The Vampire and the Scorpion (Blood and Venom Saga #1)

11. Eleven

Eleven

L atisha spun on the spot, the light skirt of her dress fluttering around her. I’d figured that once it whipped up to reveal her bare arse she’d stop—but she didn’t. My eyes snapped upward as I forced them to focus on her beaming face as my mouth became wet and heartbeat quickened. Perhaps it was the glow of fairy lights and the exotic, perfumed scent of burning incense, but there was an aura around her that engulfed me, making me hunger... for her. I lowered my sights and bit my lip, smirking.

“You stop your perving!” She came to a standstill, laughing, as blood rushed to my face.

“Sorry!”

Latisha laughed harder, pulling up the skirt and flashing me her lady bits. “Go on! Get a good look!”

“Damn hussy. Want me to make you some matching undies to go with your dress?” My cheeks still burned, but I gave her a sheepish smile. “Don’t you get cold?”

“Evidently, I do.” She thrust out her chest, her nipples visible beneath the thin fabric.

“Stop it!” I bunched up a scrap of cloth and threw it at her. “How am I meant to concentrate when you’re flirting with me?”

“Concentrate on what? You have finished the dress.”

I snorted, shaking my head. “Bloody tease.”

“Sorry Ava, it’s just my witch’s glamour. It has an alluring effect on people.”

“It’s not always this strong,” I mumbled, looking away as I rubbed the back of my neck.

“I can control it to an extent, but it’s always stronger when I feel beautiful.” She twirled once more. “Thanks for the dress. It’s gorgeous.”

My embarrassment died as I basked in the warmth of her compliment.

“We were lucky to find that sewing machine in the storage container, weren’t we?” she said.

“Yes, lucky...” Was it luck? This Singer sewing machine was the same model as mine, sitting unused in my student housing, gathering dust. We’d also found an older model, one I would have been less adept at using, along with rolls of fabric, and a case containing scissors, tape measures, seam rippers, and everything else a seamstress might need.

Why does the coven have an expensive sewing machine without a seamstress to use it? Before I could ponder who the mystery seamstress might be, Latisha dumped another roll of fabric onto the table.

“You must make more for me. I like this cloth, and you could use these, too.” She gestured to the various brightly coloured throws that decorated her camper.

I’d fallen in love with her home the moment I’d stepped inside, greeted by the soft tinkle of a wind chime as I’d opened the door. It reminded me of a crystal shop I’d visited with Hayley. At the far end was a bookcase, packed full of thick books, some with gemstones set into the spines. I’d scanned the titles, but they were written in untranslatable symbols. The deep reds and purples of the upholstery and squashy cushions looked so inviting that I didn’t want to leave.

“Len will be pleased. He spends a small fortune on his suits. You should make him one.” She nodded toward the bottle-green waistcoat folded on the table, the ripped shoulder repaired. I didn’t want to confess that I’d never made a suit from scratch and was more complicated than the simple pattern I’d memorised for her dress.

Latisha opened a cupboard, admiring herself in the full-length mirror that hung on the door. “I’ll wear this in summer. Ivan likes us to dress up when running the attractions. He would approve of this.”

“How do you work during the summer?” I asked. The question had been playing on my mind. “I mean, you can’t walk around in the day, can you?”

“Witches can. Nocturnal shifters can, too, they just prefer not to. It’s the vampires that burn, but even they can cope with a lotion I make. It acts as a powerful sunblock.”

I spluttered with laughter at the mental image of Madigan applying suntan lotion, dressed in sunglasses, shorts and a garish Hawaiian shirt. “So why don’t they use it all the time?”

“All witch’s remedies have side effects if used long-term. Speaking of which, I don’t suppose you’ve noticed if Len’s been using any more of the Mollifier I gave him?”

In all honesty, it wasn’t something I’d paid attention to, and my chest tightened at the thought that perhaps I should have. “Not that I’m aware of.”

“Good. I know he’s been struggling. But that stuff can have the opposite effect if abused, and I don’t want him putting you in danger.”

My stomach lurched as I recalled our first encounter and the ease with which he’d thrown me across his caravan. At least Darren had mortal strength when he’d drunk too much. I shuddered, pushing aside the memories of mother’s boyfriend. I had to change the subject.

“Latisha, I was wondering if you would let me practise on you before I go.”

“Practise on me?” She looked at me through the mirror’s reflection as she tied the discarded scrap of cloth I’d thrown at her around her head like a headband. I tapped the inside of my elbow. She took a steeling breath.

“Take it from someone who knows, you need a break. Yes, practise will help, but pushing yourself too much will only make it worse. You will doubt yourself, and it will only go downhill from there. One night off won’t hurt. In fact, it will help.”

“Please?” I clapped my hands together in the prayer position. “I can’t stop thinking about it. Just one go?”

“No, Ava. If I’m honest, I’m still pretty bruised from last time, so I doubt you’ll get any blood from me anyway, and that will dishearten you. Maybe Len will help you later.”

She turned to look at me properly, and from her slight frown I knew she was serious.

“I’ll have to wait until he gets back.” I reclined in my chair, folding my arms. “He’s always going out.”

“Can you blame him? He doesn’t get along with the rest of the vampires and we usually keep to our own. He’s always been a loner. But you two get on alright, don’t you?”

I shrugged. “He tolerates me, I think.”

“Well, that’s a start.”

We packed away the sewing equipment and stashed it away in a cupboard. After promising to make Latisha another dress and gathering up Madigan’s freshly steamed clothes, I headed back to his caravan, expecting it to be empty. My heart leapt when I found he’d returned early, pulling off his tailcoat with a yawn.

“Ah, Miss Monroe,” he said, stretching. “I’m running low on jackets. Have you—”

“Here.” I gave him his clean clothes. “All hand washed and steamed. And I repaired this.” I handed over the waistcoat, holding my breath as I waited for his reaction. He frowned, taking the waistcoat and examining where it had been damaged, poking and pulling with his long fingers before turning his eyes on me.

“This is excellent work. Thank you.”

He placed a hand on my forearm. I studied his face, looking for a tell of sarcasm, but it never came. Instead, his usual critical scowl was replaced with a smile ! Not the lip-twitching, suppressed smile I’d grown used to, but a smile that reached his eyes, lips pulled back so I could see his straight, white teeth, making him look about ten years younger. I couldn’t help but grin back at him.

“I didn’t know you could do that!” I said with exaggerated surprise.

“Do what?”

“Smile.”

Madigan rolled his eyes. “Such impertinence.”

“You love it.”

He raised an eyebrow, smirk still in place, as though he were fighting with himself to maintain his moody appearance, and failing.

“Well, you’re certainly amusing at times. I’ll give you that. But enough of this silliness. How is your training progressing?”

My body felt heavy beneath the weight of the albatross around my neck. “I’m trying.”

“Yes, you are very trying.”

My head snapped upward to squint at him. Though his serious expression had returned, he still winked, the corner of his mouth twitching. Cheeky bastard...

“Perhaps you will let me practise on you?”

“Well, I suppose after you repaired my waistcoat, I should return the favour,” he said.

His hand drifted to the cuff of his shirt, unbuttoning it before pulling the now loose sleeve over his elbow. He took a seat, reclining, and spread his long legs as I knelt between them. Being so close, I noticed he had a sweet sort of scent, like vanilla. My hands trembled as I applied the tourniquet and readied the needle.

“Insert between 20-and-40-degrees. Did you feel it go in?”

Did you feel it go in? I suppressed the urge to make a joke. Perhaps it was from my position between his legs, but heat flooded my cheeks, my heart fluttering. Concentrate, Ava. Concentrate. This is not the time or place.

“I think so.” The words got caught in my throat.

“Attach the vial,” he instructed, and I did as I was bid. Blood streamed into the vial, filling it faster than I had been prepared for.

“Ah! Holy shit! I... I did it!” I blinked, shook my head, then blinked again, expecting the blood to have disappeared, all an illusion. But there it was, flowing into the vial. “What do I do now? Do I take it out?”

“No, take the vial off first.”

The small vial I was practising with didn’t take long to fill, unlike the larger ones I’d use during a real harvest. I popped it off the barrel and set it aside.

“Now, remove the tourniquet. This can be tricky one-handed, but you must keep hold of that needle. Good. Now, prepare the cotton wool to cover the insertion point, and remove the needle. Remember to press down hard when the needle is out.”

I followed his instructions, taking my time, keeping my breathing as steady as possible, almost laughing with relief. I’d done it! I’d successfully drawn blood. So caught up in the moment, I didn’t notice that he too was holding down the cotton wool on his arm, his fingers pressed to mine.

“You can release now,” he said, amusement in his voice.

I looked into his face. “You’re doing it again.”

“Doing what?”

“Smiling. Twice in one day must be a record.”

He shrugged. “I’ve had little to celebrate. I knew you’d get it, eventually. Just remain calm, and don’t get inside your own head.” He examined his arm, and once sure it had stopped bleeding, discarded the cotton wool. “I will retire to my bed now. I have some laundry for you.”

“Yay,” I said with a sarcastic fist pump. “Can’t wait.”

I tilted my head as I watched him unbutton his waistcoat and toss it into the basket, on top of his tailcoat. He was wearing braces tonight, something I’d not noticed him do before. I bit my lip. The way he slid his thumbs up the underside up to his shoulders to remove them was mesmerising, but a gasp hitched in my throat as I caught sight of his bare torso as he removed his shirt. Deep, bumpy scars covered the left side, entire chunks of flesh missing.

Madigan caught me staring and frowned.

“Military service. I’d rather not discuss it. Some scars heal better than others, if you understand what I mean.” He tapped his temple with a finger.

Now feeling I was intruding on a private moment, I averted my gaze as he continued undressing, my insides squirming with conflicting, confusing emotions.

When he handed me his now full laundry basket, I attempted to maintain eye contact. Although I’d learned his actual age, I was struggling to determine the age that he appeared on the outside. Perhaps in his late twenties or early thirties? Not a single trace of a grey hair. Nor any creases at his eyes, but there was a sadness behind them that appeared as old as he was.

As much as I tried to focus on his face, I saw from my peripheral vision he was down to his boxer shorts. I swallowed.

“Would you like to go scouting with me again later?” he asked. The question was a cold slap of reality, the brief luxury of playful banter interrupted by the burden of the trial and the consequences of failure.

“Actually, I think I should probably go on my own.”

He arched a brow. “Really?”

“I want to see how I fare on my own. I probably won’t harvest immediately, but I want to see how I handle it solo. Is that alright?”

“I don’t see why not. Usually, I would think it is too early, but given the circumstances, I suppose it would be best to throw you in at the deep end.”

“Great!” I said, plastering an enormous smile on my face, but inside my guts were threatening to exit my body.