Chapter 2
It had been many a mortal year since Lukas had felt even mildly...interested. The hawthorn stake was a thing of beauty, and she had applied it with no little force. He eased the sharpened, oiled point free, inhaling softly as ageless flesh reknit, and hoped he had done well.
It would have been churlish to laugh, either at the quaintness of the method or the obvious enthusiasm with which she deployed it. The lady wished him dead; very well, he would temporarily play along. A gift only he could grant, the first of many.
He had almost lost control as her body slithered free of his, almost moved to protest the separation. Had listened to her fumbling passage, held himself perfectly still and unbreathing, body and mind both in abeyance. A hunter’s trick, waiting until certain of prey’s temporary escape.
Anticipating a reunion was bittersweet, for she would be startled at his reappearance—possibly enough to do herself some harm. Yet it had to happen soon, for he was uneasy at letting her wander. She had achieved her goal, very well.
But why? And with such an intriguing weapon as well.
The lift’s floor was scattered with red crystal beads fallen from her dress.
Lukas brushed at his suit—what little claret escaped him had been reabsorbed, but the damage to his shirt was highly visible.
Good thing it was a costume fête; he wondered if he should return.
The mortals would be drunk enough not to question his reappearance and he could feed very nearly at will.
His true teeth stirred vaguely at the thought, but the scent of her still filled his nose. He found he did not wish to drink, save from a certain perfumed chalice bearing that marvelous bouquet.
Why on earth do you want to kill me, beautiful girl? He had been enjoying himself far too much, Lukas supposed. Such purity of purpose was rare, no matter the era. More than that, he was very nearly drunk with joy.
A leman, walking fearlessly up to him as if she knew her own impossibility, her own absolute pricelessness. He had never thought to find such a creature before calcification took him; he had settled for staving off the numbing with single-minded determination.
Lukas let the elevator doors close, touched the button for his private floor, and patted at his pockets. There was his main phone, in its rubbery shockproof casing. Such ingenious toys they had these days.
“Sir?” Wrenfeldt’s dry, careful voice through the ear-speaker, very welcome indeed.
“The lady in the red dress does not appear to be a journalist. She’s somewhere in the building—see that her exit is unobstructed, step up surveillance.
” Lukas considered the beads, decided to simply leave them be.
He could track her, certainly, but it was sometimes best to allow hounds a bit of hunt as well.
“I want to know where she goes, what she does. Half-hourly reports.”
“Yes, sir.” Naturally this was well within a dogsbody’s capabilities, especially with a well-oiled edifice of money and safety to aid the operation.
One wasn’t supposed to call them dogsbody anymore; to Lukas’s mind the currently fashionable term was far more insulting, so he chose to use neither aloud.
“Protection is the first priority, invisibility is only slightly behind.” He paused.
On the other end of the line, Wrenfeldt waited, perhaps mystified but ready to obey.
“I am going by the suite for a spare suit.”
“Shall I…?”
“No, simply watch the lovely little rabbit run, my friend.” He really should have personally investigated her, instead of accepting Wrenfeldt’s assumption that a pesky mortal journalist was suspicious enough to believe something about the demimonde.
A capital error—how many others had he committed?
For the first time in centuries, Lukas was entirely, wholly awake.
“And take some nourishment, if you have not in the past few hours.”
“Yes, sir.” A smothered chuckle—so, Wrenfeldt was in a droll mood tonight.
Well, there were worse things. “Have the guest quarters in the penthouse cleared by dawn. Leave only the bedstead.” It was hardly a saferoom—the windows, for one thing—but could hold a mortal prize for a few days while Lukas made other arrangements.
He considered further playing at absent-mindedness; it was often part of good rule, and served a double purpose.
Underlings were not allowed to know of the ossification, though no doubt many dogsbodies had suspicions.
Any ageless creature tended to become hidebound.
“Yes, sir. Of course.” Wrenfeldt now sounded very nearly startled.
“And make certain the linens are clean.” Because she is coming home.
He allowed himself a single moment of reeling, impossible emotion at the thought, staring at tiny red glitters caught in blue carpet.
Even deadened sanguinant senses were far, far more acute than mortal, but he had been peering through a thickening grey veil for quite some time now.
His fangs still longed to burst free—had she harmed herself in the fall?
No, he had cushioned her from the worst of it; still, she might be stiff and scraped. “That will be all, Wren.”
“Very good, sir.” Still an amused edge to the words.
Lukas quelled the urge to fidget, another rarity. Of course one had to move like mortals while in their company, only lapsing into uncanny stillness when entirely safe of witness, but he was almost…
No. It was official, he was eager for the next event.
Truly this was a time of miracles, and him still alive to feel wonder.
The shackles were falling from his senses, and a thin thread of delicious scent stayed with him.
There was only the faintest hint from a single carmine drop swelling upon her wounded knee, but it was more than enough.
He had a blood trail, now.