Chapter 16
His leman withdrew, sharply and totally, all that glorious interest and animation gone. Still, he could not help but feel some small progress had been made.
Simone. A lilting, lovely sound, all the more charming because it was hers, vouchsafed to her protector.
And Jonathan—the word held no ring of recognition, yet was not wholly unfamiliar.
He could even be relieved, for it was an ancient truth that to name something was to claim it.
To belong—finally, at last—was a comfort.
On some level, she must realize her own power.
Sanguinant would tear each other to pieces merely to approach her, to inhale a single fragment of that dizzying, drunkening scent—and he would do much worse, destroying any who sought to even catch sight of her shadow.
He was ill-acquainted with this era, true, but in a short while every luxury it possessed would be laid at her feet.
Did she wish for wealth? Power over mortals? To build an empire, or to destroy one?
He would provide; Jonathan would make it so. He stared out a dust-shrouded window at the plains rising and falling like the back of a slumbering creature. Listened to her breathing, the soft thunder of her pulse, the hum of the rattletrap vehicle.
Yet her question troubled him. Give up the Gift? Impossible. The changes, physical and otherwise, were far too deep; the Blood was irrevocable. He plainly saw her shyness at the quite natural act of feeding, perhaps even understood it intellectually, but distaste did not change necessity.
Ever.
Green metal signs counted off town-names and distance, an amazing achievement in both cartography and mathematics; mortals had advanced wonderfully during his almost-absence.
After a short while she reached for the middle section of the instrument panel, granted him a nervous glance, and withdrew; five precisely numbered miles later, she did so again.
“Is something not working properly?” A neutral enough enquiry, he hoped.
“It’s better to drive with music.” Her shoulders were no longer so relaxed; she was not quite wary, but upon the border of that state.
Her chin settled in decided fashion, instrument-glow from the brightly decorated panel before her limning each curve lovingly.
“But you might think I’m trying to blow you up again. ”
The notion hadn’t occurred to him; she was indeed a canny creature.
He studied the knob she had been reaching for, the blank face of an electronic servant waiting to be summoned.
Music, yes. Radio, he had discovered the term; so this was how they brought it inside cars.
He longed to know more. “We’re past that now. Aren’t we?”
“What if I’m not?” She stared at the road before them, leaning incrementally closer to her door. A thin, rough thread of dark-red fear wove through her scent, plucking at the thrall dozing in his bones.
The urge to protect was twisted through mating instincts, after all, warp-weft vines of passion and possession. “There are much more pleasant games to play, sweet Simone.” He enjoyed the taste of her name, even if a camouflage or grudgingly given.
“Is that what this is to you?” Now a tone of challenge, just as fascinating as every other aspect she displayed. “Some kind of sick game?”
He wanted to observe that in a certain sense existence itself was a game—rules and goals, players, tendencies and escalations, an interlocking pattern of action and reaction vast as night itself.
The most chaotic of deadly battles obeyed its own consistent logic; even madness had its own buried, incoherent principles.
“Far from, darlin’. You are a very serious fledgling. ”
It was, of course, the wrong thing to say. Her chin set with stubbornness instead of mere decision. The car’s engine was running far more smoothly, though a truly annoying knocking had developed in its thrum.
Ah. Understanding arrived as he studied her profile—a pleasant pastime, indeed. She might weary of his attention, but he was far too fascinated for turning away. “You’re uncertain,” he continued, “and it annoys you.”
A small, dismissive toss of her pretty head. She didn’t reach for the knob again, but the orchestral rhythm of her pulse was all he needed. Finally, his dulcet leman spoke again.
“You haven’t even asked where I’m going.”
“No need.” His fingertips ached, longing to brush the shoulder of her jacket, to use gentle strokes as if soothing a frightened feline. Horses required firmness and a certain scent-balance between master and cohort, but cats were to be coaxed. “Any destination will do.”
Denver, the signs said, and he recognized the name.
No doubt he had hunted here, before or since the fire.
Or both. The sense of familiarity was strong, though not overwhelming, and small flashes of strangeness peered through—scenery which should have been bare now choked with houses, concrete road instead of dirt tracks, a half-familiar storefront nearly unraveled by time, cars instead of carriages, a street precisely where one should be peering back at him like an old friend.
Far more intriguing, however, was his leman’s behavior. The night was wearing towards dawn, yet she did not seem inclined to choose a resting place just yet.
Instead, she piloted their iron chariot through a few slices of the city, veering away from and recrossing the high road they had arrived upon.
Then, she brought the contraption to a stop in a sliver of quiet residential area found seemingly by instinct, leaving the vehicle motionless though still running, and twisted to reach into the back seat.
The movement brought her close, almost touching his left shoulder, and that was quite pleasant, though short-lived.
She was after her bag, which settled between them on an approximation of an arm-rest, and proceeded to dig in its maw, bringing out what he could now recognize as a cheap mobile phone.
No need for letters, for telegraph wires, for dusty riders with brimming mail-pouches. What would mortals invent next? Jonathan watched carefully as she prodded the item into wakefulness, then fiddled with it further, raising it to her ear.
“You have one new message,” a pleasant electronic voice chirped. A pause, then a recording began to play, with no need for needle or wax cylinder.
“Hey Jane.” Male, tinny through the speaker, with an odd humming in the background.
“Hope you’re doing good. Listen, the meet’s set up.
2am, Continental Hotel’s Gunslinger Ballroom.
” A rattling of numbers and a street-name, then a harsh exhale.
“He’ll bring personal security, which is fair.
If you don’t show I’m on the hook for the payment, so don’t give me any heartburn, huh?
Be cool, girlie. Call me if there’s any change, a’ight? ”
Her lips moved slightly as she lowered the phone, tapping at its face with intent once more and studying the result before pressing a side button to render the small appliance inert once more.
“All right,” she said, quietly. “I’m going to take a look at a place, okay?
There’s a meeting, and it’s always good to check out the ground beforehand. ”
“Indeed.” Now he was possessed of a name and afire with curiosity; this was proving an excellent, most interesting evening. “What manner of meeting is this, may your sanguinant ask?”
A troubled, sideways glance as she replaced the phone, then reached to drop the bag into the back seat once more. This time the operation did not require her leaning close, which was a shame.
“Business,” she said, finally. “Not a bounty, so don’t worry. Right now I just want to see the place, and tomorrow I’ll be there early. Never want to be last to a meet.”
“You are quite the strategist, sweet Simone.” Nevertheless, this was not an optimal development. “The voice, was that a mortal?”
“It’s my business, which means none of yours.” She busied herself prodding the car into fresh motion. “It’s just a quick drive-by tonight, since we’re almost out of gas and I’ve got to find a place to sleep. You’re more than welcome to get out now, if you’ve got somewhere else to be.”
Was it a jest? More likely, she still did not fully compass her own position—or his. “Perhaps a reasonably clean… hotel?” he suggested, almost saying inn before realizing it was not the modern word. “Or if there is a house you like, the inhabitants are easily—”
Immediate negation, shaking her lovely, finely modeled head, cedarbark hair swinging heavily. “No, no, I can find a place, don’t worry. Besides, you can’t just take someone’s house. Jeez.”
“Very well.” This was all very concerning, but at least she wasn’t actively attempting escape at the moment. Not that it mattered, in the end. “But, Simone—”
“What?” She did not glare at him, only because the chariot—no, the car was already moving, her attention focused through the front glass.
“If you’re going to complain or threaten me, save it.
I’m not in the mood, John.” Emphasis on the name, as if highlighting the gift—how could he possibly protest, when she had been so very, signally gracious?
Mortal entanglements are not good, for fledglings or leman.
Any leftover relationships were best severed, thoroughly and swiftly, so soon as a leman was claimed—and any fledgling who would not turn away from mortal family or friends inevitably learned a harsh lesson, either through time or the Thirst itself.
“Neither, of course.” He turned his attention to their surroundings, absorbing the terrain, eyeing the sky as dawn approached. Let her retain an illusion or two, at least for the moment.
Yet his chest ached, another sweet piercing. She was still so very new to the Blood.