Chapter 10
Even had his memory been consistent, the wanderer suspected he had never before trailed such lovely, nervous, elusive prey.
Ruthlessly burning her own home to cinders, leaping aboard a giant metal monster and staying crouched in an exceeding small space for hours, then moving purposefully through a vaguely familiar city, slipping through its cracks and corners—oh, it was a joy to watch her, thrilling to wonder what she would do next, an exercise in control and caution to follow the faint scarf of glorious scent while granting enough distance to avoid her exquisite sensitivity.
Each time he drew too close she hunched those slim, beautiful shoulders and hurried along, doubling back, slipping through the terrain with all the swift decisiveness of a hunted wolf, doing her best to shake pursuit he could not think her fully aware of.
For a fledgling, she was truly exceptional.
Then again, she was leman. Not only that, but his blood burned in her veins; another few feedings to further cement the bond and it would be as if he had granted the Dark Gift instead of the Maker who had used her so terribly.
The taking of nourishment would become even more pleasant, especially for her as the narcotic effect arrived and became pronounced.
He was momentarily puzzled when she ducked into a building near the throbbing iron pit of the railroad station and its associated tangle of tracks—he remembered, vaguely, having more than once used the steam-snorting conveyances during his madness, moving to new territory when sanguinant instinct demanded.
Clinging to the top of a railway carriage was like and unlike riding the petroleum-burning behemoths of this time—now, of course, there were fewer cinders, louder wind-roar, and the constant smell of exhaust instead of coalsmoke.
The night had become old and weary. She did not exit the place; had he finally run his most important prey to ground? Dawn was very near indeed, awareness of the tide-change singing in his own bones along with the thrall.
And, of course, the Thirst. Which could be laid aside for some few hours yet, but so soon as fledgling sleep took her…
As the eastron horizon turned grey he entered the building as well, drifting in mistform. A hotel, and some furnishings were almost, almost familiar. Had he hunted here before?
Irrelevant. Her trail led not to the front desk but aside, through a door marked Employee Only—the concentration necessary to decipher written words was no longer a wrenching effort—and into the non-guest portions.
Downward, turning through corridors, sometimes doubling back again, he followed her trail.
His admiration grew as he searched; this was a novel tactical choice, though the risk of a stray mortal bumbling across her rest was still unacceptable.
As he felt the sun’s breaching of horizon-line the wanderer coalesced in an old, lightless boiler room, now clearly used for storage.
Moldering boxes, tangles of cable, conduit, and pipe, what had to be a modern furnace where once a perfectly respectable coal-fired boiler had crouched—the marks where the latter had been taken out were clearly visible to sanguinant vision, even in thick darkness—stacks of wooden crates, discarded furniture, other detritus, a labyrinth holding not a monster but a pearl.
And there, curled in a far back corner, the trophy.
She had made herself small as possible, sitting against the wall, knees up and forehead resting upon them, arms braced around her legs.
Her hair, still full of night-scent and grassland breeze, lay in shining ripples against hunched, protectively rounded shoulders.
So fragile, so indomitable. She did not belong here, cast amid the refuse; he longed to give her better surroundings, more comfort, and certainly more safety. This was insupportable. He listened to the hotel above, employees bustling while guests drowsed, and thought over his next few moves.
Following and observing had taught him much—though giant gaps remained in his knowledge of this era, he could begin to guess at their contours. And now he had her measure. Were she not leman, she still would have made a formidable sanguinant, perchance even enduring to daywalker strength.
Leman remained ever fledgling, though, never reaching even an Elder’s strength or speed. Perhaps it was the price paid for such wondrous gifts.
To approach a sleeping treasure, to crouch before her and take a much deeper draught of that glorious scent, was more than enough reward for any exertion.
“Oh, darlin’, what a night y’ve had,” he murmured, and remembered she did not care for that particular accent, though the drawl was much in evidence from surrounding mortals during her nighttime ramble.
Perhaps it was only his use of the local dialect she objected to, since her own accent was far crisper.
He would learn better, which required time.
He also needed to feed, a place to hold her in some comfort for the daylight hours, resources to cushion and pamper his prize, a mortal identity for efficiency…
the list was near endless, and he was grateful for every item.
No more spinning in useless disorientation; no, now he had a purpose.
Fortunately she had brought him to a place well suited to begin his work, almost as if granting her new protector a boon for loyal service.
The first step was to take her in his arms—gently, carefully, though she would not wake until sunset. The second was to move through this building unseen by mortals, find a suitable room, set the seals, and tuck his sleeping houri into a more comfortable bed.
All things should be so easy. He smiled in the darkness, taking a moment to touch a strand of her lovely dark hair, silk slipping against his fingertips.
Once she was settled, he could begin.
The times had changed; instead of introductory letters or simply wearing the correct plumage, something called formal identification was necessary.
Still, many mortals were perfunctory at best in glancing over proffered items, especially when a moiety of invisible force was applied to their mental state.
Information now swirled even more quickly than with telegraphs—he hazily remembered the ballyhoo about the wires’ ability to sing across an entire continent, though could not pinpoint if that near-miraculous advance had occurred before or after the fire.
It did not matter. His priority was soaking in as much of this era as possible, avoiding large or cascading mistakes, and returning to his sleeping paragon.
Difficult to tear himself away in the first place, especially after he peeled each piece of clothing free with slow care before drawing the bed’s covers over her lithe, faintly glowing form, and all day he was occupied with remembering the curve of her hip, the line of her throat, the softness against his knuckles as he inadvertently brushed the side of one satiny breast. Faint, pale marks upon her flanks and upper arms were left from mortal years, slowly erasing as the Gift burnished every inch; she had once been more pleasingly curved.
He tried to imagine her well-fed and happy, perhaps in a gown of absinthe green, her hair piled high and emeralds clasping her beautiful throat.
Even her ankles and bare feet, bearing soft crenellated imprints of stockings and the marks of boot-wear, were softly gorgeous. He could not wait to explore at leisure.
Returning an hour before sunset, he arranged his first offerings with care, filling his lungs in deep even swells.
Her scent had dyed the suite, rendering its imperfections charmingly quaint, and he sorely needed the balm.
His head had begun to ache the moment he left her vicinity, the distracting fractures of attention and coherence breaking through by midafternoon.
Other symptoms mounted as well—limb-tremors, the thrall’s sharp silver rowels pricking deep in his marrow, the dull heavy nastiness of sunlight on exposed skin mounting to pain as if her absence would cause a daywalker’s immunity to reverse itself.
This era’s idea of luxury seemed but tawdry imitation—the ‘marble’ of the bathroom was thin tile veneer, the paneling flimsy, the linens somewhat coarse though adequately clean.
The ceiling was familiar, even if its pressed tin had suffered many layers of paint blurring sharp-stamped designs; the drapes, heavily figured with gold roses against cerulean velvet, could have been antique save for their thinness, and the sheers underneath were made of slippery artificial stuff.
The carpet was harsh, an insult to the mellow hardwood it overlaid.
Yet the plumbing was much better than he expected, bearing marks of constant small refinement in that mortal art.
Galvanism had turned into electricity and become even more plentiful than gaslight; small outlets in the walls fueled untold marvels.
The mirrors were large and clear, luxuries apparently now held cheap.
Mortal food in the many restaurants smelled far more appetizing than it ever had, and the streets were much more cleanly.
Information did not need wires to hum through the air, literacy was expected of every class instead of jealousy restricted to the highborn, and even the hovels of the abject held certain conveniences.
All in all there was plenty to enjoy, and he could not wait to begin.
If only she would wake. He was very nearly in a lather—did they say such things, still?
Skin sensitized, clothes maddeningly tight and irritating, he considered ridding himself of all encumbrance and greeting her at sunset already engaged in dalliance.
A pleasant thought, taunting the thrall, and yet he suspected she would not look kindly upon such worship.
Not yet. Perhaps not ever, though it would neither alter his course nor cool his ardor.