Chapter 15 #2
Help me out here, big guy. You ought to know about protection if you’re going to be sticking that thing anywhere. She was treating him like a human guy, she realized, and maybe that was a bad call. “I’m sorry, I just don’t know. We haven’t been hunting for very long.”
It was kind of a lie, though old bloodsuckers would probably consider four years less than a lunch break. Then she could have kicked herself—sure, remind the big scary bloodsucker that her group had shot at him and his human friends.
Where were they? Was she going to be introduced to his employees?
The thought of getting to know a whole new group of men was tiring, even if she felt physically great.
Layla found herself pressing back against the slatted headboard, aware she didn’t even have a sheet to cover herself with.
Just her bare arms, hugging hard and attempting to shield her chest, fingers pressing in hard like Pete’s as he dragged her away from an operation gone wrong.
The room blurred, wavered. Was she going to fucking cry now, too?
“Leila.” His hands clasped her shoulders, feverish-hot against her cooler skin. “Shh, hush, sweet Leila. There is no need to weep. I can explain.”
I wish someone would. Anyone, even you. She forced the tears down, had to swallow several times before she could speak.
“Great,” she said, in a thick, blurred voice hardly recognizable as her own. “Okay. Do I get some clothes?”
The chifforobe turned out to contain two neatly racked rifles, a Bowie knife hanging in a holster, and two pistols carefully settled on a lined pull-out shelf.
No ammo, though. Which was probably for the best, since he watched her examine the weapons.
She kept her hands clasped behind her back, but no doubt he was wary of anyone who looked at guns that longingly.
Hell, she wouldn’t have minded the knife, just for something to hold.
The big freestanding closet also held several iterations of what he was already wearing—sweater with leather elbow patches, Carhartts, and now she knew he liked black cotton tube socks and boxer briefs.
Fortunately, it also held a few pairs of charcoal sweatpants and dark T-shirts; she could tighten the drawstring on the former and was almost lost in the latter, but she’d worn guys’ underwear before.
Even tighty-whities were far more comfortable than thongs, in fact. She would’ve liked to fit into the current offerings, but they were too big. So, commando and braless it was.
Not her first time, and she was sure it wouldn’t be the last. Almost freeing, in a way.
Vampire Max obligingly extended a single pointed, razor-tipped claw—the human-seeming fingernail growing and sharpening like a very good special effect, which made her feel a little faint—to trim the hem on the sweatpants.
Knotting the shirt at her midriff got most of the extra material out of the way.
She probably looked ridiculous, but that never hurt anyone. At least the clothes were clean, plus they smelled faintly of detergent instead of mildew. “I just never thought of a vampire in sweats, that’s all.”
She was also doing great at making conversation, or so she thought. Probably inaccurately, but if she kept talking, it might distract the biter from doing anything… else.
“Ease of movement during combat training. Dogsbodies and fledglings both require instruction.” He stood at what might be considered a respectful distance, though he’d tried to help her get dressed.
When she said I can do it myself he’d backed off, a flicker of something unnamable crossing his face.
“Yeah, so, I’m sorry one of our guys opened up on your…
dogsbodies.” It was a new word, and one she didn’t particularly care for.
Plus, Layla was apologizing about Ben’s behavior for the millionth time, and the irritation at having to do so pinched her conscience hard.
“We didn’t know you were fellow hunters. ”
“Fellow hunters.” Another unreadable flicker. He repeated her words carefully and seemed to be trying to mimic her accent as well, as if he didn’t have much experience speaking good ol’ American.
“You’re Nemesis, right?” If she could display some bona fides, maybe she wouldn’t start out at the bottom of whatever weird ladder this hunting group had. “You hunt other biters. Vampires. San-whatevers.”
“Sometimes.” His knifelike nose wrinkled briefly, mouth turning down, and he closed the chifforobe with a distinct, gentle click. “When Father commanded it.”
Okay. Now there was a piece of news; she was finally getting somewhere. “Father?”
“My Maker.” Gravely, like saying the sky is blue or water’s wet. “Antinous, the one who granted me the Dark Gift.”
I’m learning a lot of fresh terminology.
“Dark Gift.” Layla cast around for a good place to have more discussion, but there was only the one chair.
The bed didn’t seem quite safe, but she marched to its foot, dropped to the floor crisscross-applesauce again, and politely indicated a nearby patch of carpet for if he wanted to join her.
“Like, I’m going to turn into a biter, too?
” Would that make this ‘Father’ her grandfather?
Another extremely uncomfortable thought. Especially since she was still a little tender downstairs, so to speak.
“You are different.” Max glided to the spot she pointed at and sank down into another easy, fluid crouch, graceful and controlled through the entire motion.
If he was nervous at having his back to the door, he didn’t show it.
“Leman do not acquire even an elder’s strength and speed, though a fledgling’s is more than sufficient.
You will never suffer the bloodcraze or have to fear the killing sleep. And as you age, you will not ossify.”
“Hold on.” She raised a hand, briefly, as if in the classroom, and put it down as soon as she realized the complete ridiculousness of the gesture. “You’ve gotta explain this lemon thing. Please?” A belated tack-on addition, she didn’t want to sound pushy.
Go figure, she was sitting in a vampire’s sweatpants and treating him like one of Shawn’s hunters, asking for clarification on demimonde technical slang. On the one hand, it was clearly working to keep him occupied, and adding to her store of knowledge as a bonus.
On the other, it probably wouldn’t do to get overly comfortable with this… with him. His gaze, dark and still, hadn’t left her once since he hopped up on the bed.
Being watched this closely was unsettling as fuck.
“Leman are very rare.” Carefully, visibly choosing each word as he sank further, finally coming to rest sitting, mirroring her own position.
“Most sanguinant spend centuries without ever confirming your kind exists, though we are on the whole instructed very carefully by our Makers or elders. It is part of the Ecologue—ah, what every member of the Blood should know.” His hands settled loosely on his knees.
Straight-backed as a dancer, he didn’t seem uncomfortable in the least wearing boots while sitting tailor-fashion.
Rare. Okay. Layla wasn’t sure that was a compliment. She braced herself against the bed; it was getting to be a habit.
“For a normal sanguinant, the moment one receives the Gift, there is danger.” Recited softly, like he’d given this speech before.
“A fledgling may glut and suffer bloodcraze, and that often brings true-death. When dawn loses its grip, then one is an Elder and the risk of glut is much reduced, though still present. Of more concern is the killing sleep, when a sanguinant goes dormant, sinking into lethargy. Starvation occurs then, and can bring true-death. Age adds strength and experience but also ossification—a rigidity, physical and otherwise. We become inflexible, apathetic, numb. And that—”
“Brings true death,” Layla supplied, eager to be a good student. Research was her primary role, after all. “Right?”
“Indeed. Very good.” A nod, and a slight smile. He was so straight-faced, the tiny movement had an outsized effect. “The only cure is a leman. You will not suffer glut, nor killing sleep, nor ossification. And the sanguinant who claims you, bonds with you, is freed of those dangers.”
Wow. That’s… that’s something. “Wait a second. Are you sure? You’ve never seen a leman—” Pronouncing it very carefully earned her another nod.
She was making progress, good for her. Even if her head felt a little light, squeezing all this new stuff inside.
“A leman before, right? So how do you know?”
“It is,” he said, quietly but with finality, “unmistakable. I knew the moment I scented you.”
Maybe that was why he’d stopped in the street and looked at her? “Was that when Ben shot at your crew?” So did Steve and Ack, though. Can’t blame just one person.
Here she was, sitting across from a monster, trying to be fair and precise like in post-op debrief. At least he wasn’t chugging beer and blaming her for everything under the sun.
“Very nearly, though it did not matter.” Vampire Max was back to straight-faced, nearly robotic information-giving, though his accent was getting a lot better.
All in all he seemed a little looser now, though she couldn’t decide if that was a bonus or a new danger. “In that moment, everything changed.”
Is that good? Tell me it’s good. She had a sinking feeling it was exactly, precisely the opposite. “Changed how?”
“To find a leman is a miracle, sweet Leila. Immediately upon doing so, a sanguinant will take the prize. All other considerations are secondary at best. First the bite, then the claiming.” The final sentence had a strange rhythm even for his accented delivery, a proverb or something translated from another language.
This is a lot to take in. “Let’s leave that for a second.” Her voice shook. “How old are you, anyway?”
His curly head cocked; he considered the question. Was it rude to ask? His right forefinger twitched, and she realized he appeared to be silently counting.