Chapter 6
It had been a day of questions. Some had useful answers.
For example, now he knew straying from her side provoked an almost immediate return of painful mental splintering plus the deadening of every sense, growing progressively worse with each passing moment; he knew that simply taking anything he wished from a mortal merchant or home was still so easy as to be an afterthought; and he knew that mortals still actively avoided and ignored anything they felt instinctively to be truly strange, even in broad sunlight.
However, he was still no closer to understanding where his leman had appeared from, or precisely what had happened to her Maker.
And he certainly had not expected such an immediate, violent response, though now he could well guess how a scent-drunk fledgling eager to claim a treasure could conceivably be dispatched by such a beautiful, desperately feral creature.
Unless the recent trespasser had been her Maker?
Unlikely, and he could not ask at the moment.
She twisted in his grasp, striking out with lovely quicksilver grace; perhaps her former protector had encouraged violence?
It was possible; the wanderer could even allow it likely.
Sanguinant were powerful predators, many well used to indulging sadistic fantasies upon helpless prey.
They all began as humans, and the Dark Gift allowed no few of the species’ worst impulses to run wild.
Easy to lay hold of her, his own force thoroughly controlled to avoid any pain or damage.
To cage her in his arms, enjoying the wild struggle pouring through her slim frame, rubbing against him with soft, frantic abandon.
She was silent, perhaps in desperation—though a leman had to know what would happen next.
Wonderful to hold something so tender, so fragrant, his grasp a bulwark against the outer world.
A strand of her hair ran across his lips, dyed and flavored with that glorious, mouthwatering scent; clasped hard against him and lifted free of the floor, she sought to kick, clipping the booth holding the table.
Veneer splintered, dust puffing up. He lifted her a little more—this variety of mortal construction was too flimsy to harm her, but he would not, could not take even the smallest chance.
“Shhh,” he murmured, seeking to soothe, to find the sweet flawless shell of her ear and hopefully calm all this furious motion.
He searched for words, his grasp of this time and place’s language better since he had spent the afternoon half-listening to the mortals in the nearby town, but not nearly so complete as he would like.
“Easy there, little lady. We’ll be knowin’ each other better soon, but—”
She gave a short, inarticulate scream, struggling with fresh strength, and her claws were out.
Fabric tore, a prickle dragging along the outside of his hip since she could reach nothing else with her arms pinned.
Did she wish to pierce his skin? It would not happen unless consciously allowed; an Archon’s hide was exceeding tough.
Had her former protector trained her to accompany feeding with violence?
Such games were not to his taste, but if she required he would certainly provide.
The caramel edge to her scent intensified, the note of burning growing unacceptable.
She would damage herself soon, and that could not be allowed.
Enough. His strength and speed far outstripped hers; nevertheless, he sought to be gentle.
He bore her down, the narrow strip of worn scratchy carpet between cabinets and the booth-and-table rushing up to meet them, then he had her pinned to the floor.
Capturing both her wrists was another simple maneuver, as was his knee between hers, pressing with just a fraction more strength than she could summon.
She froze, dark eyes staring at him through a deliciously mussed tangle of silken hair.
This close he could see the green and paler chestnut threads in her irises, taste the flood of her breath as her ribs—beautifully curved as cathedral arches—heaved.
A high flush in her cheeks, though not nearly so much as there should be.
Simply not enough blood to fuel a blush, he realized. The urge to feed her was nearly overpowering yet paled beside the thrall rising in his bones, snarling and clawing unmercifully.
“Just kill me,” she whispered, her lips shaping the words with fascinating little movements. The feel of her slenderness under him was so entirely enticing he almost missed the meaning of the phrase. Why would she— “Just do it, please, for God’s sake, I don’t want to live like this anymore.”
He thought she had somehow managed to stab him, despite both her arms being trapped and a fledgling’s strength literally incapable of damaging one so much older.
A thin, pointed spear pierced his chest; after a moment he identified the feeling as heartbreak, painfully glorious after centuries of numb, grinding insanity.
“Nah.” His voice, rough from screaming and lack of use, was a harsh bark after the music of hers.
“It’ll done be better, I swear. I’ll make it so. ”
But first… All thought foundered, the thrall rising to swallow him whole.
Cloth tore, and the first real brush of her skin against his sent a jolt all through, crown to soles.
His new garb tore free in ribbons, hers just as easily dealt with, and the curve of her belly was a downy delight.
Such velvet, once all the irritating obstacle-veils were ripped away, and her thighs parted almost easily.
He let go of her wrists, and she attempted to strike and claw him again—he accepted the blows, each a brushing enticement.
Coffin-narrow, the space precluded much movement, be he was still able to hook his fingers in the soft hot hollow under one of her knees, pressing it aside into the foot-space under the table.
Sliding forward, the hungry yearning tip of his phallus finding a scorching velvet at the very core of her body—
She burst into fresh frenzied motion, or tried to.
Whatever she meant to say was lost as his mouth found hers, his true teeth suppressed though her fangs were well in evidence, and she sought to bite him even as he sealed his lips to hers, drinking any cry, scream, plea.
He was a well, every surface eager to echo her, and he tried to slow down, to take some measure of her arousal.
Fear was twined with the survival instincts, both braided through the mating urge.
Hot slickness eased his way, her scent darker now, even more intoxicating.
She moved, he responded, and the first thrust was sheer paradise.
The second was even better, if that were possible, and he was lost in a welter of sensation.
Her hips rose, an involuntary, betraying twitch, and his body eagerly answered, driving deep.
Time stopped, meaningless in scorching, velvet eternity. Trapped, she writhed beneath him; the secondary prong of a male sanguinant’s mating form questing for the most sensitive bundle of nerves either mortal or his own kind possessed; he found her rhythm and pressed advantage unmercifully.
No quarter, no mercy, nothing but the blind urge to take. Nothing mattered but the throaty, mellifluous cries of her release, the rhythmic, strangling pulse as she finally reached the summit, wracked by the little-death of pure pleasure.
The imprinting roared through him, a crimson roar like the long-ago fire robbing him of both sanity and coherence. It was not the honeyed spasm of his own physical release, yet the sensation was strangely akin. How had he lived for so long without this sheer, stunning, divine relief?
His leman shuddered into quiescence, though her true teeth were still out and the terrible burning note of malnutrition in her scent could not be borne.
He freed his mouth, lifting his chin to expose his throat, and as he pressed still deeper into her hot, throbbing core she took the invitation and struck, sanguinant instinct fighting for blind survival.
And he let her sweet, sharp fangs pierce his skin.
His leman gulped greedily, clutching his shoulders, drawing starving-hard against his veins.
Each burst of suction tore through him, tightening every muscle and nerve in an ancient, preternaturally strong body; he only regretted that he had not fed more deeply before returning, in order to grant her a greater measure.
As it was, he gave enough to skirt the edge of actual weakening before denying her fangs, though it pained him to force his skin closed and hear the tiny, mewling, dissatisfied noise made deep in her throat.
“Enough, darlin’,” he crooned, rubbing his chin against her cheek, an absent caress. “More later, an’ t’ spare.” Each word was a dry rasp, but he cared not a whit.
It was done. His leman was claimed. He was conscious of her arms loosening, her hands falling from his shoulders, and her lapse into stillness. Ragged breathing, her eyes half-closed, perhaps languid with desire’s aftermath.
He hoped it had been adequately pleasant. And that it had elided every trace of her former protector—dead, she said, and that was good.
Very good. The thought of any other sanguinant touching this miracle was enough to rouse a killing rage deep enough to eclipse anything he had ever felt before, since the fire or before—though he could remember only scattered scenes of that dim, vast, rustling archive.
For now, he was content. And, as soon as she was ready to speak, perhaps he would learn her name.