Chapter 12
Like any lair held in readiness, the house smelled faintly of polish and disuse.
But the thermostat had taken its remote instructions smoothly, the lights were welcoming, and the structure was solid as well as fully stocked.
The layered scents of human staff lingered along maintenance tracks; they might be glad of a change in routine—or bemoan it.
Either way, those held in readiness for his new cover would serve her well enough.
Isolated, well-cushioned, adjacent to more thickly settled areas for hunting, this particular lair was a relatively ideal location for a newly bonded leman’s introduction to the rest of eternity.
His prize tensed when he cut the engine and might have bolted from the vehicle had he not laid a hand on her knee, his palm cupped, enjoying a hint of her warmth through the coat’s double layers.
A single shake of his head, and she waited for him to open her door like a gentleman.
She did not demur at being carried, though there was no more sweet resting of her cheek against him.
Stiff and pale, Beatrice simply submitted.
His ears told him the house was empty, breathing alone on a winter night. The layout was fairly clear inside his head; it was old habit to install saferooms no matter the cost, though a daywalker did not need such exigencies unless deeply wounded.
The Everly guestroom had not been ideal, this lair’s saferoom was properly windowless. She only had a short while longer to enjoy mortal daylight; fledglings were delicate, though with repeated infusions of his own claret she would reach daywalking status relatively soon. Half a millennia, perhaps?
Another pleasant prospect to contemplate. Especially the necessary feedings.
He did not take her to the saferoom just yet. The water-pipes were clear, his maintenance staff no doubt expecting a bonus this year; he set the matter aside as the master suite’s sunken tub filled. Steam rose; she looked up at the skylight’s dark eye.
This lair’s windows were one-way and UV-coated to discourage both prying gazes and sun damage.
Such things were marvels, and their presence in bedroom or bath counted a sign of luxury.
Were it daytime she could gaze at the sweep of valley, the concrete artery of the Causeway, at a faint persistent haze of smog above the city proper.
As it was, only the stain of porch- and streetlights showed indistinct in a dark sea.
Her reflection lingered, pallid and beautiful, staring huge-eyed at the pale stone floor, the expanse of countertop, the paired sinks with heavy brass taps, stacks of thick, thirsty forest-green towels.
Then she studied his own moving image on the glass surface, her eyebrows drawing together.
He tested the water—too hot for a still-mortal? Another wonderful problem to solve. “Come, see if it’s warm enough. I don’t know what you like.”
“Why do you…” She freed a hand from hugging herself, pointed at the window. “Is it only silver-backed mirrors you don’t reflect in? I mean, there aren’t a lot of those around anymore.”
“I am solid enough.” Save in lighter mistform, but that might unnerve you. “Light behaves as it should in my vicinity, unless I force it otherwise. There are natural laws even for our kind.”
“Your kind.” She swayed, catching herself almost before he had a chance to twitch. “Vampire, right? I hate that word.”
Our kind. Enough time for that later. “The proper term is sanguinant, at least nowadays for the European-adjacent.”
“Sounds French.”
“Much of your language is, kitten.” He was doing very well, Lukas thought. A quiet, rational discussion represented progress; he rose from crouching at the tub’s side, carefully controlled all through the movement.
Not slowly enough, perhaps. She retreated, blundering away toward the sinks. The mirrors held faint traces of condensation now; in a short while this lair would be alive with her scent and the hum of a well-regulated household.
Approaching a quivering, exhausted leman was particularly enticing.
He had not stalked so carefully in many a mortal year.
She refused to look directly, gaze downcast, heavy lashes darker than her eyebrows hiding those lovely gold-threaded eyes.
When he reached for the front of the buttoned shirt she flinched, nearly cowering onto the counter.
“I can do it myself.” A tiny, defiant mutter. “Are you going to drown me? That’s not a bathtub, it’s a swimming pool.”
Ah. Her behavior suddenly arranged itself in a coherent pattern; the shock of realization was exquisite.
He would never grow used to the jolts of sensation, stinging-raw, unfiltered by creeping numbness.
“You are attempting to provoke me.” His fingertips touched the button just over the lump of the necklace, worked it free.
“I’ve had enough of the psychological torture, thanks.” The words shook, her tremors intensifying.
Lukas restrained the mounting urge to rip every scrap of cloth free, set her on the marble, and bury himself in that volcanic velvet heat again.
His knuckles brushed white cotton, the T-shirt stretched over her breasts, and the flare of desire was so sharp it tasted of sweet, iron-heavy mortal claret.
His fangs throbbed, longing to sink into her once more; he paid very close attention to the buttons.
“You can have the necklace.” Desperate now, she was rigid despite the trembling. “I’ll walk back to town, I’ll keep going, you’ll never hear from me again. I promise. I swear.”
Too late for that. “The time to flee was before I caught your scent.” He slid the button-up from her shoulders; she cooperated woodenly. “Lift your arms. Or I can simply tear your clothes off.”
“How many women do you do this to?” More provocation, but she slowly obeyed.
“None.” He had to concentrate, lifting the T-shirt’s hem. Every inch revealed was a fresh paradise, but he must exercise restraint. She was safe, she was claimed, she was his. Now he had to keep what he had taken, ease her through the stages of grieving for a mortal life, and deal with the greiben.
The last part was easiest. The entire infestation had to go—messy work, but unavoidable.
The only quandary was whether or not to allow her accompaniment; the level of violence might be cathartic or traumatizing, depending on her state of mind.
“None at all,” he continued. “In my entire time upon this earth, you are the only leman I have ever seen.”
One heard gossip, of course, but any sanguinant—ancient or otherwise—with the good fortune to find such a prize would not easily allow another to lay eye or hand upon it.
A great shuddering breath. Her face crumpled, and she began to weep in soft, heartbreaking gasps.
* * *
Bathing a shaking, crying leman was another new experience; his own nakedness was inconsequential, his personal cleansing accomplished in perfunctory fashion.
The last of the greiben stench was sluiced from them both as he explored, soaping and rinsing with infinite care, and her sobbing as she cooperated with dreamlike slowness tore at his own chest.
The storm passed as he pressed a fresh towel against her hair, examining wet strands.
Soon they would slough the dye; such things did not take to sanguinant well, if at all.
Her lashes, wet and matted, stayed down.
She was either semiconscious or pretending slumber by the time he carried her thought silent halls to the saferoom, and he laid the invisible seals with care.
This bed was not quite so vast as the Everly’s, but the linens were fresh. Certainly the staff were accumulating no little merit; his new cover could afford to be correspondingly profligate with reward.
He settled her gently, pulled white blankets and snowy counterpane high, glanced at the wrought-iron bedposts. Had he chosen this particular stead, or simply had a shopper handle the detail? He could not remember, and it irked him.
His prize curled upon her side; Lukas eased under the covers next to her.
Slowly, he gathered her close, damp near-mortal softness sliding against the different texture of sanguinant skin.
His knees behind the hollows of hers, a stiff yearning pressed into the firm roundness of her bottom, his arm securely locked about her waist, his nose buried in her hair, breathing in the tang of herbal shampoo and the deeper, far richer aroma of his very own leman.
The twilight came swiftly, unstringing preternatural muscles, slowing his old, powerful heartbeat.
He could rest without calcification triggering the wasting lassitude; not only could a hidebound ancient commit an error of camouflage or simple carelessness, but both feeding and necessary rest could end in true-death.
It made a certain amount of evolutionary sense, he supposed. Sanguinant could lay waste to humanity without such winnowing; leman were a scarce, irreplaceable resource. How many of his kind had died of wanting what he now possessed?
“Sleep well,” he mouthed, far too softly for mortal ears to hear.
She did not stir.