Free Merrick by Claire Cray Page A

my eyes and finding it very difficult to lift my hand. I took a sharp
breath, feeling smothered.
    Merrick pressed
his fingers to my throat, my heart, and my stomach. “Are you in pain?”
    “No.”
    He squeezed my fingers.
“Can you feel this?”
    “Yes, sir, but I
cannot quite move.”
    He slipped his
arms beneath my knees and shoulders and lifted from the bed, which made me feel
as though my brain was spilling out of the top of my head. I moaned fearfully
as my vision rolled into gray and came back again.
    He stiffened,
stopping in the doorway. “What is that on your breath?”
    I was too
nauseated to speak, but my eyes flew open when he pressed his lips to mine and
slipped his tongue along the inner edge of my mouth.
    His grip tightened
where he held me, and he carried me swiftly to the main room where he deposited
me on the chair.
    “What did you
ingest?” he demanded.
    “Only a bit of
tea, sir,” I croaked, the whole room breathing around me now. “I must say, I
feel very wrong…”
    The kettle, in
particular, was looking at me with in a very sinister manner, and the pot
seemed to be on his side. I narrowed my eyes at them, trying to figure out what
they were up to.
    “What did you
use?”
    What was it again?
“Er…thyme. I know that much…” How could I be bothered with such questions? I
had to keep my eye on that kettle and his lackey. To make matters worse, I
could not decide whether the stones of the chimney were with me or against me.
    He growled
something under his breath and turned away. A moment later, it seemed, he held
a cup to my lips. “Drink this. Quickly.”
    I obeyed, but
gagged as it hit my throat. The drink spilled out of my mouth and I coughed
violently, doubling over.
    He hissed
something I did not understand – it sounded like a curse – and went back to the
kitchen. I heard a commotion of jars clinking and hitting the table. “Is this
what you used?” he asked, suddenly before me again.
    I managed to focus
on the jar of thyme leaves, swaying in my chair to keep up with the undulating
floor and the spinning walls, and nodded as well as I could.
    Merrick slammed
the jar onto the table, muttering in a language I’d never heard before. A
moment later I felt myself carried in his arms again.
    “You have poisoned
yourself,” Merrick said gruffly. “And I must bleed you.”
    “How stupid of
me,” I remarked, seeing some very interesting patterns now and beginning,
absurdly, to laugh. “Sir, that kettle is no threat at all.”
    “Forgive me for
what I am about to do.”
    That was truly
funny, wasn’t it? “I forgive you, sir,” I giggled as strange, ticklish twitches
went through my limbs.
    Lord, I had done
it this time. This time , I had done it!
    “I have become an
idiot, Master Merrick!” I declared, quite happy to have reached a conclusion.
    Things were dark
now, and the air had cooled. It felt good against my feverish skin. Was I lying
down now? Where? It was not a bed. I decided to investigate at some point in
the future, when it wasn’t so hard to be conscious.
    I barely noticed
as Merrick lifted my uncooperative hand to his mouth, but it drew my attention
when he sealed his lips to my wrist.
    There was a flash
of pain, and then a thundering in my ears.
    It wasn’t clear
how long had passed before clarity returned in a snap and I saw what he was
doing.
    Frozen on my back,
I watched the gory spectacle, and as my mind became clearer I felt sure I was
having a fever dream.
    For there was no
conceivable way that Merrick was really be kneeling at my side in the candlelit
cave, holding my wrist to his lips over a wooden pail, sucking and spitting
such an alarming quantity of blood that I…
    “Merrick,” I
whispered, terrified.
    His free hand
spread over my stomach and stroked me there, reassuring. His eyes were closed.
    My vision began to
blacken at the edges, and I thought of my previous speculations regarding my
gentle master’s nature, or at least the one I had