Chapter 12
She wept as old soldiers sometimes do, as if she resented the very existence of tears.
He would have enjoyed closeness forced by the barb knotted deep in her core, but the urge was negated by her steadfast refusal to open her eyes, acknowledge her own pleasure or physical relaxation.
Even the fact that another deep feeding had clearly provided some pleasant languor did not seem to matter.
A few more such bouts, and it would be as if he had given her the Dark Gift himself. Patience was required, not least until the swelling retreated and he could slip reluctantly free of her hot velvet core.
At least the bathtub was of adequate dimension, and the water warm enough—though he suspected she would have made no demur at a cauldron a-boiling, refusing to show a shred of weakness. As it was, she also endured his ministrations, though flinching frequently.
His own ablutions were quick, nearly perfunctory. The flannels were thin, but she scrupulously divided their number to grant him half and scrubbed herself dry far more roughly than he would have, unbending enough to steal tiny almost-peeks in his direction, though never quite reaching his face.
Only when clothed—she chose her former raiment from the neatly folded pile upon the pristine bed, dismissing new items he had hoped would be acceptably fashionable—did she seem a little less uncomfortable.
She pulled her boots on with every evidence of relief, and brightened considerably upon seeing the new computer.
Laptop, the signs had said, and the displayed price—strange, mortals did not seem to haggle much anymore—seemed to indicate an item of some quality. Inside were secrets of this new age; he could not wait to begin their unraveling.
Yet she immediately sobered and looked pointedly away, as if expecting to be scolded. Her halting answers to gentle questioning were not quite grudging. It was true—she knew almost nothing of sanguinant, despite hunting miscreants stupid enough to come to mortal notice.
“Eight?” He tried not to sound shocked, and suspected he had failed in quite signal fashion. “In five mortal years?”
“Yeah.” Slim, long-fingered hands knotting together, she perched on the edge of the bedroom’s only chair, set at a precise angle from the spindly table only barely large enough for letter-jotting.
She kept the lap-top in peripheral vision; perhaps she longed for its mysterious comforts.
“They each felt pretty young, though. Not like you. And they were all… bad. They did terrible things.” Quivering with fresh anxiety now, his lovely new responsibility stared at some point just past him, and the crystalline tears continued to flow slow and inexorable.
She made no move to brush them away, even as salt drops dotted her cotton shirt.
“A considerable achievement, darlin’.” He took care not to drawl overmuch, fastening his belt-buckle and running fingers through his damp hair, shaking to settle the strands.
Now that he was no longer lost to unreason, it was enjoyable to be clean.
Freed of such quotidian matters for some while, he approached his shy, delightful prize with slow care. “Even among leman you are exceptional.”
“Lee-mun?” A quick darting glance, this time at his face, weighing his expression. Evaluating, testing.
As if she expected sudden violence. He throttled a flare of near-incandescent rage at those who had taught her such caution before folding, degree by easy degree, into a crouch before her. Making himself smaller might ease some small fraction of her nervousness.
“These are the ages of sanguinant,” he quoted, softly.
Even in this modern tongue the cadence wore through, rhythmic and pleasing.
“First are the fledglings, children of glut. A few become Elder, free of day-sleep, though prone to the killing dream. A handful become daywalker, facing the Sun. Age matters a little, but strength matters more.” So finished the catechism, almost, but there was something much more important to press upon. “And you are leman.”
A flicker of green in large dark eyes as her gaze touched him, skittered away. Her hair ravelled upon her shoulders, silken skeins begging for a comforting caress. “What does a lee-mun do?”
“It means beloved. There are other names, but it… you are different.” Now he must choose his words carefully indeed, avoiding anything which might frighten or disgust a pale, trembling na?f.
“The moment the Dark Gift is received, there is danger. A fledgling may glut into bloodcraze, an Elder enter the killing sleep’s false visions and starve to death.
Daywalkers face the Sun, yes, but at every stage the years weigh upon a sanguinant.
We become rigid, stultified, locked in habit.
Numb, with the passage of time. Even an Archon—”
“Archon?” A flicker of interest, those huge eyes still brimming and blinking rapidly, her thick dark lashes matted.
“Little is known of those, and better not to ask.” He sensed there was enough to occupy them both at the moment. Eventually she would learn. “An old sanguinant will become brittle, stupid, prone to apathy, feeling nothing. No joy, no pain, no emotion at all. Simply greyness.”
“Oh.” She visibly considered the notion. “That sounds horrible.”
“It is,” he agreed, gravely. So far, so good—and she seemed to accept his new accent, or at least did not express displeasure at the cadence.
“But a leman suffers none of those things. You will be ever curious, ever flexible; you will never know glut or bloodcraze, killing sleep or the calcification. Leman are very, very few; to meet one is a miracle.”
“Then why…” A slight shake, damp-darkened tendrils swaying heavily as they dried. Now she freed her hands and brushed at her cheeks almost angrily, dashing the tears away. “Assuming I believe all this, why did the others all act drunk? None of them could even talk.”
“That is a leman’s effect on fledglings. Your scent, it is…” He searched for the proper term, shuffling through mental storehouses, hoping he could pronounce each word properly.
Her lovely eyes widened, almost impossibly. “You mean I stink, and it drove them crazy? Great.” More head-shaking; she physically recoiled, leaning back in the chair. “So, what are you? One of those Elders, right? And where did the cowboy accent go?”
Fascinating, to witness her quicksilver moods. “Your sanguinant does not fear the Sun,” he said, formally. “I spent much of today learning to enunciate as you do, since my speech did not please my leman. And I would ask you a favor.”
“A what now?” Now she lifted her chin, and he was once again the entire focus of her attention. Quite a pleasurable sensation, indeed. “This is the way vampires ask for favors? By… by busting into my RV and…” Perhaps at a loss for words, she did not finish the thought.
“When a leman is found, they are bitten and claimed. Always. You are simply too precious to squander.” He watched her lean back still further, withdrawing yet another critical fraction.
“But there, at your elbow. A com-puter, yes? Lap-top.” He sought to pronounce the words correctly, was rewarded when she glanced at the item, then back at him, a faint line appearing between her winged eyebrows.
“Yeah, a laptop. Not as nice as the one I had to melt, but okay.” Another hint of challenge, brittle bravery, tossing a gauntlet to gauge the response.
“I will provide better in the future. Tonight, though, we have some time.” The thrall was sleepy-sated inside his bones, and he thought it wise to accustom his new prize to his presence in another fashion. “Will you teach me to use it?”
Her mouth opened slightly. His leman frankly stared at him, as if thunderstruck. A short, chuffing chuckle made her sway in the chair, followed by more in a cascade, turning to liquid merriment.
She had such an irresistible laugh.
His leman nearly shook with amusement, possibly at his expense.
Yet the taunting edge of fear faded a fraction from her scent—not much, a victory nonetheless.
Bathed, purified, still anointed with the feel of her body, he stayed in his crouch, watching a miracle trail into helpless giggles, finally covering her mouth like a child, eyes sparkling.
For a few moments he could pretend he had truly pleased her. And it was so impossibly sweet he could not wait to attempt the feat again.
“Just keep an eye on the battery, and you’ll be fine.
” His leman turned her head slightly, still unwilling to look directly at him.
Yet his position—perched upon a settee in the suite’s sitting room, watching as she tapped at the ‘laptop’ on a coffee table set at their knees—seemed to ameliorate some of her fear.
“How old are you really, anyway? Can I ask?”
It just does what you tell it, she said, as if such a servant were not a marvel unthinkable for most of mortal history. Where on earth are we right now? Casual questions, peppering her lesson. He let her draw out details, enjoying the game. How did you follow me? What is that invisible-seal thing?
“Very old, I think, even before the fire.” He examined the text upon the screen; letters had been streamlined and spelling strangely altered, but thankfully his literacy had not been wholly impaired even by the madness.
Now he better understood the appeal of the bright flat faces.
Electronic, wireless, streaming, data—wonderful concepts, words new-coined or repurposed, vast new sweeps of possibility.
He had missed a great deal as he wandered, raving, in a backwater.
“You may ask what you like, my leman. Always.”
“So you just… wandered around hunting people?”
“I avoided notice, fed when necessary, punished trespassers in my territory. The fledgling you dispatched, for example—I was already tracking him.” Difficult to keep his tone even, neutral, for a leman was never to suffer combat.
It was incredible, unthinkable, a violation of the natural order.
She could have been rendered not merely ill-nourished and nervous but outright damaged by a fledgling drunk upon her scent or—more likely—by simple mischance, unwanted mortal attention.
Or, worse, claimed by another as he roamed witless.
“He was a nasty piece of work. Killed whole families, and there was one victim in…” His leman shuddered, and closed the laptop with care. Then she rose, unfolding with sweet grace. “Never mind. Oh, hey, my bag.”
She had glanced at the canvas pouch as soon as he shepherded her into the sitting room, of course, but refrained from mentioning it.
Now she hurried to the overstuffed blue-and-cream striped chair, scooped the satchel up with sweet grace, and turned to face him with a bright, wary approximation of a smile.
“It’s getting kind of late,” she continued. “I’ve got to find a place to sleep. So, you can take that shimmer-stuff off the door and I’ll be on my way.”
For a moment he thought he had misheard. Then, a sumptuous urge to smile swallowed him; she was entirely captivating. “There is an hour or two yet before dawn.” The temptation to carry her into the bedroom, spending that fragment of time in most enjoyable fashion, was pronounced.
“I know, but I’m busy, I’ve got places to be.
” She settled the bag against her hip; its strap, diagonal across her chest, pulled the soft cotton shirt taut over her breasts.
“I’m not doing any more bounties, you don’t have to worry about that.
Just let me walk out the door and you’ll never see me again. ”
Did she truly think he would let her go, or was she deliberately misunderstanding? “You are leman. My leman. When dawn comes, you will sleep inside these seals.” There the matter lay, in all its starkness.
“Look, I’m real glad you’re better now, honest, and I’m sorry about trying to blow you up.” Quiet earnestness, tearstreaked face luminous, her slim form tense. “But you have to admit it was fair, considering what you… what you did.”
Fairness, the argument of prey. “You will sleep here.” He flickered upright, disliking the flash of fear in her so-expressive eyes, the way her mouth tightened, the nervous sidling step of retreat. “Tomorrow night we will go wherever you choose, and I will provide all you require or wish for.”
“You can’t just keep me here.” Her gaze darted for the door opposite the bedroom, and he could not repress a hard, delighted grin.
“I can, and I will, my darling. Go ahead, attempt escape.” He glided toward her, step by soundless step. “See what happens.”
“Why are you doing this?” A forlorn little cry. His leman retreated, herded toward the bedroom; if she broke and ran, the thrall—sleeping sated, yet ever ready to be roused—might be provoked.
“T’ survive. Cain’t do otherwise.” And to stay in your company some short while longer.
A ghost of the accent she disliked so much crept in, despite his care; he caught it, could have bitten his own tongue with near-frustration.
“I suggest acquiescence, but resist if you like. It all ends in the same place.” The thrall roused sleepily inside him, prickling-hot.
In the end she did not run, merely backed slowly into the bedroom…
and slammed the door. He halted outside, listening intently.
Scraping, a whispered curse as she dragged the one spindly chair, propping it under the knob as if she thought it would keep him at bay.
Further stealthy sounds as she roamed the small space, yet she was too wise to approach the seals or the heavily curtained window.
A pity, that. But he could wait.
He had nothing but time, now.