Chapter 6
He had intended to explain, to soothe, to calmly lay out the dimensions of her new status.
A man devoted solely to war had no poet’s words with which to seduce, even if he longed to try.
Yet her sudden doomed attempt to struggle, legs kicking and tender damp mortal flesh sliding under his fingertips, broke the last thread of stringent control.
The soldier’s fangs found the sweetly musical pulse they had somehow always ached for. He drew in a mouthful of singing, absolute sweetness, and it burned every other vein-drink he had taken to clotted, muddy ash.
So many words for what she was—leman, deva, imprima, sangdolce; he quite liked the ring of aima-glyza, in Greek more modern than Homer’s but still ancient as modern mortals reckoned.
Honeyed, ambrosial fire filled his throat, a drug more complete than any glut or mortal opiate hit his own slow, ageless veins.
A scrape-stinging edge rippled down his body as sanguinant physiology shifted, discovering an addiction lain sleeping for long centuries until the first drop sank all the way to his marrow, followed by blessed, drowning euphoria.
She tasted like victory, like the memory of dusky grapes from his mortal grandfather’s estate, like a soft fresh breeze upon a fevered brow.
And yet, more. The sensation enfolding him was alien, even as he had somehow always craved its warmth and knew he would do anything, commit any crime or savagery to keep it close.
What else did every warrior long for? The removal of armor, the sheathing of all weapons.
Peace.
He drew again, top fangs working another fraction deeper, and the second draught was impossibly somehow better.
Complex overlapping tastes, a red-purple scorch of devouring fear, deep dusky blue grief, her totality enfolding him in wonder.
Her laboring heartbeat fast as hummingbird wings, a shallow breath stirring his hair as her head tipped back on its slender neck-stem.
A drooping blossom, shuddering as it was crushed to his chest; he wanted more, more.
But she was mortal, exhausted by terror, flight, a very long and eventful night. His greed met a contradictory, overpowering imperative to protect what he had taken, and candythick tenderness welled from a depth past the beast-lair at the floor of his soul.
One last slow sip, rolled like the finest unwatered wine before slipping down his throat. Now he understood what the rumors whispered of, now he understood why any sanguinant lucky enough to find a leman kept the treasure strictly, deeply hidden.
Withdrawing each fang was a wonderful torment, then he paused to lick the marks with infinite care.
Change and healing agents were already spreading in her bloodstream, suppressing pain and encouraging initial chemical shifts; now his saliva carried further healing substances from different glands.
Slowly, carefully, he gathered every final, marvelous, narcotic drop.
Her scent now bore a trace of burning metal—the residue of agonizing fear, mixed with a dizzying tang he recognized as his own pheromones and markers. A warning, a mark of possession: this is mine.
“Ow.” An adorable, dazed almost-whimper. “Hey.”
He had not felt fear for centuries; now, even that sensation was a luxury.
Had he harmed her? It was difficult to raise his head, brace himself on his elbows, peeling himself a few fractions from the slim soft wonder of her body pressed under his, sinking into the bed’s embrace.
Her lovely knees were pushed to either side of his hips, and the only bar to his desire was a few layers of fabric.
“Ow,” she repeated, sounding outright aggrieved.
Small hands at his shoulders, slipping ineffectually against his sweater as she pushed with no more strength than a starving kitten.
Her eyelids fluttered, and her mouth was too entirely succulent to remain untasted for long. “What the hell are you doing?”
Only what I must. He strained to think, to clearly discern the next tactical move.
He examined her stunned, exhausted beauty as she struggled to compass the situation, then tilted his head slightly to glimpse the marks over her jugular.
Yes, the bite was glaring-fresh—primary and secondary fangs on top, the tertiary on the bottom, all properly sealed. No danger there.
His prize stirred beneath him once more, textures sliding, her softness calling to him. The soldier inhaled sharply. Difficult not to simply rip every scrap of clothing free and claim her, but she…
She deserved better.
Once the soldier reached elder status he had reflexively, habitually planned for eventual freedom from his Maker’s grasp, though the time was never quite right and rising ossification had robbed him of caring enough to initiate movement.
This sudden unlooked-for good fortune was more dangerous than any defeat, for it found him pressed for time—always an invitation to error or disaster.
Not only that, but he was called upon for far, far more than simple rebellion. He must not only free himself, but keep a prize hidden and adapt to a modern mortal’s comfort.
So far as a creature like himself could, that was.
“I bit you.” Slightly difficult to recall the proper words, to use her modern tongue; even more difficult to force his true teeth away, restoring the blunt mortal variety unquestionably better for speech. “I will again, sweet Leila. For now, rest.”
Surprisingly, her pale eyes flew open and she found enough strength to attempt more pattering, ineffectual strikes. So easy to catch her wrist, pin her arm to the bed; he wanted so much more, but the quietus folded over her and sank in, careful pressure applied slowly so as not to damage.
Again, her resistance was far more pronounced than many other mortals’, and he found himself charmed by her determination.
But inevitably, eventually, she returned to the arms of sleep—the only other paramour he would ever allow.
“Rest,” the soldier repeated, a tender murmur.
He even risked pressing his lips to her cheek, inhaling deeply—dim aroma-traces of her companions remained, as well as the faint fading reek from their dilapidated hideout.
Both made the beast in him snarl with possessive rage, and the mating-thrall was becoming unmercifully intense.
“I will learn, puella dulcis. I promise you that.”
Extricating himself took a short while, for every brush against her delicate, languid form threatened to break him afresh.
His control held by the thinnest hair-fine chain, though, and he retreated to the draped window.
Outside, dawn was well underway, the sun’s advent instinctively felt even in the deepest, safest crypt.
He had already stripped the SIM from the small modern ‘phone’ Father’s troops could use to track him; the other, updated every few years, was as secret as could be managed.
The wonder of this particular mortal technology struck him afresh, and he marveled at its implications in a way he had not been able to while age-calcification lay thick upon him.
Father’s newest fledgling, selected for both aesthetic appeal and modern technical prowess, had patiently explained the principles and applications several times, repeating each point so many times as necessary, and finally the soldier had grasped enough for use, as he could most weapons.
Now, though, he could fully understand what the pretty straw-haired youth had been attempting to impart. A shame he would never see young Otto again—unless, that was, events took a truly distressing turn.
Father ordered the pruning of his household’s ranks at regular intervals.
Perhaps it was the patriarch’s favorite method of warding away the creeping rigidity, though the soldier knew his Maker derived a great deal of sadistic enjoyment from watching Nemesis wreak havoc upon those he had more often than not trained and commanded.
Is that who I am? The soldier stopped, turning over the second cellphone in his hands, and looked to the bed.
Now his nymph was tucked under the covers, her boots neatly arranged at the bedside. He had thought perhaps she would not wish to sleep clothed, but if he touched even the button at her denims’ waistband—much less the zipper—he would not be able to refrain from claiming her.
The initial event was of some import to leman, or so rumor and lore insisted.
Naturally the prize could be psychologically broken past resistance, or even taken unaware…
but that was a terrible beginning. Even the fellow soldiers of his mortal life had opinions upon the proper way to conduct such affairs after the first paroxysm of sack and pillage, or when a veteran returned home after doing his duty.
So far he had avoided the worst mistake, or so he hoped.
He pressed the power button on the side of the thin metallic rectangle and waited for the electronic servant to awaken.
Really the things were akin to the spirits said to wait upon certain gods; after a certain point, there was very little difference between technology and divine powers.
“Maximus.” He heard his own voice, and almost twitched. Singsong talk to oneself could be a sign of accelerating ossification, an irretrievable descent into madness rendering a sanguinant sloppy enough to be dispatched by mischance, human hunters—or their own kind.
The demimonde teemed with predators, visible and otherwise.
He was now proof against fatal rigidity, paralysis, insanity. Every breath freighted with his leman’s perfume was further evidence; the sudden relief of that clinging, ever-present fear was worth any tribute she might exact. “That was my praenomen.”
Of course his mortal nomen and cognomen were gone, lost to time just as his gens and every human being who might remember who he had been—except for Father, of course.
He will be furious at the loss. Nemesis was a tool to be used, and a faithful one.
Yet for some while the soldier had wondered if perhaps his own Maker had decayed past the Rubicon, so to speak.
The soldier’s plans to escape also included a few contingencies for taking Father’s territory and other possessions—treacherous to even think of, yes, but also necessary.
Unavoidable, since any man who claimed to be rational must plan for the future.
At the moment, his first consideration was not freedom but protecting his frail prize.
Who would not be mortal for much longer, true, but would remain achingly vulnerable not only to daylight and mischance but also plain theft.
For a moment the soldier let himself imagine what might transpire if the patriarch found out and managed to lay hands upon her.
The growl rose from his chest, a sanguinant’s battle-warning vibrating in air gone hot and motionless under invisible seals, and Leila’s steady breathing halted.
She stirred, making a soft sleepy sound, and turned on her side, settling into more-natural somnolence as fatigue asserted itself through the quietus.
She might never understand what she had saved him from.
He had forgotten even his own name, centuries passing under his keel with their changing mortal fashions only worth a few bemused glances.
Even studying the ways and inventions of mortal warfare had not been enough to keep him more than partially awake.
If not for her appearance, how long before he succumbed to true-death, either sinking into dreaded but necessary rest or by some error during combat, dying upon an enemy’s claws?
Or maddened past bearing by the incomprehensible modern world, perhaps even walking into the crucifying kiss of sunlight to seek the relief of permanent oblivion?
A shudder worked down his body. He almost closed his fist, rendering the phone useless as it splintered, but halted the motion just in time.
His head tipped back, fangs bared and still throbbing; his own scent had changed, enfolding her lighter, lovely rose-and-musk.
A dainty, priceless prize, falling into bloodstained claws.
Very well. “Maximus,” he repeated. “That is my name.” When she woke, he would begin afresh—a new man, painstakingly learning her preferences, modern ways, and modern mores, insofar as he could.
The campaign might be long; it was rumored some leman never became resigned to cushioned, protective captivity. Nevertheless, each battle would be satisfying in its own right, and in any case he had no other option.
The phone had fallen asleep as well. He woke it with a poke at the touchscreen, granted it permission to update, and began his preparations.