Chapter 8
His daylight office had taken on new interest, each edge sharply delineated, the desk glowing secretively and the shelves of decorative trash alive with murmuring meaning.
Walnut barrister files stood stolid sentinel, though any information in their grasp was also safely contained within his own mental halls; the faded, antique Persian rug worked with geometric designs was vivid enough to fall into.
Just how ossified had he been? Very close to the edge indeed, and the truly embarrassing thing was how he had not guessed. The muffling of physical senses and mental acuity, settling into the rigidity of a too-old beast in a modern world, had hunted him with skill and patience.
All burned away, now. No wonder leman were so prized. An eternity with these sharp sensations would barely scratch the surface of their beauty; even the painful acuity of fledgling sensation when new to the Gift paled into insignificance.
And his servants had been busily collecting what knowledge they could.
“Jared Michael Dunlevy.” Wrenfeldt laid the file on the desk blotter, retreating with quick mincing steps.
A dogsbody knew to be cautious, especially when their master or mistress appeared thoughtful; like many very large mortals, he was surprisingly light on his feet.
“Writer, two books of historical fiction. First one garnered some critical acclaim, second posthumously published. Dead four years ago, just before May Eve.”
Four years. Such a short while, though nearly endless for some mortals.
Lukas nodded, opening the file. A black-and-white headshot, probably taken for the lad’s book covers.
Yes, there was a distinct resemblance to his leman; the pale eyes, thickly lashed, the shape of the underlip, the cheekbones, the exact proportion of wave in light hair.
A handsome boy, though he had not shared his sister’s sheer incandescent sensitivity.
“Vermont. We made more than one offer for the property, yes?”
“Several, escalating to far more than it was worth. He and one other holdout refused to sell, and I recall you said something personal was needed.”
“Yes.” Sometimes the quietus could be used to gain longer-term mortal compliance, if applied with a skilled touch.
Lukas’s memories were returning, hazy but distinct, as he leafed through papers—property records, a vitae done by a private investigator’s firm, copies of the publishing contract, death certificate, a few coroner’s pictures showing the immense damage wrought upon a mortal body.
And she had witnessed...what? Now Lukas remembered following the stench of greiben and mortal death to a ramshackle building which had once indeed been a stable, to judge by the faint tang of horse hiding in its depths.
He had seen the young mortal lying in pieces upon dirt studded with ancient hay, and now that he thought of it there had indeed been another lump of white-furred flesh nearby.
Who kills dogs, you fucking monster? “Nothing about a sister here, Wren.”
“That’s the original file.” Wrenfeldt held up another manila folder.
His suit jacket flapped briefly, giving a glimpse of the shoulder holster.
Mortal weaponry, useless against dangers a sanguinant could easily overpower, but camouflage and dealing with mortal authorities were by far a dogsbody’s more important duties.
“I went back, did some other digging. Dunlevy did have a sister, best guess is two or three years younger. She vanished that night.”
Now that was interesting. “How thoroughly?”
“Nothing remains online, not even old social media profiles. A search in the physicals of the hospital where the brother was born turned up a birth certificate plus a few more Dunlevys, mother and father. The patriarch succumbed to liver failure when Jared was fifteen or so, dear mother to leukemia when he was twenty-four. None of the others seem viable connections.”
Alone in the world, little kitten? No wonder you are so fierce.
Perhaps she had removed herself from the gaze of mortal authorities before setting out for vengeance?
Purity of purpose, indeed; of course leman were exceptional, but the reality was somewhat startling to behold.
“Did we pay off the coroner for the young lord? It says accidental.”
“There was no need; it was an odd death, and they always like to bury those. The only records I could find of our lady are here.” Wrenfeldt approached again, laying the second offering upon the blotter.
His shoes made small pleasant leather-noises, and though he was observing proper caution there was little enough fear in his scent.
“A single secondary-school yearbook, the girl and her brother both listed. Managed to find some uni transcripts as well. She attended a different establishment than young master Dunlevy—smaller, and left three credits short of her bachelor’s of art in January of that year. He died late April.”
Lukas used a single fingertip to open the new file.
The photo was blurry from magnification, but it was unquestionably a younger version of his prize, her shoulders hunched defensively as she regarded the camera, a slight, apologetic smile caught just before it faded.
Her hair was much lighter than the current black dye, her eyes wide and guileless, and he glanced over the extended college transcript.
Did very well in the humanities. Chemistry, that’s an interesting choice.
Dropped the same philosophy class twice, I wonder why?
The sheer luxury of interest swamped him.
Lukas had to pause, strangling the urge to simply rise, dismiss Wrenfeldt, and glide for the guest room.
The thrall lingered behind his slow, unhurried pulse, digging into his vitals, and the texture of his clothing was unbearably irritating.
“Sir?” Wrenfeldt, tentative, rubbing at the blue shadow of stubble on one leathery cheek.
Even a sanguinant’s warding off of time from their trusted servants was imperfect; age sat upon poor Thomas with increasing heaviness lately.
“If she’s an actual hunter, there’s probably a cell behind her we ought to keep an eye on.
I can bring that Bertram fellow in for questioning; he went to school with the brother. They were close, it seems.”
Discovering the criminal had a podcast devoted to strange occurrences and occult happenings had been highly amusing.
“She may have some emotional tie to him. We’ll keep that in reserve.
” A gift of restraint, even if it was traditionally best to free leman of all mortal encumbrances immediately.
Enough room for escalation was perhaps best; a certain pressure could be deployed later, threatening a mortal she must care for.
Her possible entanglements were a difficult, unnerving thought, scraping hard against the possessive instincts. His next interaction with her had to be carefully planned.
“Yes, sir.” Wrenfeldt did not bother to disguise polite disagreement. Naturally mortals did not often prevail against sanguinant—though messy fledglings and ossified elders were sometimes caught and disposed of by enraged peasants or the occasional knight.
Mortal cooperation was a powerful weapon both for and against his kind.
“No hunter’s cell,” he murmured. “This is highly personal. And you needn’t worry for my temper, my friend. I have not felt this amused since the night we met.” A good year, not least in his luck finding a dogsbody of such wit and competence.
It was a shame Wren was so temperamentally unfit for the Gift, not to mention deeply duplicitous. No matter, his cunning served Lukas well.
“Coronation Day.” Wrenfeldt’s smile was faint but definitely fond. “God bless the Queen, for the devil will have his due. I do worry a bit, sir; they’re beginning to call you eccentric.”
Which meant Lukas’s camouflage had been slipping. It was a wonder he’d been able to bespell her during the party—but perhaps she had been seducing him, planning to isolate and dispose of the creature she considered her brother’s murderer.
Most puzzling. Normally the greiben did not do such things.
His kind often hunted them for sport, and by long tradition the scurrying annoyances were barred from taking mortals, since sanguinant were rather jealous in the matter of prey.
Eliminating a few clan elders and leaving certain invisible markings upon the south side of that very green, reasonably remote mountain had been sufficient to express Lukas’s displeasure with what appeared a simple mistake by mindless half-fungal goblins.
The mining companies had found nothing of interest and left after sinking a few shafts; now the entire mountain belonged to a maze of holding companies, safely buffered from further mortal involvement while cold iron and the deep gashes served to bind and engage greiben interest.
His very own holding companies, to be specific. Was that how she found him? He really should have investigated Wrenfeldt’s report of a pesky journalist more thoroughly, but it was his own incompetence and in any case that particular rarity: a forgiving mistake which in the end did not matter.
How entrancing. Now he knew the how, but not the why. Little green henchmen, indeed—she assumed he controlled them, as one did mortal businesses?
Disabusing her of that notion might require proof. He was still more exercised with how, in the name of his mortal tribe’s gods, he had not smelled a leman through the reek of greiben and mortal death. Where had she been hiding?
And what a pretty name, it suited her well. Lukas found himself tracing the line of her chin in the yearbook picture, tasting her again. Musk and sweetness, salt and syrup, she was in his veins now.
“Greiben simply do not act thus without reason.” It bothered him a great deal, Lukas realized.
The feeling was glorious, save for its rasp against protective instincts.
It would have been very easy indeed for both Dunlevys to die in that decrepit stable; now he remembered the house as well—sprawling, almost-colonial, with a wraparound porch.
“But perhaps the lady knows more than she thinks. Have breakfast sent up, she must be very hungry by now.”
He could attempt taming with food. It was time for another dose of change agents as well; he almost salivated at the thought. Next came another bite, and another, and at some point the actual claiming.
Anticipation, a luxurious torment.
“Yes, sir.” Wrenfeldt did not quite hesitate, though his pace gave plenty of time to add another command. He sloped from the office, consigning this mystery to his master’s tender attentions.
Lukas stared at the yearbook picture. Grainy, printed at a size guaranteed to lose a great deal of definition, it was still unquestionably his prize. A leisurely meal, a few explanations, and—
His ears tingled. His hearing had been dulling fraction by fraction over centuries; for a moment he thought he was simply imagining the pleasure of her company.
No, there was the heartbeat he was always listening for now, the soundless song of ragged breathing he recognized almost as deeply as his own.
The succulent little padding noises were her bare feet, creeping delicately doelike down the hall.
So she had tried the door, left unlocked since he was in residence. Did she think it an oversight? Still, far braver than many mortals, or she was frightened enough to risk any hazard.
How lovely. Simply keep moving, lady mine, you are almost within range. Did she recognize the dance she was inviting? He had granted fair warning, though she did not seem disposed to listen.
Pleasant anticipation halted, broken cleanly as a snapped bone. Lukas’s nostrils flared slightly, and his fangs gave a hard, distinct crackle as the reek reached him.
Wet rat-rot, fungal decay, and metal.
Greiben.