Kiss Me Forever/Love Me Forever. Rosemary Laurey

are we going to do?”

      “I’m going to think, Emily, and I suggest you stop squealing and do the same!” Sebastian slammed down the receiver. He wanted to scream or smash furniture, but decided to save his energies. His survival depended on swift action. He rather enjoyed the irony of Marlowe making a desperate payment so close to his end. If only James had found those files. The old ladies had been content to take leadership in the coven as their price of silence but Dixie was an avaricious, grasping little bitch.

      How he’d been fooled by her, all this while privy to her old aunts’ files and planning on using them. That whole tale about never knowing her aunts had been a lie. Had they schooled her in the family business? The question was academic. Dixie would have to be taken care of. Professionally. It wouldn’t be as satisfying as eliminating Marlowe but would pay dividends in savings, not power.

      Dusk came at last. Only the day Gran died had dragged on this long. Dixie grabbed the sweatsuit and slippers she’d bought—he wasn’t spending the night naked in her house—and went downstairs to face the monster in the basement.

      He was sitting up, his chest pale as ivory in the gloom. But he smiled, and her stern resolutions sputtered out faster than a match in the wind. “Where am I?” he asked, his voice edged with weariness.

      “In my basement. I found you in the backyard.”

      His chest moved in a silent chuckle. “I must have been a sight for sore eyes.”

      “You didn’t smell too good, either.”

      “Tell me what happened.”

      “I was about to ask you that.” She dumped the plastic shopping bag on his lap. “I bought you some clothes. May not be your usual style, but they’re the best I could manage, not knowing your size. You can’t sit around the way you are.”

      “No?”

      She chose to ignore the velvet note of amusement in that syllable. “No way,” she replied in her best librarian’s voice. “I always insist men get dressed after I save their lives.”

      A shaky white hand closed over the bag. “I owe you for that, Dixie.”

      “Then get dressed, come upstairs. I’ve got you something to eat.” She turned to walk up to the kitchen.

      A groan and a thud turned her around before she’d gone three paces. Christopher lay on his face, one knee crumpled under him.

      “Christopher!” Her shrill cry echoed in her own ears. He lay in a quivering heap, as a suppressed whimper slipped from his clenched lips. The red burn of his skin had faded but he seemed so weak and frail. She tucked the pillow under his head to protect his face from the stone floor, and reached for the blankets. Then she saw the wound.

      “What happened?” She stifled her scream but it reverberated inside her skull as she gaped at the hideous scar. With his entire body sunburned, she hadn’t notice it. Now that his skin had faded to pale it stood out, a raised welt of pain. A mass of livid flesh closed over a two-inch-long cut. Redness radiated outwards like an infection and his whole hip appeared swollen and tender. “You need to get to a hospital.”

      “No! They can’t help me.”

      Maybe not, but basic first aid wasn’t enough. “You need help, Christopher. You’re weak.”

      “I’ve noticed.” He lifted his head and half-turned on one shoulder to smile at her. He still had a smile to raise dreams. But right now he needed to get some clothes on.

      “Can you get dressed?”

      “Since I can’t stand on two feet, I doubt it.”

      “You can’t spend the rest of your life nude in my basement.”

      “Shame, it’s a pleasant thought.” He moved to sit up as he spoke and grimaced with pain.

      “Still saying ‘no’ to a doctor?”

      “My dear Dixie, haven’t you worked it out yet? There’s not a mortal doctor who could help me. I’m a revenant, a vampire. One of the mythical creatures you don’t believe in.”

      That stung. “I worked that much out for myself. Now you tell me what happened.”

      His face twisted. “It seems I made some enemies.” He pushed himself up on one arm and sagged back down on the pillow. He’d end up dying while they argued.

      “Christopher,” she said, brushing the dark hair from his face, “you’ve got to let me call someone.” He’d gone from pale to gray and his skin felt loose as a chicken’s.

      “I’m fading, Dixie.” A thin, wrinkled hand clutched at the air by her leg. “Help me.” It came out like a mewl.

      “How?”

      In reply, he turned over and pushed the blankets off his back. Another time she might have admired his tight butt. Right now she wasn’t in the mood.

      “The wound. It’s been festering since Saturday. There’s a blade in it. Get it out. I beg of you.”

      “There’s nothing in there. It’s just a nasty gash. You need stitches.” Nasty wasn’t the word. It looked like raw meat.

      “Look closely. It’s closing over, but it’s there. I can feel it. I broke off the handle but I couldn’t budge the blade.”

      His skin burned under her hands. He had to be infected. Why were men so stubborn? Perhaps he was right about seeing a doctor, but what did he expect her to do? “I can’t see anything but a very angry wound.”

      “Look closer. Open the cut.”

      The raised flesh felt as soft as the disgusting liver she’d handled earlier, but at least it wasn’t bloody. Wasn’t that odd? A cut this wide should have bled. Biting her lip, she rested her splayed fingers on either side of the cut and eased the wound open. Something like a giant splinter lay deep within the swollen flesh. “Let me get a pair of tweezers. I’ll be right back.”

      “It’s a six-inch blade, not a thorn from one of your rose bushes. Tweezers won’t work.”

      “What am I supposed to use then?” She hated to snap but forgave herself. Stress wasn’t the word for the past twelve hours.

      “Pliers.” He gasped the word. She felt the edge of the “splinter.” It wasn’t wood. Could he be right?

      The toolbox on the dusty workbench belonged in a museum, but tools were tools—even if they had embossed handles and brass decorations. She found two pairs of antique pliers. She’d try the needle-nosed ones first. “I found a couple of pairs,” she called. “I’m running upstairs to sterilize them.”

      “Don’t be silly!”

      That did it! Here she was, preparing for battlefield surgery in her basement, and he called her silly. “They’re filthy, Christopher. I have to go upstairs. I’ll be back.”

      “Sepsis is not a worry right now.”

      “It might be later. Give me a couple of minutes.”

      He had the nerve to frown at her. “I’m immune to human infection. I’m not immune to this blade. If you don’t get it out, I’ll extinguish and solve the problem.”

      Not while she lived and breathed! With the cold stone hard against her knees, she looked down at his wound. It did seem redder and larger than before. She had to use both hands to ease the flesh open. Doubts hit her like hailstones. Could she do this? Band-Aids and nosebleeds were one thing, but this…If she didn’t, he’d—what was the word? Extinguish. A cold twist seized her heart. “I’m afraid I’ll hurt you.”

      He half-turned on one shoulder, his eye pale in the gloom. “Dixie, my darling. Get it out. Please!”

      She pried open the engorged flesh over the wound. Deep in the rent, the rough edge of the blade moved