Chapter 2
He almost overlooked her, though Iuppiter’s thunderbolt does not miss when a soldier has made his sacrifices and endured long enough. Or perhaps the gods were indeed dead, and it was only blind luck.
A flash like lightning—pale eyes peering shyly over a heavily padded shoulder, like a dryad in deep woods, amazed at the woodcutter’s intrusion.
The soldier’s gaze moved on, the rest of him already aware of wrongness in the night—heightened mortal pulses, a faint squeal of static from a certain type of short-range communication device, the subtle sensation at his nape meaning prey had noticed a predator.
Not danger, precisely, merely unfriendly attention.
The soldier almost thought his target had hired mortal catspaws to distract Father’s chosen sword; a silly measure, but ossification made older sanguinant stupid just as it rendered the young prone to bloodcraze and glut.
Then a stray thread of scent brushed past, sound hurrying after light, storm-roar capable of paralyzing if the flash did not. Electricity was partly tamed nowadays, trapped in switches and wires; still, even in confusing modern times, mortals feared great weather events.
He might have scented her in any case, especially upon a simmering midnight when every exhalation collected in the bowl of concrete called a city street. Yet it was not certain—her kind was, after all, so very rare.
Priceless, in fact. A single breath halted the soldier midstride, images cascading through his skull as he sought to identify the tantalizing odor.
Roses, crushed coffee beans, an exquisite stainless musk, all coalescing into those wide grey eyes and straight dark hair pulled ruthlessly back, a glimpse of high-arched cheekbone.
There was a mortal male looming before her, leaning close, his hands no doubt roaming over soft curves.
A sudden vengeful snarl contorted the soldier’s face, true teeth sliding free as the ever-chained beast roused within his bones.
Blinding, utter rage stripped away centuries’ worth of dust accreted upon his perceptions, falling like scales from a certain mad prophet’s eyes, plummeting like a boy with melting waxen wings.
The assault of fresh color, sound, and other sensation very nearly undid the soldier, an ancient pulse pausing its steady march inside his bone-armored chest. Then a clatter of gunfire began, bullets humming like bees, and mortals began to scream.
For the first time in his long strange existence, the soldier put aside his orders and lawful prey. A new, overriding imperative sank claws into flesh and brain both; he blurred into a light variety of mistform, streaking after something he had never truly believed existed.
There were rumors, of course—leman, those fantastical creatures capable of warding aside the slow Gorgon-gaze of accumulating years, a prize every bearer of the Blood longed for.
The soldier had never given such tales much credence, despite honoring their telling.
After all, if gods and emperors could die, what else might be possible in a wide world teeming with prey?
The challenge was to face Hades with dignitas. He had fallen on his sword once, as a mortal. It wasn’t so difficult.
She was borne upon the stampede, a jewel amid flotsam.
The soldier arrowed overhead, buffeted by noise and various smoky substances, pushing against air-currents, ready at any moment to dive and tear through fragile mortal flesh if his new prize foundered.
The sudden, overwhelming acuity of every sense was akin to a fledgling’s first nights after full transition, drunk with the wonder of the Blood—yet far, far deeper.
He had not realized how close he trod to true-death.
Ossification had stalked him with infinite cat-quiet patience.
Even the control and discipline of his work was a trap, though he had sought to remain flexible by engaging with mortal catspaws and dogsbodies far more than one of his age normally did.
His duties as Father’s head general necessarily involved contact with security troops, but few pursued it so actively.
That was also part of the game, each interaction with brief ever-changing mortal creatures an attempt at insurance against the inevitable while longing for the unbelievable. Which had now occurred, albeit not quite in the way he’d ever imagined.
She spilled through a pair of wide-open doors, flung free hard enough to clip a corner of the metal refuse-boxes standing sentinel in a spacious, well-brushed alley.
He had to restrain a sudden urge to plunge, slip out of mistform, and shield her from the blow, but it was already too late.
She was off and running again, quite fast for a mortal.
Modern streets were as a rule much cleaner than those of his long-ago youth, yet for a moment he was at the sack of Karthago again, or Korinth, or any of a thousand other cities he had led warriors through.
Screams and wailing rose to foul a night’s uncertain peace, though unaccompanied by smoke or cries of murderous joy.
The gunfire was fading—his own squad would be withdrawing in good order, knowing well enough to avoid whatever sudden event had necessitated their commander’s vanishment.
Anything requiring the behavior he had exhibited was above or beyond their own concerns.
They would return to the outpost near the oilfields bearing news, though. And that was concerning. The soldier did not wish to think beyond the current moment, since there was quite enough to do keeping a fleeing leman in sight and dealing with the flood of luxurious, unwonted sensation.
He could lose through sheer inattention or mischance what he had just found, unless great care were exercised.
Entirely sumptuous, the layers of deadened emotional callus peeling away as he floated behind her.
He could watch while glorying in the freshness, the sheer newness of every detail.
A clinging black dress with straps over her tender shoulders, the full skirt fluttering, lovely bare lithe legs and heavy boots, a dark braid swaying as she fled—quite the picture, and he dipped lower as she flagged.
Not even a nymph could run forever.
She swung aside, plunging into a small passageway connecting to yet another alley.
Was she familiar with this place? Curiosity was another new hunger, burning all through him.
How best to introduce himself? The old rumors were clear upon at least one point—a leman was to be taken at the moment of discovery, or swiftly as possible afterward.
Taken, and bitten. Then claimed.
He dove, slipping out of mistform, booted feet cat-soft meeting cracked pavement. Gliding after her, wholly intent, he wondered if he should pray.
Save that for when she is safe. And have you forgotten him?
The soldier had not begun this night expecting he would find himself at once disloyal and possessed of divine good luck, but he was now committed.
The thrall had risen, a crimson burst in old, almost-dry veins, and he found not only was he awash in magnificent sensation but also—for the first time in centuries—incredibly physically aroused.
Stiff as a gladius, in fact. The need was pleasant in its sharpness; how long had he been an unthinking automaton?
Now he was awake, aware, alive. But just as he decided he had followed long enough, that his new prize must indeed be grasped, she put on another burst of speed.
Her pulse sang—every mortal’s heartbeat was unique, certainly, but hers was music engineered specifically for his hearing. He quickened as well, a hawk preparing for the dive, a giant swan ready to descend upon a staggering girl.
I long to know your name, pretty one. So glorious to feel again after centuries spent watching the waters of Lethe rise inch by inch upon his frame, trapped in slowly calcifying body and mind.
Engine-noise, nearby and slowing. A mortal yell.
“Leila! Leila, come on!”
Like a young doe was she, running flat-out as if sensing the predator in her wake.
Fists curled, arms pumping, the braid swinging to tap her back, she bolted from the alley and dove into the rear passenger side of a nondescript sedan, quick as a wink.
The vehicle barely slowed enough for her to perform the maneuver, yet she did so with grace.
One last skirt-flutter, and she was gone.
The soldier paused, struck by unfamiliar astonishment. He recognized another heartbeat within the car; one he had catalogued from sheer habit—the mortal male who had held her against the wall.
Lover? Husband? What true man would let such a beauty wander alone? But mortals were unaware of the rare flowers in their midst—and a good thing, too, lest they make leman even scarcer. Hunting the strange or different was not solely a sanguinant trait, or even confined to the wider demimonde.
Now that he had found such a rare, impossible miracle, everything he had ever heard concerning leman swirled inside him, a collage of tactical responses jostling for selection.
It was traditional to remove all encumbrances from a new aima-glyza, in order to discourage panicked attempts at escape—and to make their transition to fledgling easier, for the moment she was bitten and claimed the Gift would begin to rise in her flesh.
At least his new objective was almost painfully clear. Father was a problem best solved in due course; the soldier could even anticipate the event with some pleasure.
His chains were now broken, an event any servant longed for, any master feared.
The soldier took to mistform again, following the fleeing vehicle.