Chapter 31
A bright, indistinct smear hovered before her. Water ran, the torrent eventually shutting off. The thirst was back, rasping and awful even if the necklace held it at arm’s length; she could not scrape up the strength to push against deep swimming lassitude.
Quiet, hoarse instructions. “Lift your arm… there. Good. Tip your head… sit up, yes, like that.” A hand at her metal-clad nape, flowing warmth rinsing her hair, sluicing away smoke and terror.
The bright smudge was glare on blue and green tile; soap-scented steam rose in slow-motion streams. “Close your eyes.”
Her lids drifted down. More rinsing, then she was lifted, a small metallic clink and the slippery sound of draining.
The brush of a towel—patting gingerly, not scrubbing hard as she would—drifted along her skin.
More movement, cooler drafts passing leisurely over damp skin, and more directions she didn’t bother to resist.
Save your strength. The shakes had her, muscles quivering as if after several days of hard workouts and too little food. A small noise, her throat vibrating inside a cage of golden knotwork. Was she trying to scream?
“I know,” he soothed. “A moment more, puella mea. Then I will feed you.”
She strained to open her eyes. Couldn’t. The necklace’s invisible grip was now far too strong.
Oh, God. Is it the old crazyass? Sharp burst of terror, but she was locked in darkness, in an unresponsive body.
The only comforting thing was a steady, almost familiar ka-thump, pause, ka-thump. It meant something, she just couldn’t remember what.
Fabric draping, heavy and clinging-soft.
Pressure moving her one way, then another.
She sank into more softness, swayed, was caught and returned upright.
Sitting, she was sitting on something—was it the bench?
Had the ancient, terribly jittery vampire brought her back to the dusty pink room?
It smelled too clean, though—fabric softener, fresh air loaded with the scent of mimosa trees, night air carrying the powder-spice through open windows.
That’s nice, but I need to know…
What did she need? The thirst was growing too intense for the necklace to push it away; her throat was an agony of burning.
“Here, my Leila. Feed.” Pressure against her lips.
Layla. That’s me, that’s my name. Oh, good, I’m glad to know that.
A slight shifting sound, her mouth suddenly hot and numb.
Teeth clamping, and a burst of something wonderful hit the thirst, surrounded it, drowned the burning in deep comfort.
Tangerine-taste, again, and chocolate milk.
A hazy drifting memory of Meemaw’s stuffing on a particularly good Christmas, the stickiness of cheap watermelon lollipops bought with pocket change after school.
The necklace loosened slightly. Her eyelids drifted up, vague bright blots taking on solidity and definition.
Light. A darkness looming over her, and her heart slammed against its bony cage before another swallow hit the spot where the thirst lived, spreading warmth in every direction. Her hands were locked, held near her face, and between them was a wrist. Sharp teeth buried deep, she was drinking.
Monster blood. She couldn’t stop, despite a frantic internal retreat. Her vision sharpened, took on the funny rainbow oscillations and sparkles. Again and again she swallowed, wondering when it was going to stop.
“Enough,” he said, finally, and the flow cut off. Her hands fell away, strengthless. But she could blink now, hold herself upright without swaying too badly. The thirst was gone.
Yet the necklace’s clear, rippling wall still stood between her and the world.
I passed out. They were fighting. Oh, God, please tell me it’s not the crazyass biter in a bathrobe. Funny, sure, real hilarious. But why was she so hopeful it was another vampire?
“Be still.” The unmistakable note of command, and there was no loophole to exploit. The necklace had a good grip on her, plus the monster-blood high was deep and irresistible, spreading lazily through arms and legs, tingling in her fingers. “I will return in a moment.”
Okay, but who the hell are you? Layla was left gazing blankly as the shadow retreated—yes, there was an open bay window, filmy white drapes fluttering on a soft breeze.
A table to one side, thick tan carpet reaching from white-painted baseboard all the way to her bare feet.
She could move her toes a little, feel the scratch against her soles, and the sensation was utterly luxurious.
Clean skin. Damp hair. Her hands lay demurely in her lap, on a bed of silky wine-red material. So she was dressed? Yes, she felt the straps on her shoulders, the fabric against her breasts and back, the soft folds over her knees.
That’s good too. The edge of a mattress under her—she was sitting on a bed, which was faintly concerning for reasons she absolutely did not want to think about.
Warm air brushed past her. The shadow had returned.
Layla managed to tip her head slightly. Dark work trousers, a shirt-hem of black knitted material. A sweater, too heavy for a balmy summer night, leather patches at the elbows. Broad shoulders.
“Better?” Max asked.
The world went away on a white-hot rush of relief. Came back full of color and scent, laden with the warmth and swimming sensation of a monster-blood high, and yet she still couldn’t move.
She was still trapped.
“You need not concern yourself with Antinous. My Maker is dead.” He sat on the bed next to her, half-turned, watching her profile as he tucked a strand of damp hair behind her ear.
“You were very weak, I carried you from the battle well-wrapped against daylight.” A pause, as if he expected her to reply.
There wasn’t a single blessed thing she could say, even if the necklace would let her talk. Layla strained against its grip, achieving only a slight twitch.
Max eventually continued. “I did not know he had a collar. It is… a rare thing, and I am amazed you were able to move while wearing it. Any other fledgling would be utterly helpless. But he was not your sanguinant, so I suppose his commands were not wholly inescapable.” His hand moved again, smoothing her hair; he brushed her cheek with his knuckles, very gently. “Leila. Look at me.”
She didn’t want to. Her head turned, calmly, smoothly, and she gazed at his face.
Same curls falling messily over his forehead, same dark eyes—thankfully without those glaring, liquid crimson dots—and same proud beaky nose. His mouth was drawn tight, though, and his cheeks were hollow. Cords stood out on his neck; he wasn’t quite gaunt, but he was certainly drawn.
Rolling around fighting with a cuckoo-ass biter will do that to you. It was a wonderful thought, a sane thought, and she clung to it. Her lips wouldn’t move; she couldn’t talk.
“I am sorry.” Almost mumbling, and he looked down—not staring at her chest, but as if he couldn’t quite meet her eyes. “It was the only way to make certain he would not pursue us. It was a gamble, and you suffered for it. A sanguinant should not use his leman so, and I never will again.”
Between the necklace and tripping on monster blood, she was having a difficult time following. Use her? She’d been decoy, and got caught—but it was sounding like he’d planned for that?
There was a bigger consideration, though.
He hadn’t abandoned her. In fact, he’d shown up, beat all to hell—again—and put down a super old, absolutely batshit biter. If that had been part of the plan, it had worked. She couldn’t feel anything but relief on that score.
Yet the collar was still on. She still couldn’t move, couldn’t speak, had a hard time even thinking.
He was talking again, still in that low harsh tone, ripping every word free against invisible resistance. As if his own throat hurt, perhaps. “You will hate me, you will struggle, but I will not let you go. I tell you this now, so there is no misunderstanding. You are mine.”
Which was weird. Nobody had ever… Layla lost the thought, distracted by the light, the wall behind him—this looked like a hotel room, a nice older B almost before she realized what was happening, he had vanished.