He had not thought of either tale in a very long while. Lukas stroked her hair, smoothing tendrils from sweat-silken forehead; she neither flinched nor accepted the movement, just gazed slightly past him at the elevator’s frozen-open door, pursing the lush mouth he also longed to sample once more. Soft and wavy, dyed black, the roots pale giveaways with a coppery tinge. Strawberry blonde, was that the term? He also examined the greisoul closely, faintly envious of the gem enjoying such close living warmth.
Which led to another consideration. The nightgown was not nearly enough to keep a mortal from the elements, and he had torn the blanket—she was a resourceful lass, indeed—to shreds. His jacket was likewise in tatters, so he stripped it free.
The fungal excrescences were no friends to good tailoring. He hadn’t gone through laundry like this since the incursion of a fellow sanguinant onto his Chicago territory, at the turn of...yes, the previous century. At least the brief burst of maneuvering and paroxysm of final combat had sharpened him for a short while, staving off slow creeping numbness.
Yet he could now trace how ossification had returned, fogging both mind and body by infinitesimal increments. She had arrived in the very nick of time.
His leman staggered sideways when he moved to drop the ruined jacket; Lukas’s hand blurred before closing gently, firmly on her upper arm. “Steady, now.” He found American words in his mental storehouse; he could teach any tongue she wished later, at leisure. “All is well, Beatrice.”
Such a lovely phrase, tasting pleasingly of her spice, musk, and gorgeous scorching presence.
She shook her head, as if denying her own name. Lukas bent, his arm sweeping behind her knees; she fit very neatly, cradled against him. In fact, her head drooped, mortal-feverish cheek resting against his shoulder, and he pressed his lips to her temple as he turned.
Her scent was dyed with his; he was ringed with the feel of her. The Everly cover had reached the end of its usefulness, and in any case he had very little time or desire for playing business games at the moment. Even the next few covers would have to neglect such things, though not entirely.
“We both need better cloth.” A calm tone would soothe, comfort—and, Lukas realized, he did wish to console, or at least pacify this fascinating creature. “And then we shall take a short ride.”
His driving might be a bit rusty, but all things considered, the afternoon had gone very well indeed.
CHAPTER 11
Of all the weird shit on her internal bingo card, Bea had never expected to find squares labeled fucked in an elevator by a monster, or dressed like a doll and put in a BMW. It didn’t seem to matter very much—nothing did, she had sailed clean out of sanity and found being crazy was actually kind of peaceful.
Bloodsucking monsters and little green men were not normal, therefore, she had to be insane. It was a relief to have that decided for good. Her throat felt hot and her mouth was dry as the Sahara, but the rest of her floated in a clear, warm haze, treacherous postcoital glow.
She literally could not decide how to feel. Every silver lining had a huge black cloud. She’d lost her knife, but there were no little green men or greasy yellow fog around. The monster had bitten her again, but she wasn’t in any real pain at the moment. He’d taken her backpack, tucking it behind her seat—it wasn’t absolutely gone, but that could be a temporary state of affairs.
Her legs shook, but the fear was hiding somewhere else as a low hum of purely physical relief settled in its wake. Did ‘crazy’ just mean ‘not scared anymore’? Someone should’ve told her before now.
She still didn’t quite know how he’d ended up in yet another three-piece suit. He had a very nice dark-grey London Fog as well, which was tucked around her at the moment. He’d even put socks on her, lifting each foot in turn while she sat on a padded bench inside a mirrored walk-in closet the size of a neighborhood coffee shop. Looked like the empty bedroom wasn’t his, since there was a far more comfortable mini-apartment through one of the hall doors, the view from its glass wall-windows completely different, looking south instead of east.
Black cotton socks snuggled solicitously past her ankles to go with a pair of slate-colored yoga pants in her size, a white T-shirt and feather-soft grey plaid flannel button-up—all that and the coat, but no goddamn shoes.
Maybe he doesn’t want me able to run away? She stared at the windshield, wipers moving in silent synch. It was a nice car, leather seats and a cushioned ride barely swaying even on the pothole-ridden mess of Old Meadow Street before the Causeway. No, probably just doesn’t have anything in my size. Does he do this a lot, kidnap women who stab him?
Glaring rubies in winter dusk—brake lights, like paired bloodclots. Traffic was oddly sparse, but then again she didn’t really know what day it was.
And he’d bitten her again.
That isn’t all he did. For a walk of shame this is pretty good, don’t you think? And let’s not even talk about what...how I…
Nope, she really didn’t want to think about her own body’s response. Even Jare’s voice in her head was gone; maybe he was disgusted. She couldn’t tell—should she be disgusted with herself?
“Your pulse is rising,” the monster said, as the sedan finished turning on the Causeway. The rain intensified, but the passenger seat was heated.
The very lap of luxury. How did he have pants in my size, even Spandex? Buzzing, grimly inconsequential thoughts simply wouldn’t stop. “You bit me.” Bea counted the wiper-swings. One, two, three, four. The rain had ice in its heart, crystal spatters stacking in rows as they were shoved aside. “Again.”
“Not what I had intended for the first, but what’s done is done.” How could he be so calm? Of course, he was at least a hundred and fifty years old, if Don’s guesses were right. “I wondered why they were after you.”
What. The fuck? “They’re after me because you told them to be.” She sounded weary, like a teacher at the end of a long school day. The dashboard glowed, a marvel of modern engineering driven by a monster out of creepypasta camping stories.
“No. They’re after what you hold, little leman.”
What does he have against lemons? Especially with that accent. She wasn’t thinking straight, Bea knew, but none of this made any goddamn sense. It never had. “What, my knife? I got it after?—”
“Your brother gave you the necklace.” The car accelerated.
Gravity pressed her into cushiony leather, her entire body reduced to pudding. She could handle pain, no big deal. Having the agony taken away meant there was no reason to be brave, or to really care much about anything.
