Free Wicked Ever After (A Blud Novel Book 7) by Delilah S. Dawson Page A

and murmuring. As he spoke eloquent nothings, the cords of his neck twitched under my tongue. He was the pool, the drink, the cup, the sun, the world. When I opened my eyes again, he wobbled, and strong hands pulled me away from him with a sudden pop.
    “Here, m’lady. Try this.”
    Red gloves held hard porcelain to my lips and forced my head back. The blood that slithered into my mouth was dead and cold and wretched. I struggled to get away, to fight back to the warm flesh and hotter blood I craved, but still the teacup pressed and poured, forcing it down my throat.
    “No!” I spluttered, trying to push it away.
    “You must,” a voice said. I opened my eyes to confirm it. Charlie Dregs supported my back with a wiry arm, looking just as kind and sad as ever, possibly sadder.
    “No. It’s cold. It’s dead. I need—”
    “You can’t, m’lady. He’s nearly drained. You need more volume to complete the process.” He gestured to the warming cauldron of blood tubes left out for the Bludmen at each meal in the dining car, and I shuddered at the thought of all that disconnected nothingness slipping down my throat like the juice that dripped off Styrofoam trays of past-date chicken. The cauldron kept it warm, but warm wasn’t the same as fresh. It wouldn’t do. I thrashed my way upright, hunting for the source of warmth and joy.
    Hunting for prey.
    What I found was my husband, ice-blue and barely breathing on the ground. I’d never seen him limp, drained, sick. It was possibly the only thing that could have moved the beast squirming in my guts, hungering for life.
    He had no life left to give.
    “Is he—”
    I couldn’t ask, but Charlie knew what I needed to know.
    “When you’re full, he’ll drink from you, m’lady. Once the process is started, equilibrium must be reached quickly.”
    Drink from me? Memory jolted down my backbone and clenched my teeth, and I suddenly remembered what fear was.
    “Where are the twins?”
    Charlie’s mournful John Lennon face quirked up in a rare smirk. He wrapped my hands around the teacup, reached down, and held out his arms. In each hand, he clutched a shock of blood-soaked hair. The faces of Catarrh and Quincy stared at me, sightless, bone-white, and bruised purple. Their bodies were not attached.
    “He drank them dry before feeding you. Wanted you to have your revenge in the form of their purloined strength.”
    Part of me was disgusted to have anything of the freakish monsters inside me, but something new writhed deep in my gut, rising like a sleepy dragon and infusing my veins with fire and power. It was right, taking their blud. Drinking it into me, straining it through my strong heart. And it came from Criminy, and all things that came from Criminy were good.
    I nodded and gulped down what was left in the teacup, knowing that the longer the blood sat, exposed to the air, the clumpier it would get.
    “More, please, then,” I said, holding out the cup with a wobbly smile.
    Charlie tossed the heads into a corner, where they bounced like bruised melons. With a flair I hadn’t seen in him before, he selected two blood vials, popped the corks with his thumbnails, and poured their contents into the teacup with the coordination of a seasoned bartender.
    “It goes down better warm, m’lady.” He gave a genuine smile as I gulped it all down.
    “How much more does she need?”
    I spun, startled to hear Criminy’s voice. On one level, it was ragged and weak, barely a whisper as he sprawled on the floor. On the other, deeper level, it was like hearing violins, the most beautiful sound I’ve ever heard, multidimensional and echoing in my veins.
    “Just a few more vials, m’lord,” Charlie said, hurriedly emptying four more vials into my teacup until the blood nearly overflowed the gilt rim. Then, to me, in a whisper, “Hurry.”
    With my eyes on Criminy, I gulped the blood down. The last few sips seemed to barely fit into me, as if I’d run out of room inside. I