old dances and parties and the way they used to dress and how everyone from those days was doing - well or poorly - and how much he thought of them and how much he missed them and...
And on and on and it came to her, suddenly, what he was trying to do.
And she also knew why.
Ross was scared.
The other Voice had scared him, made him realize he was not all-powerful to everyone, just to mortals. So he was retreating, now, back to the mortal he held most firmly in his palm. And pretending she really wanted to be there.
It was disgusting.
And worse, much, much worse, it was effective.
For Ross had turned up the heat again, the distant warmth of his Voice. His looks had become more pointed, his gestures more graceful and casually touching. And despite her best efforts to remember her hatred and fear, she was giving in to the vampire's magic.
When he reached out a perfect white hand to gently palm her chin she managed to mutter "damn you" before his skin touched hers and her breath caught and the awful wicked excitement stirred within her, fluttered from deep within, sprinkling up her arms and through her shoulders and...
And she did just what he said to do.
She stood up, in front of the servant-slugs, in front of Pough, and slipped her dress off, exposing her naked body underneath. And she did slide her manicured nails along her hips and thighs and she did tease her diamond-hard nipples and...
And oh God! but she enjoyed it as much as ever before, enjoyed the wanton, whorish nastiness of it all, the shameful, rutting depravity of it all.
She loved it, God help her.
But even more, she loved his laying her, with her eager consent, across the top of the quickly cleared dining table and opening her thighs to his exquisite, monstrous, bite. And she loved the sounds she streaked up through the leaves and clouds at the moon.
Perhaps she would not have hated herself so had she known it would be the last time he would do this to her.
By 7:30, he had lain her in her bed, saying something about an errand he simply had to run. Even as she dropped off, she could tell he was trying to be too flippant. That this was more than an errand.
In her dreams she heard that other Voice again and again and again.
"That was the night," said Jack Crow suddenly, "that he came up to Bradshaw and killed my men."
"Yes," said Davette quietly. "Only he missed you because he got there too late. Pough got lost. And then... Well, you know."
"Yeah."
"What did Ross do to Pough?" Kirk wanted to know.
"He had bruises all over his face when he came back. And he limped."
"Did Pough enjoy his pain?" asked Father Adam quietly.
Davette looked at him, surprised. "Yes. How did you know?"
The young priest shrugged his broad shoulders.
"Just a feeling," was all he said.
"What about," asked Felix leaning forward, "the wound?"
"Yes," added Cat eagerly. "In his forehead..."
"From the cross..." finished Carl Joplin.
"The Holy silver cross," amended Father Adam.
"Yeah."
"Oh!" sparked Davette, remembering, "It hurt him. It really hurt him... He thrashed about on the silken sheets of the huge bedroom suite he had furnished deep in the basement, wallowing in pain and frustration. And it was impossible to restrain him, with muscles hard as a bronze statue come alive and hurting and... angry!"
"DO SOMETHING!" he raged and they tried, Davette and Pough, they really tried, but the wound would not stop bleeding. The thick, heavy vampire mucus continued to ooze, rhythmically, with his panting dead man's pulse. And every time a new surge of matter pushed its way out, the monster howled and grabbed his head, or ripped the sheets with his long nails or tore one of his brand new tailored silk shirts from his chest or...
Or lashed out. At the walls, at Davette, or at Pough, who was either too stupid or too masochistic to step beyond his reach. The first time Davette went down was from being struck by just the edge of his hand. That blow had sent her rolling onto the floor and from then on, whenever she saw the glob begin to form at the wound's opening, she would step quickly back while the vampire raged in agony.
But then she would jump quickly back onto the bed an sop up the stuff before it rolled heavily down his forehead and got into his eyes, because that seemed to hurt