Chapter 8
He would certainly have preferred her half-clad if at all, but his new treasure seemed rather… high-strung. She had thrown herself against the seals without hesitation or restraint, and he had been too momentarily shocked to do more than catch her after impact.
The wanderer now had a number of dark suspicions about her former protector’s tastes and proclivities, and he was almost sorry the other sanguinant was dead.
Whoever—or whatever—had tormented this lovely creature until her responses were so full of flinching fear deserved the most lingering of punishments before finally breathing its last.
Even the fact that she was fully claimed, her new protector of ancient strength in the Blood, did not seem to comfort her.
Or perhaps he was laboring under some cardinal misapprehension, as he seemed to be in the matter of her language?
A leman was so very precious, deserving of the most careful treatment.
Had her former guardian instead been gentle, had she felt affection for them, and did not wish to sully the memory by accepting a new suitor?
Difficult to tell. Her fascinating hazel eyes were wide with caution; her gaze roved, clearly weighing every avenue for escape, and the wanderer had not felt so interested, so exercised, in a very long time.
The very presence of an imprima, a deva—he could now remember more names for what she was, in at least four languages and another tongue long dead—tore successive layer after layer of dead age from mind and body both, honing him to a keen edge.
The pleasure of anticipation, of moving to forestall almost before she could think of possible flight, was completely, intensely luxurious.
Her scent now lacked any hint of malnutrition, though she was still painfully thin, visibly anxious. And the new smoky haze-tint to her fragrance was his own blood in her veins, a mark of warning—and possession.
A continual wonder, watching her move gracefully through the small house-on-wheels, every motion denoting the ease of long familiarity.
She yanked on underthings and a pair of denim trousers taken from a narrow closet, kicked the ruins of their torn clothing under the table almost violently, tied her hair back with casual roughness…
but moved with slow, tentative caution to take a keyring from the large waxed-canvas pouch.
The com-pu-ter was inside that bag as well, its black plastic edge peering out, and that was thought-provoking.
So was her stripping away the shield over the vehicle’s front glass eyes, folding it with quick motions, stowing the result in a handy cubby.
And glancing at him all the while, as if she expected punishment. That was troubling, but he would focus upon encouraging some small measure of trust in her new sanguinant, bit by bit.
It was an intriguing prospect, and one he welcomed.
The vehicle’s design was wholly ingenious, and her casual movements gave each piece of modern innovation fresh luster. He often witnessed the mortals steering similar vehicles, large and small, but had never been inside one during movement.
He missed horse-drawn conveyances—far easier to enter, to feast within their jolting once they shifted past chariot to coach, and easy as well to exit unremarked.
The innovation of greater speed meant more damage to mortals when such repasts provoked startlement in the driver, leading to collision or other accident. Messy, and unsatisfying in the extreme.
She dropped into the main seat, glancing repeatedly at him as he took the other, and he waited for direction.
“Seatbelt?” she said, finally, indicating the strap buckled across her own chest and lap. The word trembled, though her expression was entirely beautiful, mutinous, brittle bravado. “It’s safer.”
Safer? Did she think him a fledgling like herself?
Outside the glass, the night was barely underway.
It had not taken long to claim her, yet the entire universe was now entirely different, possessing a new central axis.
The wanderer studied the view while reaching for the buckle, fastening the tough, smooth ribbon as he had seen her do, with a satisfying click.
“And the… that invisible stuff. Seals, right?” She swallowed, hard, her pulse fluttering. Indeed she was keeping to adorable, trembling calm only by a thin margin. “Is it going to move with us, or…?”
She was extremely intelligent; he looked forward to following her through the centuries, ambling in her wake as she discovered each new era’s secrets and hidden delights. He was almost lost in contemplating that starry prospect, but she required an answer.
More to the point, attempting to move this contraption while the seals held fast would indeed be a mistake.
“No.” A moment’s worth of attention, an internal shifting, and the familiar stillness of a sealed space vanished, a low brushing of wind now audible. The material of the conveyance’s outer shell was sensitized now, and would take less effort to ward later.
Sheerly wonderful that he could think of later, no longer trapped in a maelstrom of chaos.
Every moment in her company was peace, every breath freighted with divine grace.
He seemed to remember long-ago mortals believing the mad were touched by gods; all he remembered of his own insanity was the pain, then the numbness, the constant striving to endure one more terrible dusk, one more empty dawning, one breath further, a single heartbeat—
“Hello?” She was even more anxious now, the word spiraling up uncertainly. Her pulse, a sweet thunder, now almost humming-quick. “Uh, Mr. Vampire, sir?”
“They don’t travel,” he said, trying to pronounce the words as she did, following her vocal patterns. “Surprised your Maker didn’t teach you how. You must be… young, in the Blood.”
“You mean, being a vamp? Five whole years.” She inserted the small metal key, twisted it as he had seen mortals do. A shiver, a shudder, a rumble of combustion; the engine roused at her touch—what item, animate or the opposite, would not? “You’re the first one I’ve met who actually talks.”
A pair of remarkable assertions; for a few moments, he thought the madness had returned or his ability to understand her tongue faltered. He had thought her less than a half-century from receiving the Gift, certainly, but five small years was not even an eyeblink.
More important was the other detail. “How many others you met then, darlin’?”
“A few. They all growl and try to bite me.” She busied herself with dials and switches, glancing frequently at him as if expecting each movement to bring swift retribution—and the wanderer did not like that.
Yet she still clung to thin, nervous calm, and every conversational exchange was at once a revelation, a gift, and a victory. “Uh, can I ask you something?”
“Anythin’ you like.” What would he deny his new prize?
Nothing, save self-harm or escape. Now her behavior made more sense—so young in the Blood, mortal instincts and the urge to flee what was essentially a predator would occasionally strike.
He must be careful, coax her into recognizing his intent to guard.
To cherish.
“How old are you? If that’s, you know, something I can ask.
” Even more tentative, as she pulled a small lever.
A mechanical thump, a shuddering, and the contraption was freed from stasis, lurching into wallowing motion.
Gravel crunched under the rubber rounds, and he watched carefully as she used the wheel to steer, her right leg twitching as she switched between floor-pedals.
What a marvelous dance.
“I…” How to explain? “I don’t know, ’zactly. There ’us a fire.”
Electric floodlights cut a swath before them, glittering on raised dust and dazed, swooping night-insects.
She had parked not only to take advantage of the view but also positioned the vehicle for easy egress along the gravel road, most intriguing.
Care and forethought in one so young—why was she so surprised he could speak?
Of course, incoherent raving had been his lot before her arrival.
Fledglings catching her scent would be reduced to utter drunkenness, an Elder deeply distracted by the lovely miracle; a daywalker, even though of might surpassing both as sanguinant o’erpassed mortals, would become entirely fastened upon the need to bite and claim.
Miraculous that the city’s burning had not killed him, doubly so that the wandering afterward had failed to do so, and now a leman. Truly he was fortunate, even among the children of the Blood.
She stared out the front, as if wholly absorbed in her task.
Or, more likely, not daring to inquire further, since her scent now held a more definite edge of fear—tormenting, teasing, poking at the mating-thrall.
A surge of hot protectiveness ran through his marrow; the animal in him wished to remove whatever was frightening her before offering comfort in unmistakable, highly specific fashion.
He would take her again after hunting and before sunrise, he decided. Slowly, with great care, attending to her smallest pleasure.
“Whole city burned down,” he added. Perhaps he could entice her to further questions, more clues. “Flames hurt me bad, but I ’us already daywalker so…”
That earned him a sweet, startled glance. “Daywalker?”
“It takes a bit o’ doing, to stand in th’ sun.
But some manage it.” Age was a prerequisite, though not entirely the measure of such a feat, he thought.
Even with his memory and reason fractured, he had retained an instinctive grasp upon sanguinants’ ways and methods, if only to hold both territory and his own survival. “Your Maker din’t tell you?”
“There wasn’t a lot of conversation.” Her knuckles had turned white.
The wheel groaned softly before she swallowed, convulsively, and loosened her hold.
The vehicle swayed, rumbling into a turn, and bumped up onto a paved road.
In the distance a lone streetlight leaned, beaming an orange message-glow toward cracked concrete.
She was growing more fearful by the moment. The vehicle hummed, gathering speed, and whooshed past the streetlight onto a long dark stretch of ruler-straight country road. His suspicions about her Maker became even bleaker, and the concomitant fury crept a little deeper into his bones.
“Well, now.” He tried for the quietest, most soothing tone he had ever heard a mortal male use, hoping it was enough. If he could remember anything before the fire, perhaps it would be better… but he was forced to use what little he had. “How ’bout you tell me what did happen, darlin’?”
His leman was silent for a long moment, pressing a lever on the column holding the wheel, then leaning slightly forward to touch a button on the instrument panel.
The long, thin-walled carriage accelerated once more, settling into a high happy hum.
No wonder the mortals liked these conveyances so much—the sense of smooth speed gained by simply pressing a pedal was satisfying, though relatively slow compared to an Elder’s ability of skimming along topographical features or riding the night wind in mistform.
The deep hum of the wheels was pleasant as well.
How long had she traveled in this fashion? Five years was nothing, yet she had no measure of time save the mortal.
What had happened? How could a leman, a fledgling, be wandering unclaimed? The more he learned, the more puzzled he became.
“No,” she said, quietly. “I don’t want to talk about that.”
There was a metallic click, and she wrenched at the wheel. A scream of metal, a sudden coughing sound, and the world turned over rapidly.
A bright orange blossom of flame filled his vision, a rush of heat, the acrid smell of petrol.