Read Online The Blood That Bonds by Christopher Buecheler - Free Book Online Page A

“Perhaps I am very wrong indeed!”
    And then Theroen had her in his arms, and
she was resting her head against his chest, neck throbbing, wanting
only to sleep. She tried to speak, tried to tell him that she did
not feel defiled, that even as pleasure and pain had torn through
her body, she had thought of Theroen, and it had been clean. She
could not say so much, her eyelids so heavy, sleep forcing itself
upon her with clumsy, brutal hands.
    She forced herself awake, took her hand,
held it to her neck. Fingers bloody, Theroen striding rapidly down
the hall, not running, only leaving, his fear lost in his anger.
The oak doors shut behind them and Two wondered if Abraham had
moved from his desk or closed them with only a thought. She pressed
her bloody fingers to Theroen’s lips, and he stopped, looked down
at her in surprise.
    “ Not like that.” Two’s
voice was a whisper, and she was crying again. “Not like he
says.”
    An expression of powerful emotion passed
over Theroen’s usually unreadable face. He made a sound, smiled at
her, kissed her fingers. Bloody white lips, bloody white teeth.
    Two slept.
     
    * * *
     
    The bed held softness unlike anything she
had ever experienced. Or perhaps it was her skin, newly remade,
that made it feel that way. Silk sheets and pillow covers, heavy
down blankets enveloping her, warming her, giving her a sense of
comfort she had never before experienced.
    Waking was as it had been before,
instantaneous, frightening almost in the sudden intensity of
consciousness. One moment, blackness; the next, total lucidity. Two
woke with Theroen’s name on her lips, a soft whisper, and she
smiled against the silk.
    Had there been dreams? Visions of her life
as an immortal? Had she dreamt of who she might be, what she might
do? Two’s heart raced as her mind pondered these things. There was
time, now. Time enough to see all of the art that ever she could
desire. Who cared if she was no longer a part of the web of
humanity that produced it? Could one not stand outside a house and
still admire the decor within? Was it not possible to appreciate
certain strains of music that the ear could not, in truth, even
process into a coherent whole?
    I’m falling in love with
him, she thought, and in love with what he is.
    Though she sensed the tragedy in this
thought, as if some instinctive part of her warned against so
seemingly easy an answer, she could not deny the truth of it.
Abraham be damned; Theroen was not like him, never would be. She
was sure of this. She’d seen Theroen’s face as she pressed her
blood to his mouth. Not greed or hate, not even hunger, but only
overwhelming desire.
    Love? Or at least the beginnings of it, as
she was now feeling herself? Two thought so, yes, and that was
enough.
    The click of a latch. Two felt no fear. Not
Abraham, then. Theroen, of course. She turned, sitting up before he
could speak. She didn’t want him to speak. Not now. Catching him in
her bright green eyes, now luminescent from the vampire blood in
her veins, trying to hold him there.
    An interminable moment, but
sweet, as they looked into each other’s eyes. Theroen’s face held
that same gentle smile with which he seemed always to look upon
her. You are all I have
wanted , his eyes told her, since the first time I beheld you. Two felt this echo in her own soul, and she broke
out into a grin.
    She let the sheets pool in her lap. Bare
skin, bare breasts, not embarrassed. She laughed as his eyes
flicked down momentarily, and back again to her face. It did not
anger her, this look. It brought her only the joy that comes with
being desired.
    “ Lovely,” he said through
his smile, and she knew he meant not only her breasts, but
everything else. Filled with warmth, she closed her eyes, lay back,
enjoyed the feeling of silk on skin.
    Theroen sat next to her in a large wooden
chair with a padded cloth back, as relaxed as ever she had seen
him, and yet so still. So composed. She wondered aloud if it