going.
And now, he can’t hurt anyone else. That’s got to be worth something. Even if nothing else means anything . . . that means something.”
Mason stared at her a long moment. “Yes,” he said at last. “It does mean something. I’m sorry that happened to you. What Lord Raithe did to you was wrong. He never should have forced you to serve him, Jessica. That’s not the way it’s supposed to work, for vampires and their servants.”
That penetrated, such that those eyes came back up to him again, revealing shock. The distant smile of a woman in her grave crossed her face, startling in its sweetness, a haunting suggestion
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