"No, you liked it before, Padre, remember?" The girl from Rio climbed on the bed, on top of him. Shock and pain made him jerk after her small hand slapped his face. "Look at me when I speak to you."
He looked, and felt his cock swell beneath her. "No, please." He was not ashamed to beg. She had dressed like the demon that haunted his dreams for so long, to make him confess his sins. How did she know? He wanted only to be free of her, free of the memories. "Don't. Don't."
She hiked up her short skirt and tore open her blouse. Her mons was shaved bare, and her breasts were larger, fuller, with erect nipples.
John's vision wavered, then steadied. He was lying on the cobblestone street, lying in the gutter, with a menina do doce on top of him. But this wasn't right. Her nipples were red, not brown, and when had her skin turned so white? In Rio she had been so pitifully thin.
A man barked out something harsh in Italian.
"Oh, he wants it, don't you, Padre?" She smiled down at him. "I gave him enough to keep him like iron all night." Her teeth weren't rotten anymore; they glowed white and perfect, like pearls. "Go ahead. Touch me."
There was a flash of lightning in the room as she seized John's hand and brought it to her breast. Taut, firm weight touched his palm, filled it. A hard nipple poked at his fingers. He couldn't stop his fingers from contracting, his palm from rubbing.
"You want to squeeze them, don't you?" she said, her face turning sly. "Do it. I'll let you."
"No." He was a man of God. He was above temptation. He pulled his hand away. He would pray now. He would pray the paternoster, as he had in the chamber with the vampire, as soon as he could remember the words.
Why couldn't he remember the words?
She gave him another, vicious slap. "I did not tell you to do that." Her angry dark eyes moved down. "Your cock is hard. Take it out. I want to see it." When he didn't move, she sank her red claws into his chest. "Take it out now, bad boy. Show it to me."
Lightning flashed again, and tears ran from John's eyes as she tugged the gown back and his erection sprang up between her round thighs. She made an odd, crowing sound and bent down, shoving her breast in his face, pressing her nipple against his mouth. "Take it. Suck it hard."
John opened his mouth over her nipple, gasping as he felt the slash of her nails against his shaft. She had her fingers wrapped around his penis; she was shifting the head, positioning it to spread those bare, girlish folds. He heard soft sucking sounds, and tasted the velvety pebble of her nipple on his tongue.
"Good." She grunted as she worked herself on him, trying to force him into her narrow vagina.
Her pussy, the twelve-year-old boy inside him taunted.
They didn't fit. She was too dry; he was too engorged. She spit in her palm and reached down, rubbing the sticky fluid on the swollen head before cramming it inside her body. "Yeah, yeah, Padre, like that, push it in, harder, yeah." A grimace of painful pleasure screwed up her face. "Take it, take it, take it."
Not like before. She hadn't taken him in her pussy before, not in Rio. She had gone down on her knees, in the filth, in the street. She'd grabbed his penis in an iron fist, and stroked him and licked him. He'd nearly torn it out by the roots, trying to push her off, trying until she'd taken him in and sucked on him like he was a stick of candy.
John knew what sex was from his years on the street, had seen it performed in the alley shadows and the backseats of cars. As a teenager, he had occasionally indulged in furtive, shame-ridden bouts of masturbation, needing the physical release but never enjoying it.
None of it compared to the heat and sensation of that hungry, experienced mouth. Putting that part of his body into hers, clasping her head between his hands, feeling the weight of his semen building and swelling, aching to pour into that soft, fervent space—all of it had stunned him. He never wanted it to end; nothing had ever felt as good as that young whore going down on him.
Until the police car went by, and stopped, and the beam of the flashlight caught them—
The golden-haired angel appeared over him, blocking the sight of the little whore trying to impale herself on him. God had sent his messenger to save John. Only the angel's face wasn't sweet and understanding now, and she didn't reach for him. She was looking down at the space between her thighs, the space he was being pushed into, and then into his eyes.
"No."
She was disgusted; she was melting away. A moment later she was gone, along with all his hope of salvation.
Fire sliced across his chest. "Come on, Padre, I want it. Give it to me."
Like the girl in Rio when the police hauled her off John. You like, Padre? Is good, eh? Next time you pay.
If John was going to pay—and he surely was, for all the lightning flashing around them—then he would get what he wanted, for once. She wanted it, too, didn't she? She was snarling and snapping at him, telling him to push it in, shove it in, give it to her.
He'd give it to her.
John shoved his hands under her arms and lifted her off his penis, rolling over, pushing her under him. She squealed and fought, but whatever made the room melt had also made him stronger, quicker. He pinned her shoulders with his knees and grabbed her by the jaw. No more sly smile, no more pouting lips. Her wet-black eyes were lighter, browner, but still as wide as they had been that night. Maybe wider now, with all the whites showing around them.
"Now you take it." He guided the cock in his fist to her lips. "Take it." When she tried to set her teeth in him, he squeezed her jaw until she stopped. "That's it." He pressed in, deep into that soft, warm wetness. The wide eyes softened and grew damp, and she sucked.
Lightning flashed, over and over and over.
"That's it." He put his hand in her big black curls and held her head still as he stroked in and out of her tugging mouth. "Good girl. Good girl."
Michael thought Alexandra should examine the other, less injured vrykolakes before assessing Thierry, but she overruled him.
"Worst case first," she said as she picked up her medical case. "I need to know how long I'm going to be stuck here."
He escorted her down into the basement level, which still contained the makeshift surgery/trauma center he had created for her. All the equipment remained exactly where she had left it, with the addition of the human nurse he had brought in to monitor Thierry.
Éliane came to him while Alexandra checked the equipment. "Would it not be wise to have Phillipe control her as before, Master?" she asked in French.
He had not told his tresora that Alexandra was here willingly, he recalled. "No. She has volunteered to help us."
"It's rude to talk in another language when everyone in the room can't speak it," Alexandra said, her voice loud. "Where's the nurse?"
"Heather," Éliane called, and the young, redheaded nurse appeared. "Dr. Keller is here to see your patient."
"Hello, Doctor." The nurse came out from the little cubicle where Phillipe had set up her desk and gave Alex a dreamy smile. "Nice to meet you." She handed her a file. "This is what I have charted so far on Mr. Durand."
"Thanks." Alexandra gave her a sharp look before she opened the chart and read the top page. As she flipped through the other reports Heather had written, something made her mouth tighten. "We need to prep this patient for X-rays and an abdominal ultrasound."
A growl vibrated from behind her.
"Under no circumstances can Thierry be released," Michael said, stepping directly into her path when she headed toward the growl.
"The doctor perhaps does not understand the danger," Éliane said.
"Why don't you go make coffee or type something?" Alexandra's gaze strayed to an open section of floor with a copper grid over it. She seemed almost afraid to look at it. "Don't tell me he's in there."
Something hit the grid, and metal screeched against metal.
"He has to stay in there all the time," the nurse assured her. "Poor Mr. Durand."
Michael saw Alexandra's face darken and went to the nurse. "Heather, would you go upstairs and check on Mme. Durand for me?"
"Yes, sir."
Michael followed Alexandra over to the floor cell. She knelt beside the grid and looked down at Thierry. He was active today, lurching and hobbling back and forth in the restricted space like a wounded tiger. The scent of gardenias rose thick and strong from the cell.
"You weren't joking; you do have him in chains," Alexandra murmured. She looked ill. "Copper chains, and manacles on his wrists."
"The manacles are lined," Cyprien told her. "They do not hurt him."
As soon as he heard Cyprien's voice, Thierry snarled up at them.
Slowly the doctor stood. "Who is Angel?"
Shocked, Michael stared at her. "It was his wife's pet name. She was killed by the interrogators. How did you know?"
"Listen to him. He's not just screaming; he's screaming her name." Alexandra faced Éliane. "Was chaining him like this another of your bright ideas, you nasty bitch?"
Michael answered before his tresora could. "I put him there, as you see. We tried allowing him to move freely, without restraints, but Thierry will not stay in the cell. He tries to kill anyone who comes near him."
"Wow, I wonder why." Alexandra rubbed her temple. "Haven't you tried giving him something to calm him down?"
"It took Phillipe and four others to hold down M. Durand long enough for the nurse to assess him," Éliane told her. "No drug can anesthetize the Kyn. They must enter trance state, or endure the pain."
"God, you're as dumb as your hair." Alexandra pulled off her jacket and rolled up the sleeves before snapping on a pair of latex gloves. "Get me a bottle of saline."
The Frenchwoman's nose elevated a notch. "I am not a nurse."