Lucas and Charlotte rode in perfect silence for about a minute. Nikolas had been kind enough to lend them one of his carriages to take home. The last mansion had been the scene of forty deaths. He didn't want to take Charlotte back there, especially after what happened. The girl looked so pale and terrified, and in all honesty, he didn't want to go back there either.
Then he caught a smell, one his kind would never miss.
"Are you bleeding?" Lucas turned his head to ask her.
Charlotte, who had been staring out the carriage window, was a bit startled when she heard his voice. She whipped her head to look at him, and he caught sight of her wrist. The witches had sliced her wrist, though it seemed no internal damage was done. Fortunately.
"Why didn't you tell me?" His voice was nothing more than a whisper, and Charlotte thought his look was a bit restrained, like he was holding back.
Still scared, she clutched her wrist tighter in a poor attempt to hide it from his view. She shook her head when he grabbed her hand to inspect the cut. He never noticed how soft her hands were; impulsively, he found himself tracing the lines on her palm all the way to her fingertips.
She was still bleeding, and just before a drop of blood fell to the carriage seat, he caught it with his index finger. Charlotte watched in shock as her master eyed the blood on his fingertip.
His eyes glazed over, and the next thing would be forever etched into Charlotte's memory. He inserted his finger into his mouth, wiping the blood off with his tongue. Charlotte was sure she was going to pass out; she had even forgotten that he was still holding her hand until he brought her wrist close to his face and latched his mouth on it.
By this time, Charlotte began to wonder why she was still conscious. She tried retracting her hand, but his grip was firm. She stopped struggling and watched as he used his tongue to clean the wound.
He released her hand only to say, "You have dainty fingers."
"Dainty fingers?" Charlotte was about to make a witty remark before the carriage stopped moving.
"Come down, little rabbit."
Charlotte had been too busy gazing at the mansion to notice the coachman opening her carriage door. She flinched at Lucas's unexpected term of endearment. Little rabbit? She wasn't oblivious to the strange way her master had been acting since the incident with the witches. Maybe he thought she was traumatized.
"You don't need to coddle me. I'm fine," she assumed, without quite looking at him.
"So she speaks," jeered Lucas. He walked over to where she stood beside the carriage and lifted her face to look at him. "You almost died today."
"But I didn't," Charlotte countered.
"True, but who's to say they won't come looking for you again?"
He was right, and Charlotte knew it. He tucked a piece of her copper hair behind her ear, and she let him.
"Which is why I won't let you out of my sight until we find out the who and, more importantly, the why."
He opened the double doors that led to the mansion, and Charlotte was left in awe. The mansion was a relic from ancient times, with towering stone walls, arched windows, and intricate tapestries depicting scenes from long-forgotten legends. Chandeliers hung from the ceiling, casting a warm glow over the dark wooden floors. Suits of armor stood guard in the corners, and a grand staircase spiraled upwards, leading to the unknown.
Out of her comfort zone and thrust into a piece of ancient France, Charlotte thought, Just great.
One would think she'd be given a day or two off after almost being sacrificed, but no. Instead, she found herself stuck with dusting and sweeping.