Page 10 of The Vampire's Thirst
When Ivan lifted a sleepy eyelid, Chiara arched a brow. “Don’t be so judgmental. Okay. You’re right, boy. Rather than ogle the man, I should wash him. First, I need to check for a head injury.” With fingers probing his scalp, she found a small orange-size lump. “That could cause a problem.”
After gently resting him on the pillow again, she dipped the sponge into water, rung it out, and swiped his forehead. She wiped across his thick-lashed eyelids, hard-angled cheekbones, and wonderfully full lips. She cleaned the sinister goatee which dusted his chin.
After washing away the worst of the gore on his face, she inventoried his wounds. The guys had tried to rearrange his looks. Cuts and a lot of bruising marred his skin. She fingered his jaw. Not broken. The back of her hand caressed the stubble she loved on men in fashion magazines, but this guy was no model. Way too masculine, too wild.
Chiara chewed her lip, glancing at the dogs. “Okay. Off task again. While I’m here should I check out the fangs? Sure.” She pinched his upper lip between her thumb and forefinger, lifting it. When he snarled, she jerked, immediately releasing her grip.
The two wolfhounds shot to their feet, growling. “Don’t worry. He’s still out, but I was right. He’s got wicked chompers.”
She slid the comforter to his waist. Biting her lower lip, she ripped his tattered T-shirt from hem to neck. She couldn’t miss the chain. She bent over him.
Yuck.A string of long pointy teeth. Like fangs.
She flung the gruesome bling over his shoulder.
Squeezing water out of the sponge, she swiped across his muscled chest and abs. She lingered too long, careful to avoid the multiple deep lacerations and the severe burn on his side. The worst gash was over his heart. Almost as if someone had tried to rip it out.
Chiara leaned back on her heels. Her hero was more delicious than she’d remembered. Ripped. Rock solid.
Her gaze hovered on the zipper of his leather pants while she toyed with the snap. She wouldn’t be peeking.No. He could have wounds there. She would sponge off the blood and check them out. It was the right thing to do.Zzziiiipp. When she fisted the waistband to slip them down an inch, she saw he wore nothing underneath. Immediately, she tugged them back into place, re-snapping them with shaky fingers.Pervy.He’ll have to stay as is. Wounds or not.
Chiara moved on to his arms. With his hands tied overhead, she had trouble washing off the blood.Damn.His bicep was bigger than her thigh. Good thing the sturdy ropes were lashed to her bedframe. The feathers on his Phoenix brand seemed to flutter when she wiped the sponge across it. Moving on, she touched the inside of his right wrist where a macabre skeleton with fangs was tattooed.
Finished with the clean-up, she had a better picture of his injuries. Checking out his closed eyelids again, she rose with the washtub in her hands. The wounds needed more than water.
“Watch him, boys. I’ll return in a sec.”
Ivan grumbled. Boris cracked a weary eye but didn’t stir.
After restoring the basin to the cabinet under the sink, Chiara opened the pantry to scan the labeled jars lining the shelves. Oils. Dried herbs. Various concoctions. She pulled down the container marked calendula oil, admiring her creation.
Months ago, she gathered marigolds, plucked off the petals, and mixed them with olive oil. Afterward, she placed the mixture into a glass jar, sticking it into a brown paper bag where she shook it daily. Recently, she strained the concoction before returning the filtered calendula oil to the darkened pantry.
With her patient again, Chiara tucked her skirt beneath her to sit cross-legged beside him. Scooting closer, she dipped her fingers into the healing goop, gently dabbing some onto the wound at his wrist, the deep gash at his heart, and his burns. She moved on to other scrapes sullying an otherwise perfect body. Satisfied with the efforts, she screwed the lid on the jar before setting it on the floor. She ran her hand along his leg. It seemed properly set.
When Chiara re-examined the man’s chest, her palm clasped her mouth.No way.Small cuts were already knitting together. Even the more serious wounds scabbed over somewhat. Calendula oil was great, but it didn’t heal injuries that quickly. She settled her legs to the other side, leaning on a hand.Amazing.
“That’s not normal. Huh, boys?”
After an hour, he still hadn’t awakened. She resumed her vigil from the chair, fearing the head injury was serious.Did she risk using the curse again? Maybe.She wiggled fingers in front of her face. When the air shimmered with icy energy, she snatched them back to her side.No.Her healing potions would have to do. The other was too unpredictable.
While her eyelids fluttered, her mind filled with memories of her hero on the pallet. In her dreams, he was big enough, bad enough, fierce enough to scare anything or anyone who haunted her nightmares. When monsters came, he was the one who peeked under the bed, opened the closet door, or flipped on the cellar lights. Not really him, of course. Rather, the idea of him. With his courage as an example, Chiara found her own inner strength. Now he needed her.
Chiara’s chin bobbed to her chest.
She was reading a book in the backseat, sucking on her lower lip, pouting. The family was in the car, driving to a lake where they told her she could swim, play in the sand, meet other kids.
Early in the morning, they loaded luggage, swimming gear, and fishing poles into their late model station wagon. Before beginning the journey, they stopped at The Hole in the Wall to grab donuts for the road.
Now it was past lunch. She was hungry, telling her father just that, but he wanted to get closer to the lake before they ate. Pulling a face, she whined, grumbled. “Nobody ever does what I want.”
Her parents ignored her to argue about directions.
Chiara returned to her book, harrumphing, sighing, making enough noise to let her mom and dad know she wasn’t happy.
She was absorbed in the story of the Black Riders who had wounded Frodo with a cursed blade when three things happened at once. Her mother screamed while the car jerked wildly. The brakes screeched, and she whipped forward, unable to hold onto the book. It tore out of her hands. The station wagon rolled. It rolled and rolled and rolled. She lost count.
When it stopped, she was hanging upside down. Hurting, she yelled, “Mommy.” No answer. “Daddy.” No answer.
