Read Online The Kaisho by Eric Van Lustbader - Free Book Online
Authors: Eric Van Lustbader
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arms out to her.
She wanted to laugh, to spit in his face, but she also felt the razor, warm inside her—and there was something else, a mysterious emotion, elusive as mist, that locked her lips together.
In retrospect, it still surprised her that she crawled into his embrace, as meekly as a child; stunned her that in the grip of that embrace she felt more protected than she had ever felt before.
What was happening to her? She had no answer. Had he somehow managed to enchant her with one of his magic potions? She thought back to when she had eaten or taken something to drink. Had he secreted something at those times? Terrified, she could not say.
“How like his signature these bruises are.”
With his fingertips on her purple flesh she could not speak; her mind was blank save for the warmth she felt flowing from him, entering her where she hurt the most.
His head bent and his mouth opened against those bruises, and she felt his tongue, a pressure, and then nothing, as if even the memories that had lingered in those painful places had been exorcised.
She shivered when she felt his lips on her neck, at the tender place where her carotid artery softly pulsed. He did something then with his tongue that sent ripples of desire through her. She felt her nipples stiffen, and she grew damp between her thighs. It was then that she reached down. The razor thus lubricated came out without the difficulty she had had in sliding it in. It lay in the palm of her hand, gravid with its promise of death, warm as a living thing.
Margarite closed her slender fingers around it, and her lips opened to expel a soft groan. She used her forefinger to swing open the blade, and now she was ready.
His tongue slipped into the hollow between her breasts, a place that had always been a spot of intense arousal for her. He knows, she thought.
The blade moved as if of its own volition, a beast hungry to taste blood, to slice through flesh and sinew.
Kill him now, said a voice in her mind. It’s what you want. It will get you out of the trap.
She squeezed her eyes shut and, grunting with the effort, swung her arm across the space between them. The edge of the blade struck him dead on, but instead of cutting him, the steel slid harmlessly along the skin of his lower belly.
She could see him grinning, his teeth large and white in the dimness as he held up her hand with one of his, clasped the opened razor blade with his other one.
Margarite gasped as he opened his fingers. They were uncut.
“Touch it,” he said. “The blade is unsharpened. The one I use is locked away.” His grin broadened. “I could feel you watching me, your eyes following the track of the blade as it scraped away my hair. I know greed, Margarite, and I could feel your greed. You wanted my razor… and I gave it to you.”
“No,” she said faintly, dropping it on the sheets between them. “You gave me nothing.” The acrid taste of bile was in her mouth. She thought she might be sick.
“On the contrary,” he said, taking her in his arms again. “I have given you what is most important: a taste of your revenge.” His tongue touched her skin again. “I wonder, Margarite, was it as sweet as you had imagined it to be?”
She had refused to answer him, instead swallowing heavily to try to rid her mouth of the awful taste. And again she thought, He knows.
“Answer me!” his voice so sudden, so harsh that she started.
And said, “Yes.”
“I suspected as much,” he said with a curious satisfaction that caught her. “You would have killed me; you have it in you.”
She could smell his breath, a scent of cloves, hear his heartbeat. “I don’t have to listen to this.”
“And what else have I given you, Margarite? Do I need to tell you? Now you know you have the strength of purpose... to do anything.” He touched her nipples, setting them on fire. “Now you see that I know you better than you know yourself.”
Lying there, quiescent, the impotent razor
She wanted to laugh, to spit in his face, but she also felt the razor, warm inside her—and there was something else, a mysterious emotion, elusive as mist, that locked her lips together.
In retrospect, it still surprised her that she crawled into his embrace, as meekly as a child; stunned her that in the grip of that embrace she felt more protected than she had ever felt before.
What was happening to her? She had no answer. Had he somehow managed to enchant her with one of his magic potions? She thought back to when she had eaten or taken something to drink. Had he secreted something at those times? Terrified, she could not say.
“How like his signature these bruises are.”
With his fingertips on her purple flesh she could not speak; her mind was blank save for the warmth she felt flowing from him, entering her where she hurt the most.
His head bent and his mouth opened against those bruises, and she felt his tongue, a pressure, and then nothing, as if even the memories that had lingered in those painful places had been exorcised.
She shivered when she felt his lips on her neck, at the tender place where her carotid artery softly pulsed. He did something then with his tongue that sent ripples of desire through her. She felt her nipples stiffen, and she grew damp between her thighs. It was then that she reached down. The razor thus lubricated came out without the difficulty she had had in sliding it in. It lay in the palm of her hand, gravid with its promise of death, warm as a living thing.
Margarite closed her slender fingers around it, and her lips opened to expel a soft groan. She used her forefinger to swing open the blade, and now she was ready.
His tongue slipped into the hollow between her breasts, a place that had always been a spot of intense arousal for her. He knows, she thought.
The blade moved as if of its own volition, a beast hungry to taste blood, to slice through flesh and sinew.
Kill him now, said a voice in her mind. It’s what you want. It will get you out of the trap.
She squeezed her eyes shut and, grunting with the effort, swung her arm across the space between them. The edge of the blade struck him dead on, but instead of cutting him, the steel slid harmlessly along the skin of his lower belly.
She could see him grinning, his teeth large and white in the dimness as he held up her hand with one of his, clasped the opened razor blade with his other one.
Margarite gasped as he opened his fingers. They were uncut.
“Touch it,” he said. “The blade is unsharpened. The one I use is locked away.” His grin broadened. “I could feel you watching me, your eyes following the track of the blade as it scraped away my hair. I know greed, Margarite, and I could feel your greed. You wanted my razor… and I gave it to you.”
“No,” she said faintly, dropping it on the sheets between them. “You gave me nothing.” The acrid taste of bile was in her mouth. She thought she might be sick.
“On the contrary,” he said, taking her in his arms again. “I have given you what is most important: a taste of your revenge.” His tongue touched her skin again. “I wonder, Margarite, was it as sweet as you had imagined it to be?”
She had refused to answer him, instead swallowing heavily to try to rid her mouth of the awful taste. And again she thought, He knows.
“Answer me!” his voice so sudden, so harsh that she started.
And said, “Yes.”
“I suspected as much,” he said with a curious satisfaction that caught her. “You would have killed me; you have it in you.”
She could smell his breath, a scent of cloves, hear his heartbeat. “I don’t have to listen to this.”
“And what else have I given you, Margarite? Do I need to tell you? Now you know you have the strength of purpose... to do anything.” He touched her nipples, setting them on fire. “Now you see that I know you better than you know yourself.”
Lying there, quiescent, the impotent razor
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