Chapter 4
Of all the things he could have said, it was by far the most banal, and an unfamiliar urge to explain rose in Lukas’s throat. “Might I ask why you stabbed me?”
Now he sounded prim, not at all how he had intended this meeting to begin or proceed. Small talk had become increasingly difficult as he fought calcification, but Lukas had thought himself still possessed of more suavity than this.
Still, one did not find a leman every day. Or every century, or every millennia; the exceeding value was commensurate with their rarity.
The girl stared at him, her lush mouth slightly open.
He remembered the green eyes, but not exactly how their irises were threaded with gold; he remembered the black dye on her hair but not the exact shape of her much-paler eyebrows.
Each new discovery was a padded hammer striking his own pulse.
Droplets gemmed her shoulders, the beautiful arch of her throat, her bare, shimmerpale legs.
She’d twisted her freshly washed hair into one thin, too-small towel and wore another; he could only be grateful for whatever cost-cutting had decreed these precise dimensions to the cloth clinging upon such pleasing curves.
As if he needed any confirmation, an unaccustomed lightheadedness swallowed Lukas whole. The scent was heavy, carried on steam, and a sharp wave of desire rose from the base of his spine, tingling all through arms and legs, sinking a claw into his lower belly.
He was actually, painfully erect. When had that last happened? Wonderment hit him once more—a real, living, unbonded leman in close proximity. He was careful to stay very still.
It wouldn’t do to startle her. And he did not wish the first time to be in this dispirited little lodging-house room, even if she were entirely tantalizing.
Especially as the towel began to slip.
That is...very distracting. Water clinging to fresh, damp mortal skin, those lips quivering slightly, the instant leap of a sweet-singing heartbeat, and that fascinating, mouthwatering, absolutely addictive aroma. The totality, the gestalt was overwhelming in the extreme.
Just how calcified had he been? It crept up upon one, certainly, and—
“FUCK!” the lady screamed, whipping the towel free of her splendid litheness as the cloth upon her hair tumbled free, since she also rather violently lunged aside.
Lukas watched, curious and appreciative, as her hands flickered, twisting sodden fabric, and her shoulder clipped a corner of the closet obtruding rather awfully next to the bathroom door.
He was tempted to use the whispering speed, an initiating twitch denied.
The movement was instinctive, a precursor to blinking across empty air and thrusting his hand between mortal flesh and the unforgiving wall.
But that might...alarm her. Even dogsbodies sometimes had difficulty witnessing sanguinant reflexes, requiring a moment of calm attention to soothe atavistic prey-response.
She didn’t appear to notice the impact, and the vivid scrape on her knee was another taunting reminder.
Spotting her across the event space—Wrenfeldt had alerted him the moment she intruded with the catering staff—Lukas had planned on simply beguiling the journalist who was so interested in his business; according to Wren, her surveillance was very nearly professional enough to escape the notice of overlapping security details.
He had thought her a new variety of paparazzi, but once Lukas caught her scent the entire configuration of the universe had shifted a few crucial degrees. Now he must consider her perhaps impelled by a variety of instinct, as some leman were rumored to have actively sought out pairing.
It was a lovely thought. Was she as fascinated as her suitor?
In any case, she had tried to ram a stake through his heart. He could appreciate that manner of feral affection, Lukas supposed; leman were so very uncommon, even a crazed specimen too precious to disregard or let wander.
She froze, her throat working convulsively.
Rosy nipples, an enchanting freckle high on her left breast begging for attention, glistening water-jewels caught in her secret curls, her adorable knees trembling, dainty bare toes incongruous against cheap dun carpet—Lukas enjoyed the view a great deal, but all the same it would be easier if she…
He was in the thrall now, sanguinant responding to that maddening, wonderful fragrance, and his control rendered somewhat imperfect. He very much wanted the first time to be rather more comfortable, not to mention aesthetically pleasing, than this.
“Come on.” A small, defiant whisper. She lifted the twisted, sodden towel in what could perhaps be considered a threatening manner.
Was she actually inviting him? The pleasure of that prospect was overwhelming.
“You would like me to approach you, then? I though I was doing passably well before…” He lifted the stake slightly, watched her gaze flicker to touch it, veer away.
A brief light flared in those stunning eyes before fading, a shiver passing through her lovely frame.
Perhaps she was cold? It was winter, and she mortal for at least a short while longer.
“Creep.” The lady was breathing rather rapidly now, which caused her to shudder even more fetchingly. “Who takes a drunk date upstairs like that, huh?”
“I thought you might not like others to hear our conversation. You’ve been watching me for some time, after all.” What do you want, hm? Tell me quickly.
It was quite something to feel impatience again. To feel at all, really—now he was aware how agonizingly close he had brushed to numb, suffocating true-death.
Her pupils swelled. She was alarmingly pale, really, and her marvelous warm musk held a tantalizing edge of raw yellow fear. The contrast only underscored its unrelenting deliciousness.
“You killed my brother.” Did she think she was screaming? Her throat must be terribly constricted, and even this soft, strangled whisper was charming. “I’ll bet you don’t even remember, do you.”
What? He had to halt and replay the last few moments inside his head, just to be certain he had heard correctly.
Another rarity—to be so distracted, his control fraying as it had not since he was new in the Blood, a mere fledgling upon the steppe.
I haven’t drained anyone to death in at least a century.
Is it business, someone who lost a company?
I would have remembered her face, if it were.
Not to mention that scent.
“Your...brother?” Calm puzzlement was best, he decided. “What was his name, then? Perhaps we may start there.”
Apparently she did not wish to do so. Instead, the sublime creature who had staked him let out a rusty scream and lurched into motion, moving with a great deal of swift efficiency for a mortal.
It was like seeing a colt astagger in a spring meadow; Lukas lost himself in further appreciation for a moment before rising, catching her wrist, and spinning her slight weight on its axis.
Locking his other arm about her naked waist was perfectly wonderful, though the warm living weight clasped tightly to his own much more durable frame strained his control again.
The stake hit the carpet.
She was so soft. Pitching back and forth, kicking, hissing like a maddened cat, his new leman also loosed a torrent of surprisingly foul modern obscenities, delivered in a husky, enraged contralto which slid a pleasant rasp down Lukas’s back.
If she did not cease moving so beautifully against his entire front, he was going to do something truly regrettable.
He wanted the initial encounter performed correctly; a leman could indeed be broken, but that was hardly ideal.
They were traditionally given the Gift immediately upon meeting, and perhaps he should do so.
Ruthlessness was generally best. His arms tightened, his mouth next to her perfect, shell-like ear, and a whisper left him as the psychic pressure of quietus clamped upon a helpless mortal.
“Shh, kitten.” He waited as her struggles slowed, inhaling deeply.
Filling his lungs with the fragrance of an unbonded leman was contradictory, both powerfully soothing and tightening his every bloodstring.
His groin throbbed painfully. “I am an animal, yes. But a considerate one; do not make this difficult for yourself.”
She held out far longer than other, physically stronger mortals; the stubbornness was charming. Finally, though, his prize went limp, breathing deep, her eyelids fluttering dreamily.
So, so tempting. Yet she was also so very thin, ribs and the high sweet curves of her hipbones clearly visible; fresh bruises lingered on fine, tender skin so pale the blue map of her veins begged for tracing with reverent fingertips.
He had to move very carefully to lay her upon the bed, and could not take more than small furtive glances at the tableau while dressing her.
He should have brought something of more quality, but the time constraint of chasing down the most valuable prey of his entire existence precluded any such nicety.
A cursory search found her only luggage, a backpack, contained a change of clothes—no red dress, just denim trousers, T-shirt, a cheap dark-blue jumper.
Indigo, a fitting color for such a prize, though no longer so expensive.
He could not bother with the underclothes, since his hands were shaking imperceptibly and the thrall-throes mounting with each moment spent breathing her in.
Yet he did pause while working a battered trainer onto her perfect, sock-clad left foot. Lukas’s head cocked, a faint brush at the edge of sensitive hearing not quite breaking the spell of his new, somnolent leman.
How very odd. The attention was certainly malignant, but was it coincidence?
This was a far too urban an area for such things.
Had someone nearby angered the little excrescences?
Lukas slipped the phone from his jacket’s breast pocket; at least he had changed his cloth and possibly made a good first impression.
Wearing the same blood-spattered suit she had attempted to murder him in might have given the wrong idea.
Wrenfeldt answered on the second ring, perhaps a little nervous at his master’s uncharacteristic behavior. “Yes, sir?”
“Bring the car around.” Lukas had to enunciate carefully, for his fangs were achingly sensitive. “You have a bit of cold iron upon your person, yes?” Any dogsbody was taught such elementary self-defense against no few of the demimonde’s weaker annoyances.
“Nail in my pocket, sir. As usual.”
“Good.” Lukas found himself staring at her hand, laid gently against cheap pink counterpane.
Her pretty fingers were slack, delicate knuckles wounded perhaps in the elevator; he would have to exercise far more care with this most enthusiastic playmate.
The slight sound of invisible interest remained, a watchful, lingering bane.
No matter. She was removed from the mortal world now; very few even in the demimonde’s higher reaches would interfere with a daywalker’s leman. He scooped up the stake, since perhaps it held some sentimental value. Had she attempted this with others of his kind?
No, for she would have been taken. Even a fledgling, rendered drunk by the scent, would seek to hold such a gift.
A few minutes later Room 23 was empty, outer door firmly closed, the light in the bathroom burning. Steam still hung in the air, slowly settle-swirling.