Chapter 4
A volcanic dawn swell-shimmered upon the eastron horizon, throwing up gouts of red, gold, pink, orange.
Safe in the shadow of long grass and dry anemic shrubs, the wanderer waited.
During the deepest darkness, further layers of killing dust had sloughed free of his vision, his hearing, even his sense of touch as he caught lingering traces of her scent in the clearing.
It was an agony to wait as night faded, and even worse to anticipate a heretofore-unseen protector returning.
Yet he had paid in painful coin for a marvelous, entirely worthwhile certainty.
She was indeed unclaimed, and furthermore intended to sleep inside the vehicle.
No sign of invisible seals, and even less of watchful, wrathful attention from another sanguinant.
Now he was curious as to how such a mythical, beautiful creature came to be wandering about in this manner, and longed to hear her tale.
Was she simply waiting for a worthy guardian? He was savage enough to survive both fire and madness; he wondered if that was enough to hold such a nonpareil.
Mistform was denied to him between sunrise and dusk, but he could nevertheless slip soundlessly across gravel, a shadow in strengthening sunlight.
The glare of Shamash’s eye scratched almost pleasantly along any bit of exposed skin.
He vaguely remembered that at first his own eyes had watered and stung even on a cloudy day, but now the discomfort was minimal.
He had been daywalker before the disaster, he knew that much.
For once, thinking upon the event did not drive him further into mental fracture.
He could even separate threads of earlier languages from the spare, drawling tongue now current in this part of the country, heard as he watched mortals go about their brief, fascinating lives.
Occasionally his hide twitched, though, remembering old hurts.
The great fire’s scars had been agonizing as they healed.
He did not care to think upon the ocean of blood necessary to fuel that repair; he had drunk deep and often, risking the killing frenzy of glut.
Lifted free by her scent, the peeling away of successive carapace-layers brought memories swirling where splintering chaos had once reigned; his ratiocination was shaky and the rest of him deeply distracted, the risk of overlooking simple dangers magnified for some short while, but he was certain of a few things now.
Yakum, he no longer remembered his mortal life or clan, nor his becoming sanguinant. Dì èr, he was somewhere upon the westron side of a rich, varied continent, and had held this territory for a century plus-some-while. Tertius, he must learn quickly of the world’s current state.
Most importantly, nothing could be allowed to harm this sweet, toothsome brown-haired leman, or jeopardize his claim. A prodigy had appeared in his steadily degrading existence, a salvation which now must be taken, cared for, sheltered.
Kept.
Lack of mistform thankfully did not mean he was denied other abilities.
The vehicle’s side door was locked, though the mechanism was simple and yielded to the invisible pressure any sanguinant capable of reaching Elder status could deploy in varying proportions.
A better deterrent was something which felt to his mental grasp like an iron bar, resting in brackets—so she did take some few precautions with her bolt-hole.
Good.
Not nearly enough, however. It was indeed an iron bar, and he settled it carefully back in its serviceable, slightly uneven handmaids.
Had she bolted them on herself? The fragrance of his new prize enfolded him, strong and sure, stripping away choking dust and killing calcification, sending pleasant shivers through ageless flesh.
Cramped yet ruthlessly tidy, a complete house upon wheels in the style of home-ships or some nomadic caravans.
A tiny galley innocent of dirty dishes—she did not require mortal food, though such fare could be pleasant, even luxurious to sanguinant—and cabinets of thin pseudo-wood, blinds fitted into and drapes drawn over every aperture.
Even the glass-eyed front, where a driver and passenger would sit at relative ease as the carriage raced over paved roads, was shielded by ingenious lids made of cardboard, thin metal rods, and reflective fabric.
Windows along the sides also bore extra curtains, turning the vehicle into a dim, breathless cave.
A tiny watercloset to the rear, bearing the dry faint tang of bleach.
She was a cleanly creature; he took another long inhale and her scent worked into the bottom of his lungs, teased at his fangs, reknit the aching shards inside his skull more firmly.
Unfamiliar peace swamped him, banishing the rage, the grievous terror and numb apathy, the unrelenting torment of an incomprehensible world.
On a shelf above the driving-seats, a cavern arranged very much like a trundle bed emitted drenches of that soothing, magnificent fragrance. The subliminal hum of her presence, a divine creature slumbering—a fledgling, caught in the grip of daylight rest, saw and felt nothing until dusk.
No trace of another sanguinant, nor hint of any presence save hers. A sleek black item upon the small table which could be used for meals or converted into another bed was… he groped for the term.
It was not the tele-vision, a wonder he had grasped even while mad, as it was like the kinematograph—a technological marvel spoken of in tones of wonder just before his catastrophe.
But another deep, drenching inhale and he had the proper term.
Yes, a wholly modern thing, com-pu-ter; he had noticed the glowing screens as he watched mortals through windows or at a distance, attempting to absorb what he could of prey-habits as he struggled against the madness.
They had smaller varieties now as well, wondrous devices fitting in pockets, their bright glass faces apparently hypnotic even if the attraction escaped him.
He hungered to learn more, to listen to her explain this strange scientific sorcery, to become conversant, then proficient, then skilled.
Leman did not suffer calcification, did not become rigid and hidebound with time.
Ever curious, ever sensitive, they moved through eternity’s wasteland, transforming sterility to lush garden—and their bonded protectors shared in that priceless gift.
To have a leman was to be immune from the trap of killcraze during glut, banishing the languor of multicolored visions which starved a sanguinant by fractions, to shake away the stultifying curse of numb, accreted age.
Such miracles were of necessity rare, and invaluable.
No sanguinant would ever willingly let one fall from their grasp.
Discovered when mortal, they were to be bitten and claimed immediately; to find one protected by another sanguinant was to challenge for possession and be either victorious or dead.
Yet here she was, an inarguable fact. The sense that he was hallucinating before true-death shook him at intervals, dispelled each time he filled mouth and nose with that wonderful fragrance.
As in so many cautionary tales, he must see again to believe. Perhaps he would be struck down for his daring; all the same, he was helpless to turn aside.
He did not precisely need the ingeniously constructed ladder leading to her couch. Yet he used it anyway, moving with patient stealth so complete he barely stirred trapped, motionless air. His pulse thundered, disobeying the command to silence, but there was no one to hear.
Only a fledgling fast asleep, her lovely skein of cedarbark hair spread across a flower-patterned pillowcase.
One tender arm thrust under pillow and head, dark eyelashes a fan against her cheekbones; she had not even taken her shoes off.
The flush of rest colored those thin cheeks, her mouth in repose far less somberly drawn, her free hand limp and carelessly close to the bed’s edge.
A trace of gleaming upon her pretty fingertips caught his attention, and the wanderer froze.
Death-dust. So she had indeed been present at the trespasser’s demise. A leman, so young and yet capable of such violence? His sense of her age in the Blood was now nearly exact, and if she were more than a half-century in darkness he would… what?
Eat my hat, he had heard mortals say. What an amusing phrase; now he could appreciate it.
Especially since he was wearing one—or was he?
Yes, he possessed a battered greyish piece in the style of this territory, camouflage acquired from he knew not where like the rest of his raiment, removed with punctilious manners so soon as he entered her domicile.
He had set it upon the table next to the com-pu-ter.
No doubt he was a ragged, sorry sight. His existence had for some while precluded such luxuries as a proper nest, though he had small tomb-lairs aplenty and even the earth itself would hold one of his age at need.
Nor had he bothered to amass certain things necessary for a leman’s comfort.
To do so was a new challenge, one he must and would rise to.
For a moment, the enormity of what was occurring shook him to the very floor of consciousness and body both.
He had survived. The storm of flame and agony was past, a long night of insanity broken; the fever was done and a cool hand pressed to his brow.
He studied his rescuer’s face once more, lost in wonder.
Impossible to say which he adored more, the peace of her repose or the wonder of her awake, displaying a kaleidoscope of thought and emotion like swift-changing weather upon plain or mountainside.
Drinking her in, each breath nailing him more firmly to a coherent, understandable world once more, he also realized he knew neither his name nor her own.