Chapter 14
How many nights had he wandered with only the Thirst as a companion, the dust of ages accreting on his body, his perceptions, his very soul?
Now the madness was gone, the fractures no longer thinly scabbed but very nearly healed, stray snippets of memory rising at odd moments as he followed his leman from the hotel, aware she was careful to avoid undue mortal notice.
Hovering at her shoulder, drenched in the heavy sweet perfume laced with a smoky tang of his own blood in her veins, throbbing from crown to soles with the memory of her pleasure as she writhed and cried out underneath him—all of it, all, turned the darkness to noon even more surely than sharp sanguinant sight, filled the mortal buildings with secret delight, transformed windows, streetlights, and car-lights into jewels set about the brightest, most beautiful lamp ever made.
Naturally her acceptance was only temporary; he was not fool enough to think her resigned to captivity. Yet at least she had enjoyed his attentions, fed to completion, and settled the new laptop in her bag. The clothes were not inadequate, she declared, but she traveled light.
He could not argue. He climbed onto a giant, lumbering metal coach after her—a bus, she said, and he stored the term away, vaguely aware of such conveyances elsewhere, pulled by teams of horses. Or had that been in the more-distant past?
It did not matter. His leman was beside him, dropping into a hard plastic seat and gazing outward through a window which would have been prohibitively expensive some few centuries ago.
The cleanness of her profile, the line of her throat, her shoulders loose and relaxed under her dark jacket, all so beautiful he could do nothing but stand, struck motionless next to a metal pole, watching as she swayed with the vehicle’s motion.
This was no mere mortal world but a savagely delightful garden, and if every night with a leman were even a fraction so glorious he could spend an untiring eternity thus. Now he remembered other sanguinant proverbs, and the whispers of what it meant to claim a leman.
“God, I miss coffee,” she murmured, staring out the dust-glazed glass. Her hands lay decorously in her lap; her hair was alive with golden highlights against the deep, glossy red-brown.
“Coffee?” He carefully wrapped a hand about the pole as a few other standing passengers did—the vehicle was relatively full, and every wan, lackluster mortal face bore the marks of age, hovering disease, shadowy incipient death-rot.
They had such brief lives. She would have shone among them starlike and glorious, ready to be claimed the moment a sanguinant happened across her path—or perhaps, chance and rarity being what they were, she could have gone unnoticed all her brief mortal days?
That prospect chilled him to the marrow.
“Used to be my favorite thing about the day, a cup in the morning with the paper. Or while looking out the dining room door.” A sigh caught the last word, perhaps unaware, and she hunched her shoulders, glancing up at him. “Can we even drink coffee? I never got around to testing it.”
To be so young, so afraid, struggling with a fledgling’s thirst and no doubt terrified by her introduction to the Gift…
he knew nothing of her former life, if her Maker had violently broken it, or if she had been alone there as well.
“Mortal food is pleasant enough. Not nutritious, though, and does not help the Thirst.”
He realized, somewhat belatedly, that she had said we. It had a lovely ring, that single inclusive syllable, however reluctant.
“What about garlic?” Her eyebrows lifted slightly, ripe lovely lips parted. Waiting upon his answer, and the sweetness threatened to strike him down as battle, glut, madness, the Sun itself could not.
“Mere seasoning. Crosses are useless, flax seeds easy to count at a glance, and silver only affects very young fledglings.” His face felt odd; it was so very strange to smile instead of simply baring fangs in dominance or glut-display.
“We do not feel the compulsion to untie nets either. Only some folklore is useful, darlin’. ”
“Guess so.” She stirred, patting the aisle seat with delicate fingertips. “You can sit down, you know. It’s okay.”
Did he dare take such a sweet, hesitant invitation? A moment later the bus lurched and it was too late; she had turned away, her eyebrows drawing together and mouth tightening, all luminous interest withdrawn.
He contented himself with reading the street signs, listening to the thumping pulse of each mortal—unique, the sounds strained through mood, heredity, body shape, density, diet, carrying reams of information concerning prey’s fitness or weakening—and absorbing the varied panoply of night.
So far he had sensed one or two others of the Blood in this city, but a sanguinant of his strength was well able to deflect interest or awareness.
Covering her scent was a matter of reflex; no others would be able to track her as he had.
And he had almost lost the golden thread several times, distracted by the madness. Some kind divinity had impelled him, or perhaps it was a matter of mere chance.
Mortals had ever considered Fortune a goddess. He might well join their number before long.
The bus stopped, started, wallowed, creaked, rumbled, belched along. Even that cacophony was music, for his leman was nearby and tranquil, watching the night as well.
His lovely prize had a destination in mind, and once they left the loud, lurching omnibus she set off in decided fashion down a wide, deserted sidewalk, barely glancing to mark his position—almost as if she had learned to take his presence for granted, accepted her protector’s attentions as natural or at least inevitable.
He knew it was not so, and yet.
“No night bus—Greyhound or Trailways—and no direct train connection.” She shook her head, her hands thrust deep into her coat pockets, and lengthened her stride.
So, she would teach him how mortals traveled. He could of course bear her a great distance at speed… but clearly she was unaware of the fact, or unready for such an event.
“Are there no hired coaches to be had?” It was enough that he could make a reply, hopefully inducing her to further conversation. “I seem to remember that being common enough.”
“Not these days. Taxi and rideshares aren’t a good idea.” An amused side-glance, dark eyes now flashing with less tint of green or yellow, lacking the kiss of bright electric light. “I did think the airport would be a better bet for what we need, but when I looked it up last night, it’s too small.”
Airport? Flight was a modern mortal miracle, though far less efficient than mistform or simply skating the terrain.
He had hazily understood the purpose of the giant silver beasts coursing the stratosphere even in his madness, seeing them far above; the smaller, lower, buzzing craft sounded venomous but were ultimately harmless. “We will not be… flying, then?”
“Nah.” Despite her seeming unconcern, his leman was also sharply mindful of their surroundings.
She must have perfected the skill of covert awareness while hunting other fledglings.
“Never liked it even when I was human, and it’s never really on time.
If I pass out at dawn on a plane, it could end badly. ”
“Indeed.” He considered the problem carefully. “What of a private plane, as a railway car?” The latter was an expensive habit of very wealthy mortals, he seemed to vaguely remember from the time of the fire—a flash of knowledge there and gone in a moment, yet leaving a promise of return.
Healing proceeded apace. Soon he might know more of his own history. Which did not matter, but was still a reasonably pleasant prospect.
“Only if you’ve got, like, a billion dollars.” Rich amusement in her lilting soprano, bubbling with restrained laughter. “No, trains are always better, and buses too. I can hop off anywhere and find a place to rest.”
She was teaching him already; the pleasure threatened to undo him. “I see.”
“But best of all is a car.” She indicated what had to be their destination, a large, ugly concrete cake of a building. A sign on its scabrous hide buzzed desultorily, repeatedly announcing PARKING - SHORT/LONG TERM in silent stutters. “You ever stolen wheels before, Mr. Old Vampire?”
“Not that I can recall, darlin’.” He could not help the endearment, though it was much easier now to mimic her accent. “I’d love to learn.”
She studied the mechanical arm and control box imperfectly blocking a cavernous exit before slipping past a grimy sign proclaiming No Pedestrians, turned hard right at the end of the ramp, and set off into the depths.
Night wind moaned at the corners of the building; traces of sandy dust lay against faded paint-lines, settling on crouched metal shapes.
She selected an inner door and the metal slab swung wide, revealing steps turning back and forth, stretching both up- and downward.
They descended, surrounded by faint echoes.
Her small faithful boots sometimes tapped, sometimes remained instinctively silent; he would teach her finer control soon.
The stairwell was dirty, ill-lit with buzzing fluorescents, and more than one mortal had apparently urinated in the corners; the smell was atrocious before he filtered it from consciousness.
How much time did she spend in places like this, a solitary doe moving through a jungle of iron, concrete, reeking filth? Her very presence hallowed the environs, yet he did not like them at all.
She deserved so much better.
“What we want is long-term parking.” She peered through another heavy, battered swinging door, wrinkled her nose. “Generally on lower floors, since nobody wants the weather getting to their ride. Here we are.”
He could sense no danger in the echoing concrete cave, though he also did not like how she seemed careless of such elementary precautions as checking before leaving cover. Much to instruct her in, and he anticipated the lessons being enjoyable.
Particularly the rewards for fine performance, should she deign to grant any.
“Want something sturdy enough to go through the boom,” she said, softly, slowing to a stroll. “And look there—security camera, but it’s more than likely a dummy. Not even plugged in.”
“No electricity,” he confirmed, barely bothering to glance at the grimy plastic box bearing a clouded glass eye, tucked in a high, prominent corner. “If there were, I would already be blurring us both, my darling.”
“You can do that?” Sweet surprise lilting in her tone, only slightly mocking. Another of those darting, apprehensive glances, gauging his reaction.
“They used to call it galvanism.” He was almost cheered by her small sarcasm; he could be chaffed so all night, but only by her. “A natural force, like light or air. Easy to affect.”
For some reason, that provoked her attention. His leman halted, turned to regard him fully. “Any electronics, or just cameras? What about film? Can you shock people? And lightning, what about—”
“Lightning is dangerous to fledgling and Elder, film is sensitive to light and may be ruined with small effort.” Photographic plates had been a different story, he seemed to remember, and could have followed that thread into the labyrinth of splintered memory.
Yet her questions took precedence, as did bathing in the honor of her notice.
“I do not need to shock mortals, and yes, most older sanguinant can affect all manner of phenomena, physical or electrical, according to age and skill. I shall have to teach you most carefully, and from the beginning.”
“Huh.” Did the prospect entice her? She shifted from one foot to the other, wide-eyed, begrudgingly interested. “Let’s see how you are with car alarms, then?” A tinge of uncertainty, as if she expected—or feared—refusal.
What could I ever deny you, beautiful one? “At your service, darlin’.”