Chapter 21 #2
Nah, couldn’t be. She could brood over the hows and whys to her heart’s content once she was out of this goddamn prison.
Right now the important thing was getting free—the calm, flat you are a fledgling statement took second place to the prospect of fresh air, even if it arrived with another vampire or two and one of those snarling, car-destroying fights.
While the biters were all occupied with each other, she might be able to slip away. Her chances were better if she had some kind of superspeed now. The problem of blood-drinking, though…
Oh, God. Focus on what’s in front of you.
She shook her braid and bounced on her toes lightly, glad he hadn’t destroyed her boots.
She looked ridiculous and the sweater was too heavy for a summer night, but that didn’t matter.
Run away and find a place to hunker down, let the vampires sort it out wasn’t exactly a cheerful prospect, and the whole if you’re taken do as you’re told thing could take a flying fuck at a rolling donut, as Suze used to cheerfully intone when talking about bitchy customers at the craft depot.
What if she ended up caught by another vampire like Max? Of course, he seemed pretty one of a kind.
The sense of invisible eyes on her returned, now so strong she spun, searching for the source.
Had it always been him?
Max’s shoulders had sagged, and he looked…
well, almost tired. Like Dan late at night, staring again at Suze’s autopsy photos, dull suffering rage unable to find an outlet.
Some of O’Shaughnassey’s guys had worn the same expression when they thought nobody was looking; so had Ackerman during the long drive toward this city, his finger tapping the Wrangler’s steering wheel as a preacher on AM radio ranted about Judgment Day.
Her heart hurt, another familiar sensation. “Don’t worry.” Another of her duties, to cheer everyone up before go-time. “I know how to run, been doing it for years now. Where are we meeting up?”
Which was strange—did she really intend to rendezvous, not just head for the hills while he was busy with a whole bunch of other biters?
Except she was a biter now, too. How many of them had been forced into it? What was she going to do when she got that terrible word, thirsty?
So far she felt all right, but that could be leftover monster blood. Layla was going to have to face facts sooner or later, always an unpleasant chore. Anaphylactic shock and combustion—baby biters couldn’t survive daylight, she knew that much.
If all else failed she could head out into the desert and wait for sunrise, right? That way, she wouldn’t hurt anyone else.
Not like you’ve done a helluva lot of good in your life anyway. Might as well.
Max tilted his head, a feline, listening look. “Do you hear? They are firing the wells.”
What does that mean? She strained her ears. A thud, a soft faraway hissing, the vibration lingering just at the bottom of audible if she concentrated. “What wells?”
“Petroleum. Hardly flamme Grecque, but still deadly to mortals and anything short of an Archon.” His eyes half-closed, and a breathless, staticky sense of lightning about to strike pervaded the bedroom.
“It will mask your scent unless they draw very close, which may be what Antinous intends. He knows I have hunted in burning cities; this will be no different.”
Holy shit. It took a couple tries before she could speak. At least now she knew sort of where this place was located. “You mean we’re near the oil fields? And they’re on fire?” That… does not sound good.
“I could leave you here and the seals would keep this space intact, though the lights would almost certainly be cut.” Max spoke quietly, absently, just the facts, ma’am.
“Yet Antinous will not show himself unless there is a chance to acquire you, and should I avoid this battle he will not cease hunting us in different locations. The world is wide, but if he chooses to let it be known I have a leman? Any sanguinant possessed of a little might will flock to wherever we rest; he will follow, and eventually I may be worn down. Whoever kills me will be gravely wounded, thus easy to dispatch, and then—”
“Hold the fuck on. I thought he was after you, not me.” Layla was feeling distinctly pale now; her legs, despite the bolstering of monster blood, turned a bit gooshy at the knees. “How… what the hell—”
“You will not forgive me,” Max said, almost gently. “No sanguinant should ever use their leman as bait.”
Layla’s jaw indeed dropped; she now knew what it was like to be so surprised she stood literally fishmouthed. A muffled thwock, sounding very far away, shivered through the bedroom.
The lights did indeed go out; a deep terrible rushing filled her ears, and a vampire’s stone-muscled arms closed around her once more.
The worst thing wasn’t the sudden wet-bandage darkness, a complete absence of light which only lasted a moment as she was pressed into his chest. They rose through a dim, quaking, rumbling space which might have been stairs, took a sharp left turn, and exploded through a wall—or window, since the high sweet tinkle of broken glass chimed atop a steady increasing roar.
Sticky, sultry air loaded with concentrated bursts of scent, pictures arriving on each jolt.
Dry dirt, yellow grass, metal heated to a dull red glow, and a thick black bubbling smell like tar softening to liquid on county roads during a heatwave.
Bright orange blossoms flared in every direction, choking black smoke columns swaying skyward, and the simmering prickle of an approaching thunderstorm covered her back and arms under the T-shirt and sweater.
It was like being on a hellish, rickety carnival ride, changing direction in sharp wrenching reverses which might have turned her stomach inside out if she’d had anything but monster blood for the past couple days.
The nausea was sudden, terrible, and unable to complete itself; she couldn’t even vomit to feel better.
Layla was almost grateful when a horrific impact slammed in from the right and she was spinning, weightless, flying.
Up and down changed places in sickmaking do-si-do, the world blur-whirring around her, and she had time to think this is gonna hurt before she hit.
The biggest shock was that it didn’t. Stunned and breathless, Layla found herself at full stop, crouching on a deeply bent right leg, her left foot straight out to the side, ankle impossibly bent and bootsole braced flat.
Her right hand slapped sandy dirt, her left flung straight out, fingers relaxed as a ballerina’s; a small nearby shrub bush rattled warningly.
Did I just do a superhero landing? Far-fucking-out, man. That last bit was all Steve, but she didn’t have time to think about her dead… friends? Crew was a better word, but…
The roar was massive, titanic, a dinosaur screaming in theater surround-sound.
A wall of dry oven-heat rushed past. The orange glares were oil pumps, their heads no longer nodding; a few were twisted like paper and glowing, deformed by billowing, liquid orange flame with bright yellow at its heart, the earth’s blood turning to smoke in an oddly gorgeous panorama of destruction.
“Holy shi—” she began, but a smear of motion tumbled past, thrumming growls briefly slicing the many-throated fire-howl.
Her vision was amped to max, her ears full of crackle-hissing cacophony, her tongue glued to the roof of her mouth.
A sudden reflexive movement flung her sideways; Layla ended up crouched next to a giant metal tank, its rounded white-painted sides groaning sharply as another wall of heat swept past.
Not good, not good at all.
Another leap, and she began to get the hang of it. Like rolling down Pratton Hill on a dare in middle school, her one claim to hometown fame. Nobody else was crazy enough to take that steep incline with bike, board, or inlines; she’d done it on Meemaw’s ancient rattling four-wheel skates.
Jimmy Nanourek, remember him? Always saying my mama was a groupieslut, and then dared me to go down Pratton.
She’d shut him up but good. The memory was sharp and awful, though curiously darkened, as if seen through tinted glass. Layla gulped a burst of smoke-drenched air and coughed, her eyes streaming.
The flameburst darkness was alive with shadows zipping here and there, a tingle at her nape as she realized what they were.
Vampires.
No. Sanguinant.
They streaked between the flames-pillars with eerie floating grace, and the thought that she was seeing more biters in a few square feet than most professional hunters ever did in a lifetime was both hilarious and horrifying.
Especially when several of the streaks swirled like ink on a greased plate, swooping toward her.
A soft, searing breeze eddied—she realized the biters were moving fast to avoid the heat, and also clearly searching for something—as a vampire coalesced in front of her.
A stocky blond man in a slightly disarranged pale linen suit, full lips pulled back to expose a full set of gleaming fangs, bright blue eyes narrowed and wet, vivid crimson sparks dilating in his pupils.
Oh dear God. Layla darted a gaze to her left, her only avenue of escape, and the biter blurred into motion.
Then he disintegrated, rivulets of rot speeding through his entire frame before a shower of glittering grit exploded in every direction, and Max was there, regal nose slightly wrinkled, shaking his hands briskly as if finishing a disagreeable chore.
His claws were out, long and pointed, his hair was a floating mess of curls brushed by heat-currents, and his eyes glowed liquid red from lid to lid.
He bent, as if inviting her to dance; her hand reached up of its own accord, and she was yanked away as the tank behind her creaked sharply again.
Then it exploded.
A giant, invisible hand pushed her and Max along, wheeling and tumbling, and the oily biter-streaks collecting in their wake vanished into an expanding edge of shimmering white flame.
High, desperate screams burst diamond-bright through the roaring.
The world was a madly whirling kaleidoscope, pushing and pulling in random directions as he flew between flame-bolts, through caustic, eye-blurring smoke-veils, breaking through bands of relative coolness.
Smoke scraped her lungs, and she coughed rackingly against his shoulder.
Through the smoke-mask she smelled him—a mix of brunet musk, sharp peppery determination, and copper, a deep restful scent with a strange mixed-in floral tang somehow saying Layla as well as Max, biter, male, old.
The mental images made little sense, but the smell reached through the confusion, and the relief flooding her was so intense she could have cried.
Why is that? What the hell?
Sudden stop, nearly jolting all her innards free. Set gently on her feet, Layla had the strange sensation of wanting to stagger, but her body wouldn’t let her.
Max cast a quick glance over one brawny shoulder.
Tiny spark-dots clung to his clothing—biter dust, she realized, each particle sending up minuscule threads of vapor as it finished cooking.
He looked down at her again, the wet crimson light in his eyes snuffed—they were dark, human holes in his face now.
“Stay hidden, stay still,” he said, quietly but clearly.
“Unless you sense a sanguinant approach, then run. If you are caught, do not resist. Stay alive. I will find you.”
You got it. Another harsh flurry of coughing strangled any reply she could make but he was gone anyway, a puff of smoke-scent and a burst of that comforting, calming cologne.
That ain’t aftershave, honey. That’s him.
She was shivering despite the sticky air, Layla realized, as well as hugging herself.
Tiny prickles bloomed where her lengthening nails poked through the sweater’s flopping, sloppily folded cuffs.
Her hair felt crispy, her skin shiny, the fire’s breath a terrible clinging haze.
She was, she realized, plonked smack-dab in the middle of a greenbelt at the edge of a residential district.
Dusty, indifferently watered backyards faded into this fringe, before the landscape turned into a long slope leading to the oilfield.
Tract houses built on a choice of six-or-so plans—Meemaw had often taken little Layla driving through similar neighborhoods at Christmastime, looking at the lights—all extended their cracked driveway tongues, cars with dusty hoods and windshields reflecting streetlamp glow.
Behind her, the rumble took a deep breath and ballooned, sending a hot breeze through rustling branches.
Max had gone back into that inferno.
The sky was a solid dish of cloud swirling with packed-together dots of light; somehow, Layla realized she was seeing stars through the heavy overcast. A short sigh of wonder cracked on another cough; she was placed just at the edge of a smoke-smell rivulet.
It was probably to shield her from being sniffed out, like a rabbit in a shallow hole.
When her chin tipped back down, a tingle at her nape whispering danger, sanguinant shadows streaked through the neighborhood.
Oh, hell. Layla’s legs folded instinctively. She crouched behind a thin, rustling screen of leaves and prayed none of the biters would notice little ol’ her.