Chapter 18
A wrenching change of direction, another miracle.
The shock left him dizzy, barely able to concentrate, for she had approached him—not quite fearless, yet bravely, a shepherdess taming a snarling lion.
She had been willing, and not only that, but afterward, soft and languid with the double opiate of release and his blood filling her veins, she looked over his small offerings and pronounced them not bad, I guess you know how to shoplift for quality.
Pointing out that he had paid for each item brought a long, solemn appraisal, her beautiful forest-eyes dancing, the corners of her mouth trembling slightly, suppressing a smile.
He watched, uncertain of just what to do with his hands, his voice, his very self as she packed the suitcase with swift dancing movements, and his remark that he had acquired another car gained another lingering look.
She kept glancing at the red numbers of the clock wired to the nightstand, a thread of nervousness appearing in the spicy gorgeousness of her scent.
Each time she also looked at the door or the walls, where the seals held firm.
A rare, wondrous bird, weighing whether to batter itself against the cage.
Jonathan knew her apparent willingness was likely a bid to establish some manner of control, perhaps the beginning of a more complex attempt at escaping his presence and protection. Whatever this ‘meet’ consisted of, its import to his leman was clear—and high indeed.
“There’s plenty of time.” He was gaining facility with the speech of this era—not least from listening to the telly-vision’s endless flow of chatter, information, exhortation, enticement. “I will accompany you to this meet, and once you have what you wish, we will—”
“You aren’t part of the deal.” She fastened the suitcase with swift grace and straightened; the bed now stood drifted with bags and discarded packaging. “It’ll only take an hour. We can rendezvous somewhere when it’s finished.”
He could easily keep her trammeled until well after the proposed time, though this filthy little room was increasingly unappetizing.
Moving a somnolent fledgling during daylight was reasonably easy, with a few elementary precautions.
By dawn tomorrow they could be in another city; she would wake under seals, and no matter her protests the pattern could continue nearly indefinitely.
She did not belong in this rundown hostel reeking of desperation, smoke, cheap burnt food.
A leman was to be kept in comfort; she belonged behind pierce-carved porphyry screens, lounging upon silken pillows, cosseted with gifts and fed to repletion, her every whim indulged and delight procured.
To think of her moving in patterned moonlight, her hair swaying, long legs and softly curved belly overlaid with delicate shadows, was at once a pleasure and a torment.
If he spirited her away in that manner, how long would it take before she approached him of her own will again? A few centuries, half a millennia?
Never?
Though she had packed the offerings neatly, she chose to wear her own rumpled clothes.
Well-fed, her eyes bright, she was still uncertain, nearly flinching when he made a restless movement.
She was so new to the Blood, having little idea of a leman’s pricelessness or place, and he wished there were other sanguinant to ask of such things while understanding quite well why there were not. Why there could never be.
Even the whispered proverbs were of limited aid. He was forced into the uncharted territory of this leman, the deeply reluctant sum of every dream or desire he would ever have.
“If there are other sanguinant present—” he began, hoping against hope she would be willing to listen.
“There’d better not be.” Her hands settled on beautifully rounded hips clasped in worn denim; the trousers clung lovingly to long, lithe legs. “It’s just humans, okay? And I can handle a few of those for an hour. Once it’s done, maybe we can meet back here? I’m gonna need a place to sleep.”
He decided in that moment never to allow a return to this sorry, claptrap hole.
Still, there were far more important questions to settle.
A leman’s mortal entanglements were to be cut away, smoothly and swiftly as possible—but it seemed an unachievable ideal in this particular situation.
Jonathan fought the urge to clench his fists.
“I will not interfere with your ‘meet’, darlin’, but I will be nearby—invisible to mortal senses, of course.
It is impossible to do otherwise, with a leman.
” Inspiration struck. “My instincts will not allow it.”
“What sort of instincts?” Her chin lifted, vexation sparkling in those striking woodland eyes.
“In mortals, they are connected with mating. In a sanguinant they are much more intense, as so many other—”
“Mating?” To see the blood drain from a fledgling’s face was an uncomfortable experience, made far worse when it was one’s cherished, still-so-frail leman. “What, are you after little vampire babies? I, uh… no, nope, that’s not okay.”
It was alternately charming to teach one so na?ve and maddening to think of how adrift and lonely she must have been since gaining the Gift.
Jonathan shook his head, carefully. “Of course not. Fledglings are only of the Blood, not the body. Mortal pregnancy is quite impossible once the Dark Gift has been granted.”
“Oh.” She studied him closely, perhaps searching for evidence of falsity—but why would she suspect such a thing? “That’s good. Do you have, uh, fledglings?”
“Not that I remember.” Now was perhaps not the time to explain that any sanguinant approaching her, even one granted the Gift by his own design, was to be destroyed without mercy.
“The instincts are protective, and absolute. I will linger nearby, and I will not allow the mortals to see me. Please, be reasonable.”
Her mouth worked for a moment, as if she were struck speechless. Which was oddly adorable, and he stared at her lips, tempted to taste her afresh.
Not just that part of her, either. Soon there must be time to worship properly, with every instrument his body or imagination could provide. The surface of desire had barely been scratched, and he enjoyed the idea of exploring even the shallows of that sea.
Let alone the depths.
“Reasonable,” she muttered, finally. “Right. You don’t even know if you have kids?”
“Fledglings,” Jonathan corrected. “The fire took much of my memory. For what it’s worth, I suspect I have none.” None which survive, anyway. And none to trouble you.
“Well. That’s a relief.” Sharp tinge of sarcasm, but her shoulders softened.
She half-turned, reaching for her faithful satchel, and ducked through the strap.
Then she shrugged into her dark, rather severe jacket, freeing her hair from the collar with a harsh, casual yank that made him wince inwardly. “Is that what you’re wearing?”
“Is it inappropriate?” The clothing was comfortable and functional; he quite liked the hat. “I’ve seen some rather garish belt-buckles, and several other styles of dress. This seemed rather tame by comparison.”
“Tame, he says.” His leman addressed the air over his shoulder, and her patent amusement was worth any amount of mockery. “Don’t worry, it’s fine. Can we go now? I want to get there early.”
“Of course.” A sharp, precise flower of relief unfolded inside his chest, along with nebulous apprehension.
She had agreed to his terms far, far too easily.
The Continental Hotel was a high-crowned wave of glass and steel struts flanked by a pair of similarly vitreous wings, no doubt full of glittering glare upon sunny afternoons.
At night the central bulk was a glowing blue-and-gold jewel, the vast airy foyer gleaming.
Boxes with transparent walls rose and fell along several stacked balconies—mechanical lifts, trundling slowly, regularly as deep sleepy breathing.
The front desk was split into two portions, blue velvet ropes on brass posts ready to restrain an invisible crowd from assaulting any false-mahogany grandeur.
Potted plants stood sentinel near small groups of furniture too uncomfortable for true conversation, and an entrance with strangely antique swinging wooden doors sat under a similarly distressed sign for The Gunsmoke Lounge, the space beyond full of murmuring as last call warnings filtered through a haze of alcohol both spilled and metabolized.
Posted signs gave schedules for conventions and conferences, reflected in the polished faux-marble floor; blue carpet lay in strips to indicate pathways and gathering-spots.
The meeting rooms were capacious, and the hotel apparently boasted four ballrooms—a truly excessive number, but every era held its plenty as well as poverty.
He could not wait to discover this age’s secrets, with her.
His leman had already made a survey of the hallways, moving in patterns he found strange until he realized they were to evade several electronic eyes. He must teach her to blur such things in her vicinity, the instant she reached an appropriate age in the Blood.
As it was, he performed the service while drifting in mistform, observing a polite distance. A few more feedings and she might well sense him nearby despite any and all precautionary measures; she was so exquisitely sensitive.
For an hour and a half she roamed the hotel, not only familiarizing herself with the place but showing him how to do so, teaching him by example the best escape routes, what to look for, what to avoid.
He saw her slip past weary mortals intent upon cleaning duty or other tasks, watched her stand motionless at the end of a hallway as a pair of drunken mortals, involved in a kiss so feverish as to nearly approach sanguinant intensity, fumbled to open a door and all but fell through, their moans suddenly muffled as it swung shut.
Witnessed her peer down a stairwell of functional concrete, clearly not meant for guest use, and shake her head slightly, cedarbark hair rippling—what test had it failed, what passing thought had occurred to her?
He burned to know, could not ask.
A lovely game, especially when she glanced suspiciously in his near direction. Perhaps she already sensed him; her scent vine-wound through his, for just before every sunset he had taken a mouthful of sheer glory, erasing the fangmarks with assiduous care.
If she were so shy about her own feeding, he did not care to think upon the likely reaction to his, let alone his addiction to her taste. It was a matter for another day.
Sweet Simone dug in her bag, checking the handheld phone—marvelous that it could speak through empty air, a matter of frequencies, it was said, and he would discover more as soon as possible—and her movements took on fresh, subtle purpose.
Another staircase, a more luxurious specimen though decked with faint traceries of ever-present plains dust, and she exited carefully at the end of a short hall leading to double doors.
“Hell yeah,” she whispered. A change, rippling through her slim frame—shoulders back, chin rising, her beautiful dryad-eyes flashing.
Her steps loosened, hips shifting with sinuous authority, and Jonathan nearly lost mistform, nearly forgot to hang back.
Now she prowled as a lioness, showing no trace of the uncertain, nervous, trembling leman.
An infinity of surprises lingered within his prize; Jonathan longed to swirl about her, tease at the glossy cascade of her hair, let her know she was within his protection, that she need fear nothing.
But stay back, she said; he had promised. He lingered, watching her push the double doors wide with a popping ping, breaking whatever lock held them fast and strolling into a cavernous, glass-roofed space beyond.
The hotel’s largest ballroom, the pride of the establishment, and the location of the ‘meet’.
Jonathan let his mistform thin, spreading in the dark hallway, and listened.