Chapter 10
It was never pleasant to tear apart one he had trained as a fledgling. A wrenching, the death-cry, flesh falling in rotting gobbets, finally a burst of dry, nearly crystalline dust racing through the tissues as true-death took hold—even the savage delight of victory was faint comfort.
I told you to guard your left side more.
Maximus shook away grit, brushed his hands together sharply, and cast a glance over the wreckage.
Fairly contained, even with petrol stink simmering thickly in every corner.
A single spark could have injured both himself and poor William—both had an elder’s strength, of course, and a daywalker could stand the sun.
Perhaps one night he might know what that accomplishment felt like. For now, he had bested an adversary, and that was enough.
An elder strong or lucky enough to survive burning wreckage would at best be deeply scarred, needing much feeding to painfully recover.
More likely was true-death, sanguinant tissues being exquisitely flammable at every stage of existence.
Only an Archon could deny the kiss of open flame, and there was some question as to whether those truly existed—or were indeed sanguinant, instead of some other demimonde species.
He did not mind the prospect of scarring so much, Maximus decided. The risk of injury to his leman was another matter, however.
Far more concerning was one of Father’s more competent lieutenants—who had been away from the home nest on another task when Nemesis was given orders—appearing in this territory and acting so very strangely.
The parking spot both sanguinant had carefully steered the fight away from was empty. Little Leila had, with admirable presence of mind, fled the battlefield; the sedan, newly acquired and delivered a few hours ago during daylight, was one of the heavier, more safely engineered chariots available.
More importantly, the vehicle bore a small telltale, which the ‘clean’ cellphone in his pocket—thankfully undamaged, with its hard shockproof rubber case and glass screen protector, more marvelous little inventions—could easily track.
Her blood was in his veins, certainly, and he could find her by scent alone if necessary.
This was far more efficient, even if he had to slip from mistform occasionally to check the glowing screen.
A warm, smog-drenched summer night wheeled underneath him, a galaxy of streetlights and residence-lamps. Mortals ever and quite wisely sought to banish the darkness.
It contained beings such as himself, after all.
Away from his prize, ossification would begin to accumulate afresh within both perceptions and physiology. The process was swifter after bonding, galloping instead of creeping—another reason leman were guarded so stringently.
Why here, William? So hard upon a ranking officer’s heels, as well. Any possible explanation opened up dark vistas indeed, making the soldier glad for an extraordinary chance occurrence.
Even Antinous the patriarch, so old and canny, could not account for a leman appearing. She was a divine gift dropped into an undeserving sanguinant’s lap—and now wandering unprotected once more.
A plume of steam rose skyward, growing larger as he followed the phone’s helpful guidance.
Sanguinant did not suffer nausea even after glut, save by fading psychological reflex during the fledgling stage; yet a certain discomfort began in his midriff as he ascertained that yes, the evidence of burning or disaster seemed to be marking the very location where his leman’s chariot had come to rest.
No. The useless reflex to pray—whence had that arisen? He had fallen out of the habit over a long lifetime, and suspected one miracle was all he would ever be allowed. Too much, in fact.
For if those who had granted him a glimpse of Elysium in the shape of a star-eyed nymph noticed the error, they would no doubt snatch her away.
The black car, shining and whole less than an hour ago, now rested its mangled front end against a concrete retaining wall.
A looping trail of scorched rubber showed where the charioteer had lost control and skidded; said driver’s door hung open, forlorn, and above the tableau several blinking caution-lights warned of a sharp curve ahead, road turning to run parallel to railroad tracks.
His boots touched the top of the wall; he crouched, gazing down at what his leman had wrought.
There. A hint of roses and musk, drifting upon still, humid air. The road was deserted in either direction, lights shining blankly over its concrete flow. It was amazing, how there could be such solitude even in close-packed mortal warrens.
A half-familiar location. He had seen this road wheeling underneath not too long ago as he streaked through the night, carrying a precious burden.
Upon the previous eve, in fact.
Ah. I see. His face felt strange. The smile was a mixture of rueful admiration of and fresh anxiety over sweet Leila, who had taken the wheel, fled, and aimed for a place she would find familiar.
Many survivors of rout or catastrophe did the same.
Her scent flared and faded, a coppery edge sharpening its deliciousness.
His true teeth, so recently unsheathed for battle, throbbed afresh; his hands itched, longing for her flawless satin skin.
She was moving, perhaps impelled by sheer stubborn terror, risking ever more damage with eacch act of fruitless struggle.
Cursing was a waste of energy, yet he did so inwardly as he streaked along her wavering trail.
The same tired, abandoned building slumped near iron rails, a fresh hole in its roof grinning at the sky.
Maximus slipped through that ingress, the need to find her threatening to force his old, strong heart into quickening; he throttled the urge, and did not have to strain to catch voices echoing in a dark refuse-choked well.
“You brought it here!” A male mortal, working himself to a pitch of violence.
And the only voice Maximus wished to hear, a soft sweet soprano, crying aloud in terror. “Pete, don’t, I’m still me—”
There. He moved, blurring through space in mistform, swift as an arrow.
A sharp, terrible bark of gunfire.