Scheherazade has been --- happy. In a good mood, and it's only because she's stimulated by Muraki's teaching, she swears.
But of course, it's not.
And should Henry wander into the library, though it's late, he'll find a young Persian scholar pouring over the contemporary history of Japan, for no good reason, she insists. She found some books in contemporary farsi, and with some efforts, she can decipher it, though it's a long and slow process. She's quite focused on what she's doing.
Henry was hoping to focus his mind and try to clear it. With a book. Unfortunately, the library isn't empty, and in fact, he can smell her from here. From the entrance. Hear her heartbeat.
Henry's eyes drift closed, just listening, almost feeling her pulse, each beat driving new blood through her body, fresh, rich, living.
He needs.
Henry moves more swiftly, making his way through the stacks, following her scent, blood and spice that his keen nose picks up.
Scheherazade can't hear a thing, but she is very focused on what she is reading - and murmurs it to herself, a litany that is barely audible, and because it is not meant for another, not translatable.
The Pahlavi, muttered to herself, probably sounds incredibly arcane.
It does, it really does - and Henry is moving very quietly anyway. He pauses, looking at her, at the nape of her neck, her pulse thudding in his ears twice as fast as his own.
He takes a step toward her, quietly, and says, persuasion woven into his voice, "Lady...look at me."
He meets her eyes, his black, black, and yearning. His tongue presses against the back of his teeth and he takes two automatic gliding steps nearer. His nostrils flare. "Stand up," he murmurs, still persuading, urging her to want to stand, "Please."
Scheherazade stands, eyes wide, and feels suddenly oddly calm. "--- it's alright," she says, and though she can feel the thrill of terror and its weight settling at the base of her belly, she takes a deep breath.
"-- you don't have to do anything you might regret -- my lord -- " a beat, and she adds, "-- I can see your need."
Yes, she's trying to negotiate.
But why can't she run? Too easy. Not in her deck of cards. Not on her mind either, thanks to the compulsion and the fascination she's been nurturing with your kind, Henry.
Henry tips his head at her, examining her with a critical gaze for a moment, still black. Her heartbeat is so loud. She smells so sweet. Rich. Spicy. He wants wants wants. "No," he assures her, "I will do nothing I might regret."
He takes another slow, lazy step forward, a predator moving in for the kill.
Though he doesn't plan to kill her. Just - drink. A lot.
He makes a noise like a soft, dark laugh. "I'm not going to kill you," he says, quietly, "And you won't remember me. Not my face." He extends a hand. "Come."
"So that I can utter it," she murmurs, though she hopes to commit it to memory, against all odds, somehow. "I have been studying your kind, learning about them for some months - but you are the first vampire that I meet, and if you are to -- have me, then it's only polite to give me your name."
And then, she takes a leap of faith, and volunteers her own name.
"I am Scheherazade bint Diran, from the court of Soliman, King of Persia."
He pauses, a moment. "Is that so?" He sounds faintly amused, and light, delicate fingers brush her hair aside. "Interesting. How very...yes, then. Henry Fitzroy." He bows his head, breathes on her neck. "Perhaps I will talk to you about your studies...later. If I can risk it."
He closes his eyes, breathes in the smell of her blood. Pulsing, strong, rich, and right there, just beneath the skin. "Perhaps," he murmurs. "No promises." I won't risk my life. Not when I have Anita to think of.
He turns her head gently to the side and bares his teeth, sinks them in quickly, though there should be very little pain.
In fact, a flooding feeling of ecstasy. (Yay, distraction.)
But of course, it's not.
And should Henry wander into the library, though it's late, he'll find a young Persian scholar pouring over the contemporary history of Japan, for no good reason, she insists. She found some books in contemporary farsi, and with some efforts, she can decipher it, though it's a long and slow process. She's quite focused on what she's doing.
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Henry's eyes drift closed, just listening, almost feeling her pulse, each beat driving new blood through her body, fresh, rich, living.
He needs.
Henry moves more swiftly, making his way through the stacks, following her scent, blood and spice that his keen nose picks up.
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The Pahlavi, muttered to herself, probably sounds incredibly arcane.
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He takes a step toward her, quietly, and says, persuasion woven into his voice, "Lady...look at me."
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"-- Yes?" She blinks at him. And might, for a split second, feel the little hairs on the nape of her neck prickle.
Call it a hunch, the word vampire just popped in her head.
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Her hunch is right.
He wants you! ...in that way.
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"-- you don't have to do anything you might regret -- my lord -- " a beat, and she adds, "-- I can see your need."
Yes, she's trying to negotiate.
But why can't she run? Too easy. Not in her deck of cards. Not on her mind either, thanks to the compulsion and the fascination she's been nurturing with your kind, Henry.
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He takes another slow, lazy step forward, a predator moving in for the kill.
Though he doesn't plan to kill her. Just - drink. A lot.
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She's still aiming for seduction and negotiation.
She very simply doesn't want to die.
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So Scheherazade slips her hand in Henry's cold one, and nods.
"This is intimate," she says, simply. "Before you drink my blood, I should like to know your name, at least."
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And then, she takes a leap of faith, and volunteers her own name.
"I am Scheherazade bint Diran, from the court of Soliman, King of Persia."
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"I would like that," Scheherazade murmurs. "I can keep secrets."
And that, she is. And she well might.
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He turns her head gently to the side and bares his teeth, sinks them in quickly, though there should be very little pain.
In fact, a flooding feeling of ecstasy. (Yay, distraction.)
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