A near half hour passed as Salvatore weaved his way through the winding tunnel, his steps slowing as he tilted back his head to sniff the air.The scent of cur was still strong, but he was beginning to pick up the distant scent of other curs, and…pure-blood.Female pureblood.Coming to a sharp halt, Salvatore savored the rich vanilla aroma that filled his senses.He loved the smell of women. Hell, he loved women.But this was different.It was intoxicating.“Cristo,” he breathed, his blood racing, an odd tightness coiling through his body, slowly draining his strength. Almost as if…No. It wasn’t possible.There hadn’t been a true Were mating for centuries.“Curs,” Levet said, moving to his side. “And a female pureblood.”“Si,” Salvatore muttered, distracted. “You think it’s a trap?”Salvatore swallowed a grim laugh. Hell, he hoped it was a trap. The alternative was enough to send any intelligent Were howling into the night.“There’s only one way to find out.”He moved forward, sensing the end of the tunnel just yards in front of him.“Salvatore?” Levet tugged on his pants.Salvatore shook him off. “What?”“You smell funny. Mon Dieu, are you…” With blinding speed, Salvatore grasped the gargoyle by one stunted horn and yanked him off his feet to glare into his ugly face. Until that moment, he hadn’t noticed the musky scent that clung to his skin.Merda.“One more word and you lose that tongue,” he snarled.“But…”“Do not screw with me.”“I do not intend to screw with anyone.” The gargoyle curled his lips in a mocking smile. “I am not the one in heat.
Brian Doyle about the Irish custom of “taking to the bed.” He says “In Irish culture, taking to the bed with a gray heart is not considered especially odd. People did and do it for understandable reasons—ill health, or the black dog, or, most horrifyingly, to die during An Gorta Mor, the great hunger, when whole families took to their beds to slowly starve…And in our time: I know a woman who took to her bed for a week after September eleventh, and people who have taken to their beds for days on end to recover from shattered love affairs, the death of a child, a physical injury that heals far faster than the psychic wound gaping under it. I’ve done it myself twice, once as a youth and once as a man, to think through a troubled time in my marriage. Something about the rectangularity of the bed, perhaps, or supinity, or silence, or timelessness; for when you are in bed but not asleep there is no time, as lovers and insomniacs know. Yet, anxious, heartsick, we take to the bed, saddled by despair and dissonance and disease, riddled by muddledness and madness, rattled by malaise and misadventure, and in the ancient culture of my forbears this was not so unusual….For from the bed we came and to it we shall return, and our nightly voyages there are nutritious and restorative, and we have taken to our beds for a thousand other reasons, loved and argued and eater and seethed there, and sang and sobbed and suckled, and burned with fevers and visions and lust, and huddled and howled and curled and prayed. As children we all, every one of us, pretended the bed was a boat; so now, when we are so patently and persistently and daily at sea, why not seek a ship? p. 119-20Brian Doyle in The Wet Engine: Exploring the Mad Wild Miracle of the Heart, p. 90-91