Hellfire

Interval Four

Lucius had been lost for too long - trapped in a storm of heat, thirst and darkness. He could hear little as he sat on his bed. Not Alistair as he questioned him; not Arnold as he tried to understand Lucius' position; not Sam as she tried to heal his mangled arm, that chain biting deeper and deeper until he couldn't feel anything but that poisonous pain. All he could hear was his own heartbeat, fierce with a desperation to live, and Susan's voice whispering in his head. That was all. Just her.

He'd become lost within his sleep or within waking dreams, just possessed by her. Susan. They'd become worse than ever. She'd come to him, her feminine body naked and bared, coaxing a male response from him as she touched his face and brushed herself against his chest - her skin unbearably soft and hot. Then she'd offer herself. A tilt of her head, her fingers trailing sensually over her swan neck, or she'd guide his head down to the swell of her creamy breast, encouraging his mouth to seek out a pulse, pleading him to with gentle desperate cries. His teeth would sink in, his mouth would swell with hot sweet blood, her fingers would delve into his hair, drawing him closer as she arced, pleasure rippling through her.

Then he'd wake, his body drained and his sex painfully stiff, sweat glistening over his skin, his room dusted in hoarfrost that turned his bats white. He'd seek her out in his home, desperate to find her scent, hear her voice, and then realisation would come crashing down that she wasn't here. Outrage flared. She should be here. She had to be here. This was her home. Their home. Why wasn't she here? Why wasn't she sleeping beside him like she should be? Where was she?

Then the chain squirmed tight, digging in and flaying his skin, pulsing sickness thought him, feverish heat and acid pain in his blood so heavy he roared, and then he remembered. He'd told her to leave, fearful he'd kill her, and he vowed to her he'd bring her home when he wasn't tempted to lure her to him and drain her of every sweet drop.

Lucius wasn't safe to get her yet. He had promised to only bring her back home when it was safe, and he intended to do just that. Even as his teeth burned and his throat cracked, parched like a desert, he wouldn't bring her home.

So, he drank bottle after bottle, drank and drank until Doc eventually told him there was nothing left. Yet his teeth felt like they were on fire, unable to sink away and instead remaining stiff over his lower lip. His throat grew drier, his stomach shrivelled, his body screaming and screaming it was starving but nothing sated him. All the blood Alistair and Oliver brought did nothing to appease him. It didn't rid him of the dreams of Susan, of his aching teeth, of his entire being roaring to be sated.

Then he broke after a dream so real; her beneath him, crying for him, silken heat surrounding him as he drank from her, filling her with rough thrusts that shuddered such relief and bliss through his starved being. He had to get to her. Her voice was calling him, his body craving to feel her heat, his mouth desperate for the relief of her blood.

No.

But Lucius couldn't stop himself. It was like he was detached, watching himself as he ripped at Alistair, and snapped Oliver's arm. But he knew it was real, distantly. He knew he was cutting open Arnold's feline back and crashing into Doc's huge canine body, those massive teeth latching into his shoulder and shredding him until Lucius wrenched him free and split his face open.

Lucius found her swiftly. He always could. He knew her sweet scent like no other, like summer and spice, a smell so different to any blood he knew. And when he found her, laid eyes on her, he was lost again. Those almond eyes of hers were like pools swallowing him up, beautiful and full of emotion, and her skin was on display, lithe feminine strength rippling beneath supple flesh. And how her heart beat. It was fluttering a flustered rhythm, her breath heavy, the scent of hers shifting into a sweet aroma as her body warmed with yearning.