Magia Posthuma ✓

Twenty-Five

"When you've lived for hundreds of years, it's easy to become bored and disillusioned with all the things that used to surprise and interest you," Vlad panted. "You outgrow almost every pleasure – just as a child outgrows their toys..."

He was lying flat on the ballroom floor on top of a bundle of his clothes - swathes of black velvet - his muscled arms tucked behind his head as he gazed wistfully up at the ceiling.

"...But that," he said as he glanced down at Irina – nestled up against his chest, "I could live for a thousand years and still never be bored of doing that."

Irina leaned up, her long hair hanging over her breasts. She tucked a few strands behind her ear and smirked down at him, "Bored, no. Exhausted? Yes," she said. She winced slightly when her fingers grazed the bite marks on her neck, "No wonder you sleep all day."

Vlad frowned as he reached out and cupped her neck, gently sweeping his thumb across the small, slightly raw-looking puncture wounds just below her jaw. "...Sore?" he asked.

She turned her head and kissed the knuckles. "Nothing that a bit of yarrow won't sort," she said with slight shrug. "Although, in future I'd rather you chose a more discreet artery."

"...In future?" Vlad replied, sitting up.

Irina placed a hand on his chest. "If you're lucky."

He leaned into her as he swept his hand slowly up her thigh, "Well, my preferred artery is actually right... here," he whispered against her lips as his thumb brushed along the femoral artery.

Irina sighed – feeling her body warm immediately beneath his touch. She closed her eyes as his hand moved higher, "Mm. That's certainly preferable."

"Mm," he replied as he teased her with his lips – brushing them against hers for an all too brief and maddening moment, and then pulling away.

She frowned suddenly, wrinkling her nose. "...This is perhaps a silly question, but am I going to-"

"No, iubita mea," he replied, "You'd have to drink my blood for that to happen."

"Oh," she whispered, feeling sheepish. "...How much?"

"Barely a drop," he said. He raised an eyebrow, "It's potent."

Irina shrugged her lips and thought about it; the physician inside her unable to help herself from pondering how it all worked. "...Fascinating," she said, as she rested her arms on across her bent knees. "I'd love to understand the biology behind it."

"...I'm not sure that it's supposed to be understood," he replied.

"...So," she said with a grin, "did you really come here to warn me, or was that all just an elaborate ruse?"

Vlad's eyebrows pinched; he swiped his hand across his jaw.

"...What?" Irina asked him. She scoffed and smiled, "It's alright if it was, I'm not angry."

He took her hand and brought it to his lips – holding it there for a moment as he searched for the words to explain. "Iubita mea," he whispered against her knuckles, "I need to tell you something."

"What?"

He looked down at her hand, playing with her fingers as he spoke, "I should have told you before – right away – but as usual, you distracted me–"

"So, tell me now," she insisted softly, tilting her head as she tried to force his eyes to meet her own. "Start at the beginning."

He looked up and then nodded. "Irina, when you and your father first arrived here, you came with very little understanding of this place, and of the war you were blindly walking into. A war that's been simmering here for centuries and now – unfortunately – seems to have reached the point of boiling over."