No more was required. He ambled after her, hands in pockets though it destroyed the lines of the suit.
Did she know how alluring a chase could be?
It was easy to herd a stumbling, fearful leman, even if mistform was denied him during daylight. Lukas rarely needed to use the whispering speed either, since all it took was appearing in her line of sight for his Beatrice to turn and ramble the other direction. The largest problem was keeping her from maintenance or other staff; if she attempted soliciting mortal aid he would have to eliminate the hapless bystander at speed instead of in lingering fashion. The thrall was upon him again, painfully iron-hard, and though modern fabrics were far more comfortable than those of many other eras, he could hardly stand the irritation against his skin.
Step by step, he guided her through the house. Hopefully she was appreciating its bulk and the dim intimation of its purpose—to hold a leman in comfort. If it did not please her, he would find another. Somewhere in the vast world was a place she would enjoy; he would try every permutation until success was achieved.
He did not miss her pause in the cathedral-like den with a rustic stone fireplace; an old housekeeper’s trick, burning wood dispelling the cold reek of disuse. A hint of smoke reminding him of other places, other times, but the most important detail was the poker missing from a set of tools upon a decorative hearth-rack.
The shovel might have been a better choice, kitten. Still, this promised to be entertaining, and he turned her wandering course toward the master’s suite. She may even have realized his intent, for she lingered in the doorway to the antechamber, staring as if she had not seen the room before, casting a single piercing glance over her shoulder.
Those lovely eyes of hers. Lukas stepped out of shadow, appearing at the opposite end of the hallway.
She gasped, retreating into the trap, and furthermore into the bedroom itself, finally brought to bay. Yes, there was the poker, clutched white-knuckle and held in fencing position; she blinked furiously, a trace of saltwater clinging to one soft flawless cheek, and backed away as he strolled in. He hooked the door with his heel, a quick flicker of motion swinging it to, and leaned back, resting his shoulders until the latch caught. The invisible seal barely took a moment to apply, and he was alone with his leman in an overstuffed green-and-gold suite, rain rattling at roof and wide, crystalline bay windows barred from breakage or spying by a protective shimmer.
Paradise. And a Beatrice to guide me.
“I’m not trying to escape,” she informed him, taking a post near the entrance to the giant closet. Had she gauged his speed and considered the bathroom door too far away? There was no lock on either—not that any mortal deadbolt or bar would deter him. “Really. Honestly, I swear. I was just…looking for…”
“Of course,” he agreed. “You’re in some distress.”
“Really? Can’t imagine why.” Quick sarcasm, though her pulse fluttered in her throat. Provoking him again, attempting to exert some small control over the situation.
Were all leman so enticing, or had she been made simply and solely for him? Impossible to tell, so he might as well call it the latter. Once that was decided, all else followed.
“The light’s too bright.” Lukas attempted a soothing tone, an operation of moderate difficulty since his true teeth were struggling to burst free, painfully sensitive. Soon, he promised silently; we must play the game, but the outcome is not even remotely in doubt. “And neither water nor wine will touch the thirst. You’re only beginning to feel it.”
Beatrice froze, those extraordinary green eyes widening. The room almost matched, though nothing could approach the effect of her gaze; being the object of her attention was far more pleasant than he could have imagined.
“Oh dear God,” she breathed. “You’re going to make me kill them, aren’t you. The staff. And once I do, I’ll be like you.”
She must have a head stuffed with folk stories and superstitions, but that was hardly surprising. “That’s somewhat of a misapprehension, my dear leman. You are granted the Gift, of course, but I’ll do the hunting for both of us, thank you.” He attempted to match her accent; very imprecise, he decided. He preferred the crispness of slightly older diction.
“Again with the lemons,” she muttered, lifting the poker. The slim iron bar trembled, its tip wavering. “I kill monsters, not people, Mr. Everly. Or is it Andranov? You have a lot of names.”
“It’s no matter.” He lifted one shoulder slightly, dropped it, a subtle shrug. “Call me what you like.” The gathering thunder in his bones demanded motion. He stepped away from the door. The sound of the rain underlaid her quick light breathing; her finely arched ribs heaved.
“Don’t.” The poker stilled. “Look, I’ll give you the necklace and go on my merry way, all right? If you didn’t murder my brother, fine, I’m sorry about the whole stabbing thing. You have to admit I?—”
He could stand it no longer. Lukas moved, snatching the poker; a low terrible sound of stressed metal before he tossed the ruined implement behind him. It clanged against the bedroom door, a muffled thump since invisible seals swallowed physical noise. Her shoulders pressed against the wallpaper next to the closet entrance and her slim softness trapped against him, his fangs gloriously free and her small hands flat against his chest, an ineffectual shove.
His head was bent, his nose a bare inch from hers. A heady deluge of performed breath bearing a candysweet edge—indeed, the Gift was scouring through her mortality. Exceptional that it had only taken a moiety of his claret, but a most welcome development.
“Please.” That lush, eminently kissable mouth, begging to be plundered. Wet matted eyelashes, her adorable nose pinkened, the feathering of gold at her temples. “Don’t make me...whatever you are. Please don’t.”
It was laughable. “I could not even if I tried. You do not have the temperament for such things.” And if you sink your fangs into another creature, kitten, I will have to tear it to pieces. Stark possessiveness warred with a certain tender ache, for she was no doubt very lost and frightened at the moment. “My plans are far different.”
“What are you going to do?” Her perennial question; eventually she would learn the simplicity of his intent.
What do you expect? The lessons would be illuminating, not to mention deeply fulfilling. “First, I think I shall tear those clothes off you.”
Her chin rose slightly. Once more she took refuge in provocation. “The only things I like in that fucking closet, of course you’d destroy them.” Her scent was maddening, musk filling his head, a faint sweet note of fresh apples, a salt-tinge of mortality.
And she had finally stated a preference, a wonderful development.
Of course it was too late. His claws were already free, razor edges ripping through his own cloth before turning to her admittedly far thinner garb, careful to merely graze tender warm skin-curves without scratching. She had no time to protest, for the bed was a short distance away even as mortals counted such things.
Glorious to sample her mouth again, to drown in the taste of her. He knew precisely how to breach the gate now, despite her first panicked resistance; at some point he might learn the joy of slow entry but at this moment the thrall demanded otherwise. A single thrust and he was halfway in; simple to brace one arm behind her knee, granting him much better access, and surge deeper.
