Chapter 18
Sanguinant skin shed all manner of filth easily enough; he sacrificed a damp towel to scrubbing and almost wished his leman were a bath attendant with a scraper and a pot of oil.
Despite that, modern plumbing was more than worth the lack of such civilized pleasures; the tub was full before he finished the brute work of cleansing.
He would have very much liked to see her in a chiton, bare-limbed and intent upon the work of tending her soldier’s skin. A useless, impossible phantasy, but pleasant nonetheless.
She leaned in the bathroom doorway, watched him scrub caked grit and blood from his hair, and when he tossed the blackened towel upon the pile of spent clothing Leila finally spoke.
“What are those?” One graceful, finely boned hand, pointing. Even the frailty of her wrists was so achingly beautiful; he would have liked to simply stand and gaze in wonder, though she might find such scrutiny unnerving.
“Hm?” He lifted his arm, gazed down at his ribs. Was she concerned for his wellbeing? Unlikely, so she must be merely curious. Still, it was a sign of interest, and deserved a proper answer. “Claws. That one was a fledgling; he forgot to strike a little lower. Silly.”
“You…” She swallowed, hard, pale eyes round. The Gift was burning bright in her, stripping away mortality, burnishing her skin, her hair alive with blue highlights under electric glow. “On your back, too?”
There was no shortage of injuries upon his corpus, most closed solely by force of will at the moment.
A hard-won skill, semi-consciously encouraging a sanguinant’s natural healing capability, and one which separated elders who would survive a little longer from those who might more easily fall to glut or killing-sleep.
The stripes would fade over the course of a few feedings, though the marks could be disconcerting at first. “Scratches. I am not of an age to bleed easily.”
“But don’t they hurt?” A child’s question, or simple empathy. She was so very tender, a statue of Hebe the Merciful brought to bright rosy life.
Sometimes pain is best. Judiciously applied, agony could be used to hold off the creeping stony numbness for a short while. Yet too much and the edge was lost, apathy rising despite ever more severe injury. “At first. Not now.”
He was clean enough, the soldier decided.
Lowering himself into hot water almost wrung a groan from his throat, perilously close to an old mortal’s noise.
A short soak, then he would feed her; he could admit she was correct, it was entirely unfit for a leman to be sullied with the corpse-remnants of several sanguinant and dogsbodies, even if much of the former had burned away into steam and the latter had also served to fuel his combat.
He had drunk deep, conscious of the need to carry sustenance to his prize. And now he also possessed an edge no other living creature knew.
For once, it was enough.
“I’m sorry.” A flush mounted to her soft, sculpted cheeks. “I’ll leave you alone so you can—”
“No.” Please. He could beg, if necessary. It would not take much effort at all; this was far more pleasant than one of Father’s punishments. “Speak to me, if you will. It was a… an eventful night.”
Sweet Leila lingered, visibly weighing the invitation. “Are you sure?”
“Very.” You cannot know how much.
Perhaps his visible weariness overcame her trepidation; she tiptoed into the bathroom and sank to kneel upon tiled floor, gazing over the tub’s rim. “What happened?”
Maximus tried to imagine her concern was affectionate, but phantasy only stretched so far. There were far more insistent, not to mention practical, problems to hand. “I was sent to this territory to kill a certain sanguinant.”
“Roger Griskov, right?” Was she anxious to please, or to show some knowledge of the demimonde? Her arm twitched, perhaps wishing to settle against the rim; she leaned back slightly at the same moment, denying the urge. “The guy who owns the Blue Moon Spot.”
“Is that the name he was using?” The need for mortal identities would become far more marked now that he had a leman to care for. A welcome challenge, far gentler than his usual duties. “He was known in the Blood as Esmond the Varangian.”
“That’s a mouthful.” Layla hesitated, then crossed her arms after all, resting her elbows on the tub-rim and regarding him solemnly.
Her eyes gleamed, the sweet curve of her mouth no longer tight with pain.
“He generally left the club at around 2am, heading back uptown to that big old mansion. We were going to get him in transit that night, if he showed.”
Brave for mortals, especially considering their few numbers and the pathetically small amount of weaponry in their derelict camp. Either courageous, or exceedingly stupid—but the attempt had brought a leman across his path.
A god’s gift, indeed; he could grant them that much.
Maximus studied her expression, the exact curve of her forearm pressed against the tub’s lip, the soft flush to her cheeks, still so painfully thin.
She required much more feeding—another pleasant duty.
The mating-thrall was entirely, agonizingly alert now, focused unblinking upon her every breath, each slight shift, the pulse fluttering in her throat.
“I was lookout,” she continued. “Me and Pete. I recognized you from the files.” Was that a flash of hope, transparent in those blue-grey eyes? Or was she simply exhausted from a night spent safely trapped, anxiously feeling the weight of approaching dawn upon an almost-fledgling body?
In any case, she had no one else to speak to.
“I see.” Maximus held to stillness, letting the water settle.
It was possible to wait until the fluid was smooth as glass, a sometimes-interesting test of patience, but the sight might disturb her.
To keep her visible, and calm, for as long as possible was another battle, far more intense and satisfying than simply clearing territory.
“You may consider Esmond no further danger to anyone, sanguinant or mortal.”
Would the news please her?
“That’s good, I guess.” Her brow was wrinkled, however, that positively adorable frown of concentration. “He does some horrible… I had to go over the files pretty extensively, and they were awful. Was it the blood-crazy? Is that what you call it?”
“Some, perhaps.” How could he explain to this earnest, delicate miracle that cruelty was often an end in and of itself, especially to one judged worthy of the Dark Gift?
Every child of the Blood was once a mortal, their natural capacity for violence given refinement and intensity by virtue of longer lifespan and greater strength.
“Well, there was a bounty on him and we needed the funding.” Yes, she was clearly anxious to please. Currying favor with her captor was a brave, intelligent move, especially as the sharp tang of fear colored her mouthwatering scent. “But you probably know all about that.”
He was aware of mortal hunters financing their vendettas in various fashion.
Most often their efforts were an irritant; to hold a nest or a territory long-term, judicious cleansing of those sanguinant liable to attract mortal notice was advisable.
“Somewhat.” Let her stay. Let her be soothed. “I learned a great deal tonight.”
Now, safely behind seals and breathing her in great starving lungfuls, he could think upon the entire lesson-list.
Primus: Father had sent William to eliminate a powerful eldest son grown too ossified for proper duty.
Secundus: Maximus could safely assume it was not—or not solely—because the patriarch suspected a descendant’s strength surpassed the Maker’s.
Had that been the case, a single soldier would not be nearly sufficient.
No, it had to be that Nemesis was seen as no longer useful enough, being caught in age-rigidity—which the chance appearance of a leman had now freed him of, but that was a different matter.
Tertius: The plan had clearly been for Maximus to be murdered while exhausted from achieving Esmond’s murder, or the Varangian would at least be weakened by an unsuccessful attempt and finally dispatched by the second attacker.
Either way, Antinous won the territory and Maximus had not been expected to survive. Yet all plans had foundered upon a single nail—sweet star-eyed Leila, now watching him so very closely.
Which led Maximus to another list of logical certainties.
Primus: William had discovered the fact of a leman and sought to challenge for the prize.
Secundus: Esmond, questioned before his violent death, had also been aware, most likely from the same source—the hotel staff, though mortal, had been possessed of enough puzzle-pieces for a wary opponent to suspect the event.
Not only that, but any surveillance footage would grant more than one clue.
More logic, unreeling in a chain. Had the woman Maximus was sighted with been a mere fledgling, he would not have acted thus. His behavior had not been the irrationality of ossification but instead must be something else.
For another thing was known of Nemesis: He had never made a child of the Blood before.
Ergo, for his opponents, there was only one possible explanation.
He was adrift in the sheer luxury of thinking clearly, of knowing he possessed clarity because his leman’s fragrance enfolded him, because she rested so near. He would gladly fight a thousand such bloody campaigns—or more—to win even a fraction of that gift.
“Yeah?” Leila’s gaze avoided his, skated across his chest, touched on the small hollow before his shoulder, skipped away. She rested her pointed chin upon her wrists, though his lovely prize was not nearly so relaxed as the posture might suggest. “What did you learn?”
“I was sent here to die.” A simple truth, perhaps all she needed at the moment. “Indeed, I was very close to true-death; I was calcified, growing sloppy and apathetic.”
“I can’t imagine that,” his leman muttered.
“Thank you,” he replied, gravely.
Leila stared at him for a moment, the very picture of startlement. Then, amazingly, she began to laugh—warm, merry chuckles, casting slight ripples across hot water.
Suddenly, none of the night’s wounds ached even slightly. Maximus stared at her, mouth slightly open; his leman wrapped her arms about her middle, rocking back and forth, her shining dark hair swaying, every trace of watchfulness or fear fled for an endless, marvelous few moments.
It was enough to make him forget what lay ahead.
This outpost was still under watch, the city’s exits—roads and otherwise—still barred by sanguinant who had no loyalty to Esmond.
Which could only mean Father was coming, perhaps only to view his new territory, perhaps to do what William had been unable to.
Follow the logic, soldier. There was another possibility, one he must account for.
Maybe, just maybe, Antinous also now knew of her existence, and meant to take what his eldest son had found.