Chapter 22
Tumbling to earth as the sun lifted its massive fiery rim from hoary, mist-drenched horizon, then Jonathan’s boots landed heavily next to a small, glass-clear mountain stream, dislodging a spray of pebbles.
His eyelids fell closed; he groped internally for that subtle unmistakable whispering of the Blood’s connection, strengthened by deep feeding yet lost as a fledgling’s daylight sleep took hold.
His leman must be unconscious now, possibly gravely wounded. Had the mortals left her to the sun’s not-so-tender unmercy?
If they have, I will find them and make them regret it before they die.
Then I will kill every other mortal I can reach.
I will wipe this entire world clean before I die of calcification, and those of the Blood will starve or grow stupid upon animal claret.
The thought was cold, crystalline, and clove a tide of rising whispers with its sharp razor gleam.
His skull was full. The madness was returning, not in tiny dribs and drabs with the slow passage of mortal years but trickle-to-flood as a melting glacier.
Eventually a jagged crack might open in the floor of his consciousness where the animal of survival lived, the creature grown strong and ruthless with aeons of hunting, drinking, hiding.
He opened his eyes. The chase must now continue under different conditions; fortunately, there were other methods.
Which required careful decision.
Aspens shivered in strengthening golden mistglow; the stream chattered happily. Perhaps the landscape was beautiful, but all Jonathan saw was rock, dirt, wood, the entire world a soulless painted panel unblessed by his leman’s presence. If she were beside him at this moment…
But no. Addiction tugged at his veins, the thrall running sharp rowels all along his bones. A fading ghost of her scent clung to his clothes, his fingers, his tongue; he strove for a moment of stillness and clarity, in order to use any following effort most efficiently.
Bitch might wake up in transit, the ferret-faced man had said.
At the moment Jonathan—he clung to the name, an anchor amid dark, unsteady waves—had been laboring under the assumption of an escape attempt aided by mortals, which he could see now was certainly not the case.
This was a capture, and transit meant they had taken his treasure elsewhere.
Most unwise, to touch a sanguinant’s leman. Even more so to take one. He had been traveling in a reasonably straight line so far, chasing the whirligig-craft.
Helicopter. Use the proper words; do not forget how she likes you to speak.
A shake of his head, one hand flashing to close around the bole of a slim sapling leaning to look at its own wavering reflection.
A slight groan, bark and inner tissues compressing, and its branches’ shimmer was reminiscent of his leman’s trembling, hopefully with pleasure but more likely with overwhelming fear.
How can you not remember? It’s your name.
He had not yet time to teach her even the barest of essentials, and had not learned more than a few tantalizing hints of her past and preferences. If he were ever to discover more, he must be swift and canny now.
No, it was not like his cautious Simone to be thus taken in—or was it? Her method of hunting fledglings had clearly been to wave herself before them, unaware that her very scent made them desire-drunk; perhaps she risked herself as a matter of course?
A habit he must deter; he would never again allow her to wander past arm’s length.
Then think clearly before acting wisely.
You must reach her, and soon. During the slender remainder of the night, the pull of his almost-fledgling’s Blood had not altered, the vehicle carrying her presumably flying in a straight line.
Jonathan eased his fingers from the aspen’s bark, barely noticing the marks—not splintered but compressed, so the tree might eventually heal from insult.
It had not been mercy or conscious restraint, though some part of him was aware she might care for the trees’ beauty. Absent-mindedness alone had kept him from doing greater damage.
Half-familiar mountains crowded his current shelter, stone thrusting itself skyward. Had he ever wandered over these slopes?
It did not matter. He could still move at some speed without mistform, and would have to be careful of deviating from the path. Of course, as the kidnappers neared their goal—whatever that was—they might turn one direction or another. He did not know enough of the fuel capacity for the… that what?
The word for the craft now lingered at the tip of his tongue, stubbornly refusing to coalesce. He could not dig it free, and rescuing the phone from his pocket did not help, for its screen remained stubbornly ‘locked’, asking for a numeric code he had no idea of.
There were limits even unto magic, of course. The item was reduced to splinters quickly, with a convulsive movement of his fist, and he tossed it away with a sudden savage twitch.
Old ways are best. Follow the line to your prey, and if all else fails wait for dusk. Once the sun falls she will wake, and when she does the call will resume.
Yet if it did not…
Jonathan did not care to think upon that prospect. He studied the rising, broken ground before him, hopped over the streamlet, and vanished into the thickening forest.