Drawing Blood (20 page)

Chapter Thirty-Three

Elliot

When he woke, he was slumped in the arm chair next to the bed where David was still out cold. He was even snoring slightly. The bedside lamp was still on. Elliot reached out and clicked it off, eyes adjusting to the dusty grey light coming around the edges of the blinds.

He ran his hands over his face roughly, instinctively looking for his Lee-Enfield. It wasn’t in the room. He had an irrational moment of panic, then he remembered he had left it on the kitchen table. He sighed, and he would have felt embarrassed if he wasn’t all alone.

He took a closer peek at Cleary. The poor kid had experienced something terrible the night before. He’d heard stories about some men coming home from the Great War, unable to sleep for fear of the enemy finding them and killing them when they were vulnerable. Or dreaming they were actually dead, like he had out under that tree.

And then Elliot had shared a little too much information. Now he had that to be embarrassed about, too.

Elliot closed the bedroom door then crept down the stairs without a peep. Abigail had finished cleaning up the night before. That made him frown; he wished she’d left that for him to do.

He stood staring at the kitchen sink, remembering what he’d been very close to doing hours before: grabbing her and kissing her for all he was worth. And maybe even more.

The thought made him remember Janet, of course. Abigail was nothing like his wife. So how the hell did she have this effect on him? Or were they just lonely in the same way?

He was willing to bet that was the main part of what was at work. They recognized the absence of that other half in each other. He saw her loneliness and imagined Janet feeling the same way. It was sick and wrong. No matter how he justified it to himself it was still wrong.

He sat down on the sofa, his make-shift “bed.” He let his eyes wander to the closed pocket doors, knowing she was asleep just behind them. He remembered her lips and that briefest of touches, her breath soft and sweet. As thin as she was, she had still been soft as she had pressed against him. He hadn’t been that close to anything so obviously feminine in nearly five years.  And the last time he’d been intimate with Janet had been a disaster. Jesus … He’d missed having something soft to hold on to. He hadn’t even realized it until that night.

A chill rolled down his back, and he rubbed his arms. The house was cold. He peered around the living room curtains, gazing up at a clouded sky. Cold and rain looked to be the order of the day.

He returned to the kitchen, picked up his rifle, and slung it over one shoulder. If he couldn’t sleep he may as well make himself useful. There was a load of wood next to the stoop, and he knew there was a chop block by the barn, on the side not visible from the road, which meant he’d likely remain unnoticed. And it was a bit too early for German officers to be bringing flowers around.

There was also a rusted wheelbarrow by the barn. He piled the wood in to it then shoved the load across bumpy grass to where the axe and block stood at the ready. Elliot leaned the rifle against the building, and made sure his trench knife was easily accessible. He cast a look around, and sure enough, not a soul could be seen. He may as well have been the last man on earth.

Chopping wood was something familiar. He could remember doing this as young as ten when his father took him hunting. He’d always tell Elliot, “Don’t tell your mother I let you swing an axe.” Elliot had always wondered why firing a rifle was more acceptable than chopping wood.

When he had a load chopped he’d move it in to the barn. The sky was not brightening up at all. He could smell rain that hadn’t started yet. The wind was cool and it made the sweat on his skin feel like he was freezing. Were they given winter gear when they had headed out this way? Elliot couldn’t remember. Hopefully they weren’t expected to be wearing this little in another month or so.

When the rain started he was nearly done. He took the last few whacks needed and brought the last of the split firewood in to the barn, noting that the roof was whole. He darted back out to collect the 303, too.

In the open, rain fell like a gloomy curtain. In that last two minutes he had been soaked. He took off his blouse and twisted it, water sluicing out between his fingers. He used it to dry off his face, and stood watching the heavens open up. He could barely see across the yard. It smelled wonderful. Exactly like home. If he closed his eyes he could almost imagine he was at home.

“Elliot!”

His eyes flew open, and he squinted out in to the open, which was futile. Squinting never helped anyone see better in the rain.

Abigail was stalking across the yard. He felt his shoulders square up and his back straighten. Illogically he ran a hand over his hair. Likely it was sticking straight up like a wet hen.

“What are you doing up?” He shouted in the rain.

She didn’t answer, she just kept strutting through the grass in her dress, cardigan and rubber boots. He felt himself smile at the sight of her like that.

“You should be sleeping,” he said as she rushed in to the barn, shaking her head out and wiping the rain off her face. She was cold, too. He could see the gooseflesh on her neck and chest. Water ran across her skin in little rivers. But she barely seemed to notice.

“I didn’t know where you were,” she was saying breathlessly.

“Thought we could use some firewood. It’s freezing in the house.”

She nodded, pushing her wet hair off her forehead. The rain was thunderous on the barn’s roof. Elliot wanted to say something, but he couldn’t bring anything to mind. He was embarrassed again, at what he’d done the night before. God, what she must think of him –

One minute she was standing three feet away, the next thing he knew she was in his arms, wrapping hers around his neck as he stooped his shoulders down to meet her mouth with his. She inhaled deep, her chest pressing to his tightly. He lost his hands in her wet hair. He wanted her to keep her head right where it was. Her mouth opened to his, and her tongue was so warm and soft he moaned at the contact. Christ, this was what he missed more than anything. Holding something close like this, having someone trusting him and wanting him this badly.

He couldn’t say how long they stood wound around each other like that. Not nearly long enough. Everything was gone from his mind, all he knew was her lips, her tongue, her hands twisting up in his hair, grabbing it in clumps, her chest rising and falling with his, her hips narrow as he ran his hands down her sides to hold her by the waist. The cloth of her dress stuck to her skin in wet rolls. He wanted just the rain between him and her. Everything below his waist wanted less than that separating them. She writhed against him, feeling that hardness.

She parted her lips from his, and he tried to move with her. She lowered herself flat-footed. He ran a thumb down her cheek. The rain had caused her eyelashes to stick together. This close he could see the little freckle next to her right eye and the flecks of gold in those warm, hazel rings.

“
Hure
!”

There wasn’t a lot of time to react to the shout; Elliot was already throwing Abigail behind him as the shot tore in to the wood of the frame, tearing splinters from the beam. He crouched over her as they dove against the wall on the opposite side of the doorway.

Exactly on the wrong side as it turned out. His rifle sat, ready to fire, on the far side.

“Shit,” he muttered.

“It’s Hauptmann Bossong,” Abigail gasped. “Let me go talk to him.”

He grabbed her arm, likely too roughly. “Are you insane? He’s shooting at us.” She made as though to stand up and he pulled her back down.

“Get farther back,” he instructed. “Make for the far side and keep your head down.”

“He’s going to kill you.”

Elliot allowed himself a moment to study her face. She was terrified of this guy.

“Go,” he whispered again. “One foot in front of the other. Go.” She listened to him.

He stared longingly at his rifle.
Dammit. Dammit dammit.
Lapses in concentration will get you killed. He was battle-soft, comfortable. And he might be dead very soon, too.

Elliot reached for the knife in its sheath, watching the edge of that doorway as he slid it out. The rain was misting inside. He breathed in, out. Slow and steady. In, out. Waiting.

He heard a boot scrape. Maybe, or maybe it was the rain. He got up on one knee, ready to pounce if he had to. He held the knife downward by his thigh.

Come on you fucker.

He stopped breathing. He even made his own heart stop, maybe. Or was it all adrenaline slowing everything down?

Holy shit. The barrel came in to view, and he had time to think to himself,
Where the hell’d he get an MP40?
before he lunged upwards, closing a hand over the barrel and shoving it upward. His knife was forgotten the second he saw the weapon. All he had to do was take that out of the equation.

There was a short burst of gunfire. Elliot’s hand pulled free and he delivered a punch to the man’s gut that bent him over. The submachine gun flew away from both of them, landing somewhere in the shadows.

The German sure wasn’t a wimp. The man stood up to deliver an uppercut that toppled Elliot over backwards. As he hit the ground the man fell on him, giving him another right hook. He was seeing stars. He had to get it together or this man would kill him with his bare hands. He was no slouch in hand-to-hand combat but this guy was dangerous.

He groped for the knife. Couldn’t find it, but it had to be close.

The German captain was snarling things that he couldn’t understand. It didn’t really make any difference. Another shot to the jaw and he was the very definition of “punch drunk.”

Get it together. While you’re here spitting out teeth Abigail could be next.

He blocked the next fist, connecting with one of his own. As the captain raised one of those bloodied hands up for what he knew would be his knock-out blow, something surprising happened. The blonde man’s head exploded .

Elliot covered his face and felt bits of warm liquid rain down on him.  The body flopped to the side. He brought his arms down in time to see that Abigail had kicked the man off of him. She had his 303 in her hands. As he stared in shock she brought it up and shot the German again in the torso. Then a third time.

Elliot got to his feet, approaching her from behind. He took the rifle from her carefully. Abigail was panting. She was pale. Her eyes were impossibly wide. Her mouth hung open in shock.

“Abigail?” The sound of her name brought her back. She blinked at him a couple times. “It’s Elliot, Abigail. You got him.”

She looked back to the body of the blonde man, sprawled on his stomach just inside the barn doors. “Holy shit. He’s really dead.”

“Yeah. You did well.” He carefully put a hand to her shoulder. “You should go back to the house. Abigail? I’ll take care of this.”

“Let’s bury him,” her voice was so cold. Shock, he realized. She’s going to come out of this feeling terrible. She was already starting to quake.

Elliot wiped his nose and realized he was bleeding. He took another look in to the yard, and the rain hadn’t let up at all.  He felt anxious, edgy. His own adrenaline was receding quickly.

He grabbed the body and pulled him by his feet to the corner where his gun had vanished. They could bury him later. No one was going to be out looking for him in this rain. He used his foot to find the MP40. He brought it up for inspection. It was a gorgeous gun, absolutely terrifying.

Abigail was picking up the knife. She handed it to him without looking at him. He was ridiculously well-armed between the German assault rifle and his standard-issue rifle as they started off towards the house again. He tried to reassure her by putting his arm around her, but she shrugged him off.

Elliot couldn’t remember what it had felt like to kill the first time. He knew for a fact it hadn’t been in an up-close situation like that.

She was one step ahead of him so he let her lead the way. If anyone had heard the gunfire in the barn, they weren’t so much as looking out their windows in curiosity.

Chapter Thirty-Four

Abigail

He’s dead. He’s actually dead.
He was mortal after all.

Abigail’s entire body was shaking. She felt it in her neck, shoulders, hands, knees. She had a hell of a time getting up the side steps and through the kitchen door. Her legs seemed to be moving too slow for her liking. She stood inside the door, dripping water all around her feet. She looked down at the Wellingtons, not even remembering putting them on. She stepped out of them, bare feet leaving wet footprints on the floor, shrugged off the cardigan, feeling its weight leave her shoulders. Elliot took it from her, hanging it on a hook. It would stretch out and lose all shape like that; not that she really cared at that point.

He brushed past her in to the kitchen, tossing his shirt in to the wash tub. He took off his undershirt too, and that’s when she realized he was covered in blood.

Abigail looked down at her hands. There was blood on them but the sweater had protected her arms. The front of her dress looked like she’d suffered a gunshot of her own, soaking into one large crimson stain from the rain.

She undid the top couple buttons and let the dress drop off her shoulders, hitting the floor with a wet sloppy sound. Elliot turned from the kitchen sink where he’d been washing his hands. She was wearing nothing but a sodden slip and had no feeling about that one way or the other. Her skin prickled with goose bumps. She felt stupid. And slow. The rushing blood in her head was too loud to be much help -

“Abigail?” His voice brought her back. It made her jump, actually.

His eyes met hers. Her lips tingled so she licked them.

This time he came to her, putting his arms around her shoulders. She pressed her face in to his chest, the skin still wet with rain but not as cold as she was. Much warmer, actually. She wondered if her skin felt as dead as the rest of her did.

She pressed her lips to his slick flesh. He stopped rubbing her back as she licked at him next, tasting the salt and rain on his skin. Her teeth grazed him next, and she heard him make a sound she’d never heard before. Not a grunt, not a groan; almost a throaty gasp.

She raised her eyes. He had that look on his face again. His eyes were zeroed in on her lips. When she licked them he moved in to kiss her again, this time cupping her face in his strong hands. With tongue and lips he devoured her resolve and every argument she could put up. The skin under her hands was warm and living, just like hers. Abigail wondered if he had brought it out in her, because lord knows she’d been one of the walking dead for a long time now.

She was so much shorter than him that when he tried to wrap an arm around her lower back he had to lift her off the ground. Then she realized that’s what he had meant to do. She moved her arms to his shoulders to hang off of him. He backed her up until she hit the kitchen table. It rubbed on the floor with a sound of protest. Elliot held her aloft as he settled her on the edge of the table.

Abigail realized he was pressed between her thighs, and in response she had a leg on each of his hips. If they were going to do this, it wouldn’t work this way. He was just too tall.

His hands were forceful as they pushed under her slip, kneading at the muscles in her legs roughly. He loomed over her, not releasing her mouth. She was leaning backwards, until she had to brace herself with one arm to keep from falling over. His hands pawed over her, rubbing and pushing at the slip. It was moving upwards, over her hips.

Just as she was wondering if she could really do this, she realized her other hand was between them, pulling at his belt. He helped her with the zipper, then his hand went between her legs to move her underwear out of the way. As he did so, his knuckle grazed the very core of the heat that was growing in her. She gasped against his mouth, one hand clutching at his side. Her nails bit in to his skin. It had been a long time since anyone had touched her.

He stroked at her softly, and she knew he was making sure she was ready. Then his hands grasped her by the hips. She threw an arm across his shoulders, her other arm still behind her so she could lean back more. When she felt that hot length press against her, she pulled back. She had to see his face. When he eased in, incredibly warm and solid, his eyes were closed. He stopped breathing. She accepted him completely, slowly and easily. Then he eased out and pushed forward again. The table groaned again, and she pressed her mouth to this shoulder to muffle the sound that came out of her throat. It was alien and desperate.

“Abigail,” he whispered. “This won’t be quiet.”

She looked up at his face, realizing he meant it. The words themselves caused heat to rise in her face. The thought thrilled her. Then she caught on to what he meant. David was upstairs.

“The shelter,” she breathed.

He picked her up easily, their bodies still joined, and carried her down to the cellar and through the doorway. He turned the light on once they had the door closed.

Elliot sat on the bed, leaning over to untie a boot. She helped with the other one. When she stood he rose next to her, pulling the satin shift over her head and dropping it to the ground at their feet. She pushed his trousers down off his hips and he sat down again. He pulled her knickers down off her hips. She wasn’t embarrassed to be entirely naked in front of him. She straddled his lap, covering his mouth with hers. His hands ran up her back, and he broke off the kiss to bring a nipple to his mouth. Abigail buried her hands and face in his hair, breathing deep. His lips pressing to her skin was more than she needed to be back at the point of desperation. She didn’t need more kisses.

Abigail pressed down on his shoulders, and he followed her lead, easing back on the rumpled bed. As she slid Elliot inside again she had to bite her lip to not moan out loud. The heat she felt wasn’t just from him. She had living blood in her veins after all.

Elliot’s face was calm and unreadable as she rolled her hips, bringing him deeper inside. A few more moves and he made a fantastically enthralled sound that had her smiling, sending a ripple of pleasure down her spine. His eyes ran over her body, down her breasts, across her stomach. His hands gripped her thighs tightly but he didn’t try to control the movement. He left it to her.

Abigail found the rhythm she needed, and as she rode her belly began tightening. She put all focus on that feeling, scarcely aware of Elliot’s hands tightening on her skin, digging in forcefully. There were soft sounds of pleasure in the room, and it was her. Again she felt no shame in that. And when the orgasm racked her body, tossing her head back and tearing a soft, pained cry from her throat, she felt like she was floating on warm waters, perfectly safe and sated.

The tremors subsided as Elliot sat up, catching her mouth with his again. He was still hard inside her. She was no longer entirely satisfied; she wanted more.

He rolled her to her back, bringing her knees up to his hips. All pretense of being gentle with her was gone. When he thrust and pulled back it was urgent, fast, needy. She tried to match the movement with her hips, but it was difficult. Just like she had been mindless with want; Elliot was lost to his passion.

Her second orgasm came as a shock. She hadn’t felt it rising or growing, Abigail was just suddenly crying out loudly, only able to muffle half of the sound against his shoulder. She even bit him, but it still sounded too loud to her. He arrived at the same time, his entire body tensing as he bellowed a completely primitive sound into the pillow next to her.

Abigail reveled in the waves of passion that coursed through her, breathing deeply and tracing circles on Elliot’s back as he shuddered.

They would have to dress and pretend this hadn’t happened. The thought saddened her. It would have been wonderful to spend the rest of the day in bed, just holding each other like this. And that thought brought her first twinge of guilt.

He’s not yours,
she reminded herself.
And if he lives long enough, he’s going home eventually.

Her feeling of possessiveness was ridiculous. These men had been in her house for two days. She didn’t really know them. This had been a mistake born of extreme loneliness. And trauma, come to think of it.

Everything from that morning came back to her in a rush, with a clear and unveiled perspective. She was free of Bossong. She’d killed a man. She had been to bed with a man not her husband.

The numbness returned suddenly. She couldn’t let this bother her until she knew for sure if James was still alive. But she wouldn’t do this again. This was it. The itch was scratched. She could get through another four or five years, couldn’t she?

Elliot rose to his elbows, his breathing back to normal. She couldn’t read his expression. He gave her a shy smile. “I’m sorry,” he whispered.

“Sorry? Why?”

“If that was … rough.”

She shook her head. “No. It was … it was fine.”

His smile broadened. “Fine?”

She covered her eyes, laughing. She knew that wasn’t a great word choice. “I’m sorry. It was better than fine.” She lowered her hands again, and his eyes were brilliant as he laughed with her. “It was … exactly what I needed.”

He nodded, then softly kissed her. “Me too .”