He couldn’t remain on the floor. Narcise picked him up awkwardly—he was long and loose-limbed, and heavy even for her—and got him to the bed. And then she began examining him in detail.
She’d had enough injuries of her own, inflicted by Cezar or any number of his friends, to recognize all of the different manifestations of burns, piercings, cuts and bruises. She’d also had some experience in caring for them, although she wasn’t certain whether washing and cleaning injuries on mortals would even help, since they could die from injury and she, of course, wouldn’t.
But she did the best she could, using the warm water and the dubiously clean cloths that had been brought in with the unguent to wash away blood, sweat and grime. Narcise even immodestly stripped away his breeches, leaving him fully naked, so that she could examine him for other wounds. A particularly nasty one, which had been hidden by the trousers near his right hip, had her sucking in her breath in alarm.
Even in the faulty light, she could see that whatever had gone through his skin, and out the other side, had taken the fabric of his breeches with it like a needle and thread. The injury was rough and dark, and little frayed threads and pieces of cloth decorated the opening.
And it smelled. They all smelled of course, but this one had a wrong scent to it. An ugly, thick, roiling sort of stench that was so unpleasant it didn’t arouse her bloodlust, even as undernourished as she was, and succeeded in masking some of the other enticing scents as well. She cleaned it carefully, probing to get the remnants of thread and wool from inside, and knew she was doing a good job when he flinched and moaned in his fever. But the injury would bear watching, for it might not heal at all.
The rest of them, ugly as they were, evil and dark, were painful but should heal. This one on his hip…perhaps not.
By the time she finished, the sun was rising and casting yellow beams through the window. Dangerous to Narcise, but at the same time, she hadn’t seen the sun for more than a decade.
So she stood at the window, carefully to the side, and watched as the golden glow painted the rooftops and buildings clustered around this dingy little public house—so crude and dirty and simple compared to her previous residence, but so welcome.
She couldn’t see much aside of the walls across the street and down the alley, for the buildings were close, but just the glint of yellow made her chest expand with pleasure.
No, she couldn’t walk out into it, she couldn’t bathe herself in its rays nor pick flowers on the mountainside as she’d done with Rivrik…but at least now she could see it. And she could smell the warmth as the beams baked the edge of the cotton bedding or heated the wood of the window shutters.
And perhaps…if she were brave…she could walk out into it with a cloak over her head and shoulders, thus allowing the rays to seep through and warm her through the shield.
She watched from the window for a long while, simply observing the way the shadows changed, shortening and then disappearing, and then beginning to fall toward the east…how the light changed the scene of busy Paris, the carriages and barouches, the merchant carts and the shops’ awnings from dull shades of gray to every color imaginable.
She was weak and hungry still, but she couldn’t leave in search of someone on whom to feed. And she couldn’t go down to the public room of the house and lure someone up here…could she?
So Narcise ignored the insistent waves of weakness and light-headed moments and watched from the window, wishing for her paints or at least a pencil.
When Woodmore groaned, drawing her attention from the scenery, she went to his side. He opened his eyes, but they were dull and feverish, and his skin was still hot despite the fact that the fire had long subsided into glowing coals.
The water from the basin was cool, and she used it to dab at his forehead, uncertain what else could be done for him. His glassy gaze didn’t seem to be able to focus, and his lids fluttered as he moaned and muttered things she couldn’t understand.
Narcise felt a stirring of panic when she checked the worst of the wounds again and saw that it was puffy and foul-smelling still. The blood crusting and oozing, its edges stank and she knew something had to be done, or the infamous vampir hunter would die—and in such an inglorious fashion.
At first, she simply didn’t know what to do. She couldn’t leave during the day to go in search of a physician, nor did she have any funds to pay for one. The pouch he’d lifted from the nabob who’d taken their hack was empty.
And aside of that, she was feeling weary and nauseated herself, from lack of feeding and sleep.
Very deep inside her, Narcise was also terrified that if she left this sanctuary, Cezar or his men would find her and take her back to the hell she’d been living.
She looked at Woodmore, who, despite his fever and the shuddering breaths he was taking, still appeared capable and intimidating—even with his eyes closed. He was so dark and exotic looking next to the undyed linen sheets, his overlong, thick hair tumbling over his forehead and clinging to his neck from the heat of his skin. But his face was tight and flushed and his pulse thumped erratically, its sound seeming to fill her ears.
But…she had to do something.
She was a Dracule, she had the ability to enthrall even if she couldn’t go out in the daylight. How foolish of her to waste time when she did have the means to do what had to be done!
It had been so long since she’d been on her own, making her own decisions. Much more than a century. Still, to have stayed hidden and helpless like a trembling rabbit was not admirable in the least.
Unwilling to leave Woodmore alone for too long, she rang for one of the servants. A young woman came and Narcise gave her instructions in her imperfect French: she needed a physician immediately for her companion.
Then, assuring herself that Woodmore would sleep—if not restlessly—for a bit longer, she left the chamber quickly. Down the back stairwell she went, and then into the public room where it was crowded with people, noise and smells. Smoke and sweat were strong enough here to gag her, along with the layer of stale ale and old wine and a myriad of other aromas.
Nervously she looked about and settled her attention on an old, fat man who was waddling unsteadily toward the door. He was well-dressed and clumsy with drink.
Narcise, who was thankful to still be dressed as a boy, kept her face averted and hoped not to draw attention as she made her way to meet her unsuspecting mark. At the door, which fortunately led into a small alcove to keep the snow and rain from pouring into the pub itself, she met up with the fat man. He was irritable, which made her feel even more justified in drawing him into a bit of her thrall whilst she relieved him of the wallet he held under his coat.
It was done more quickly and easily than she’d even imagined, and Narcise, flush with funds and a different sort of confidence that had nothing to do with swordsmanship or even her beauty, slipped back up to the chamber she shared with Woodmore. She would feed later, after she’d seen to Chas, and when she could find a more private place.
But that incident seemed to be the most optimistic part of the day. When the physician arrived, he spoke French too rapidly for her to completely understand…yet the idea that Woodmore was in dangerous condition became very clear.
Narcise watched as the docteur used a sharp knife to cut into the swollen and infected wound, then scooped away the foul-smelling green pus that erupted from it. He cleaned it and wrapped it and gave her a list of instructions that was only partly clear…and then he left, taking a good portion of the fat man’s money with him.
Not long after he left, a knock sounded at the door, drawing Narcise’s attention abruptly from her patient. She quickly covered Woodmore with a sheet and then bade the servant to enter.