Chapter 8
No dimly remembered mortal fumblings could approach this glory. The thrall struck hard, snapping every vestige of fading control, and even the few feverish, animalistic couplings with female fledglings when his duties allowed or reward was granted were nothing by comparison.
He had been drowning in shadowy violent mortal life, then in the slowly accreting dust of sanguinant age.
His head broke surface for the first time in his long existence; pure air stung his lungs, and the source of that glorious liberation shuddered under him.
The soft sweetness of her mouth was a city to be plundered at leisure, the slick wet velvet of her core closing around him strangling-tight as her release struck—at least he could please her, though he knew very well fear was so close to survival she was not strictly responding to his attentions.
At the moment, it didn’t matter. First the bite, then the claiming; that was the proverb, repeated in every language the sanguinant knew. It was true, every word he had ever heard failed to represent how true, and his only regret was that he could not take his own final pleasure at the moment.
There was too much else to accomplish. It was only an hour past dusk; he might be able to spirit her from this city with no living creature the wiser.
Esmond the Varangian—Nemesis’s original target—would be wary after the battle outside his primary feeding-haunt, and though their master would no doubt retreat to the mansion used for certain business concerns, his underlings would be spreading through the city to look for traces of the attackers.
It would take some time before Father could assume Nemesis had for the first time not carried out a given duty; if Maximus were swift and lucky he might be accounted dead of either misjudgment or ossification, rendering him free to build a hidden nest for his prize elsewhere while other plans could be laid.
A wonderful possibility, but only that. She was not yet wholly safe, and until that moment he could not allow a single mistake.
His true teeth fought for release, scraping his own flesh. Another’s fangs could not easily pierce that wall; still, a thin thread of his own blood was loosed, and passed to her upon a kiss he hoped might at least grant some additional moiety of pleasure, if not ease her fear.
Delicious little cries, his to catch and feast upon.
A nymph struck with Venus’s greatest gift shook beneath him, tiny jewels of perspiration dewing her forehead, her hair a fragrant dark cloud.
In his youth they averred all roads led to the city of emperors, but that was a lie; any highway, byway, or path began and ended here, at his leman.
The arch of existence now had a capstone.
She finally lay quiescent, his cheek pressed to hers, her perfect shell-like ear next to his lips.
He hungered to move again, to bring her to another gasp-screaming summit, but she was still mortal.
A sanguinant’s attentions might well prove overwhelming; had not Iuppiter learned caution with one of his dalliances, a princess blasted by unveiled glory?
The comparison might be arrogant, as the soldier stood far more chance of being laid waste by the lovely divine creature in his arms—but it was also apt.
She lay very still, the flickering pulse in her slim throat calling to him, her breathing deep and ragged. The bond was solidified now; he had claimed the treasure.
He possessed a leman. She was his, an eternal addiction capable of staving off ossification and creeping-numb death.
Now he was aware of precisely what he’d done, and what the act might mean to her.
Still buried deep, still tempted to take his own release and any consequences that might bring, he bared his blunt mortal-seeming teeth and sought control.
Her whisper surprised him, lovely still-mortal lips barely moving. “Are you going to kill me now?”
Is that what you fear? The thought very nearly caused him to recoil, stiffening in shock. “Of course not.”
Her throat moved afresh as she swallowed.
Her pretty lips were chapped, and even with the first application of change agents swimming through her veins, soothing and providing enhanced repair of tissues, the bruises on her arms still glared.
Some were clearly finger-marks, and he wondered what the mortal men in that ramshackle building had done to such entrancing, fragrant fragility.
Had he simply done the same? Self-loathing was not new to one of his kind, but this held a jagged razor edge. In its wake followed a flood of bleak shame.
Even that was marvelous, exquisite luxury after so long of no feeling at all—not even grey apathy, simply absence. She could drive the blade into his chest so many times as she wished. In each and every instance, he would be thankful for the sheer rushing glory of sensation.
A tiny gleam between her long dark lashes; was she too afraid to gaze upon her new protector? “Can I… are you done?”
I have not yet begun, little Leila. But it seems I have done poorly indeed. “I will move, very slowly. Are you hurt?”
For some reason, the question seemed to amuse her.
At least, his new leman began to laugh, causing a fascinating series of tiny shifts and contractions around his shaft.
He had to use several centuries’ worth of habitual focus to withdraw, inch by slow resisting inch.
When he was finally untangled she immediately turned onto her side, curling into a tight ball, and burst into tears.
Sorrow and the consciousness of his own failure was sweet as well, though it pierced his ribs’ bony shield as nothing since his own mortal sword ever had.
The sumptuousness of mere feeling had claws; those shards sank into him and twisted while she sobbed as if her own priceless, wonderful, mortal heart were broken.
The night was fleeing. He would have preferred a bath, a slow gentle ritual to perhaps soothe his new prize, some conversation to accustom her to his attentions.
At least the day’s deliveries to the suite’s outer room, prompted by the ‘clean’ cellphone, had been accomplished—a paltry offering, nothing to what he would eventually provide, but he was uneasy at remaining any longer in this locale.
Now she was pale and unresisting, though she took a dampened washcloth and scrubbed at her face as if angry at her own tears.
Her lovely blue-grey eyes were rimmed with tender inflamed pink, evidence of weeping blurring her beauty in an altogether enticing manner, and she seemed not to notice her denims were shredded.
His claws had stripped those trousers most efficiently, not to mention broken the button on his own.
Her shirt was torn at the hem; she plucked at it vaguely with sweet delicate fingertips, attempting to stretch the fabric into covering dark pubic fleece or the lovely curves of her hindquarters, fit for a goddess’s statue.
At least in this age, clothing was easy to obtain.
When he led her out of the bedroom she stared dully at the suite’s carpet, mismatched socks making quiet brushing sounds as she followed the gentle pressure at her elbow.
He had arranged the open suitcase on the pink-and-yellow couch in the outer room, hoping at least something among the offerings would meet with her approval.
“There was little time, so…” Was this feeling awkwardness?
It was just as delightsome as every other emotion returned to him, burnished by her presence.
He knew how to thrust a pile of gear at a dogsbody or fledgling, how to bring a squad to readiness with a single word, how to teach weapons care, trigger discipline, tactical awareness.
But how did one deal with a beautiful, numbly staring leman? Especially as she pulled at her shirt’s hem again, barely glancing at a pile of expensive cloth?
In the end he selected a dark-red dress much akin to what she had worn the previous night—had it really been such a short while ago? The world, the entire universe had changed in a few brief hours.
Her name belonged to a Persian princess; she deserved diaphanous woven-air robes, rings and necklaces dripping with gems to match her lucent eyes, diadems fit for one of such exalted status, anklets of chiming bells. It hurt to see her so thin, so uncertain, in modern mortal rags.
Though trembling, she still offered no resistance when he extended a claw-tip to cut the shirt free; a tiny, clearly fearful flinch tore at his heart.
She raised her arms obediently when told to.
At least he knew one did not step into this type of garment, and he had very little trouble with the fastening—the zipper up the back, the single button at the top between her lovely frail shoulderblades.
Wide straps over her sweetly rounded shoulders, the waistline settled low, the skirt falling in glimmering folds to her delicious, rounded knees.
“It fits,” his leman said, clearly surprised. Silken hair, loose and gloriously rumpled, fell to the middle of her back; she pushed blue-black tendrils from her face with a small, irritable motion, piercing his heart afresh.
“Of course.” He was not yet expert in discerning her preferences, but he could easily convert tactical gears’ sizing to civilian. “Still, you will have to tell me what you like.”
All animation and wonder fled. Her hands dropped loosely to her sides, and she turned her head slightly, staring past him.
At the door to the hotel hallway.
Ah. “Thinking of escape?”
A single, extraordinarily vengeful glance—she could slay a man with that look alone, though he was cheered to see any break in the apathy. “If I try, you’ll hurt me.”
“No.” Though he could not expect her to believe as much, Maximus realized; he quickly closed and fastened the suitcase.
The mating-thrall was temporarily sated inside his bones yet stirred sleepily at the bare thought of a chase, protective and predatory instincts working in tandem.
“It will simply lead to a pleasant interlude, puella mea.”
“How do you know my name?” At least she was speaking. Questions led to answers, so he could hopefully begin explanations.
“I heard your companions address you.” He paused, straightened, and offered his hand as he had seen modern mortals do. In his day, one greeted friends or prestigious strangers far more intimately. “I… am Maximus. That was—is my name. Though you may choose another, if you like; I will answer.”
Her forehead furrowed. “Maximus?” Her accent robbed the syllables of their old meaning, but it was also pleasant to hear the word again. In fact, it stirred old dark mortal memories. “Like the… You’ve got to be kidding.”
Did he remember how to jest? It had been so long since he had been tempted to a short, barking chuckle or even the shadow of a smile. Perhaps she would teach him that, as well.
Anticipating the lesson was another pleasure.
So many, a veritable banquet crowding upon him, and no risk of true-death by glut.
He lowered his hand, a trifle awkwardly.
“No. Do you dislike it? Simply choose another.” Names were easy as mortal money, as taking a territory and commandeering its resources for shelter, clothing, amusement, prey.
A thin thread of unease trickled through him, lush as any other newly restored emotion. Yes, names could be changed like modern machine-woven raiment, yet he had forgotten his own.
Not least because his Maker had granted him another.
Answering to Nemesis for… how long? He found, somewhat to his surprise, that he could not guess with any accuracy.
Several centuries, as the mortal world underwent metamorphosis and the dust of ages accreted, shifts in prey languages or periodic bouts of battle and murder providing the only calendar-marks.
“Uh. Okay.” A faint shadow of interest wrinkled sweet Leila’s brow; she brushed vaguely at her tousled mane and shuddered. “What…”
Her uncertainty was only to be expected, even as he longed to banish its shadowy wing. Perhaps it was best to give her an objective. “We must quit this place. There is some distance to travel before dawn.”
“You could just leave me here. I won’t tell anyone.” Slim fingers curled inward, small hands becoming fists. Now he had his leman’s entire attention, a pleasant sensation indeed. “I’ll never talk about the demimonde again. Or about you.”
“We are well past that point, little Leila.” It was too late the moment I caught your scent. Still, he decided, more details could wait until they were en route. “Will you cooperate, or shall I use the quietus? Choose.”
“The… you mean knock me out?” She leaned back slightly, rocking on sock-clad heels. The wine-red skirt swayed softly, and he was very conscious of her bareness under the material. “Don’t do that. Please. I’ll…” His prize trailed off uncertainly, biting her lower lip in a most fetching manner.
If it were not so imperative to move, he might well carry her to the bedroom again. Each moment was a fresh marvel, a new clarity. Very soon he could apply another bite; exquisitely sensitive, she was ripe for the Gift.
Yet his unease intensified still further, sharpening into outright warning. He did not like the feeling of a watch set upon his movements, even if it sprang from mere paranoia. “Then we will go.”
“Can I get my boots?” A flicker of hope on her sweet face, gone in a flash—he had become too calcified to notice the quicksilver shifting of mortal moods, but now saw so much more clearly.
Interacting with dogsbodies or catspaws had held progressively less savor even if he forced himself to it for the sake of retaining some faint flexibility; he wondered what else he had missed.
He considered her request. Preferable to keep her but lightly shod, to forestall attempts at flight… and yet. He indicated the door to the bedroom and drifted in her wake. She did glance longingly at the curtained window, but all in all, she was remarkably obedient.
For now.