“I’m good.” An extraordinary, almost venomous glance from under her long lashes. “There’s whiskey over there. Can I have some, or is it just for show?”
“Of course. It will not halt the thirst, but the taste is pleasant enough.” He gathered the folders, acutely conscious of her retreat. “I will handle this personally, Wren. Alert security to watch for the usual signs and run a full check of countermeasures before midnight.” It would at least keep them busy; he hoped against hope this was merely what it seemed and not...an event necessitating thorough housecleaning, so to speak.
“So you don’t think it’s just wee ones, then?” The dogsbody took care to sound only mildly interested in the prospect; his duties were to keep his master’s daylight holdings secure, not interfere in demimonde business. A challenge for territory would naturally seek to eradicate such conveniences.
A sanguinant who could protect neither clients nor vassals also could not hold a nest or territory. Nor could a lord unaware of certain troubling signs within ranks of underlings.
“It’s best to be sure.” Lukas watched his prize stand before the sideboard; she appeared to be reading the bottle labels. “Tell the housekeeper we regret missing dinner and double-check the bonuses for the maintenance staff, then you may be at what ease our security permits. That will be all.”
“Yes, sir.” Wrenfeldt retreated at his usual pace, closed the door in his accustomed way.
It was irritating—Lukas had planned a leisurely dinner, a night spent in his leman’s company. But this was perhaps for the best.
“Please don’t.” She did not quite resist when he took her arm, merely stiffened as she realized their destination. Her pleading, however, was very nearly desperate. “Don’t lock me up in there again.”
“I must deal with this, Beatrice. It cannot wait.” Especially since it had been brought to his attention at such a juncture.
“Look, at least put a TV in there or give me some magazines. Anything. Or, here’s a thought, I’ll stay in the master bedroom, you can put that Wren guy in the hall. I promise I won’t try anything. I swear.”
He could curse his own heedlessness; naturally she viewed him as a jailer, yet it had not occurred to him that she might see the saferoom as an explicit punishment. “I will have a few comforts added, as soon as possible. It is my oversight. I apologize.”
“He apologizes.” A bitter little laugh, and even the edge of contempt was sweet to hear. “I suppose I should be glad you don’t just jam me in a coffin. Look, give me today’s newspapers, or last week’s, dig them out of the recycle. Something.”
I would not put it past you to find some means of lighting them on fire. She was an exercise in resourcefulness, indeed. “For tonight, please bear with the inconvenience.” The last few stairs receded, and he ushered his leman into the saferoom’s soothing quiet. “I have taken refuge in crypts more than once; understand that this is far better.”
“Please. I will promise, I will swear on a stack of Bibles not to try anything.” Her eyes were shining, her pretty fingers tangled together. She was stiff, just on the edge of outright struggle.
“Beatrice.” His hands ached to take her shoulders, ease the fear swirling through her scent. “This is to keep you, certainly, but more importantly to keep you safe.”
“Yeah, well, it can’t keep you out.”
It stung, but even that venom was far better than numbing ossification. Lukas confined himself to what comfort could be offered. “No sunlight will reach here; no mortal or demimonde attack can succeed once the seals are set. I will return before dawn to feed you.”
“Like a cat. Or a dog, because if I was a cat you’d at least put a dish on the floor.” The détente was well and truly over; his prize was nearly aflame with a mix of trembling fury and sweet supplication.
“I am at fault.” Even seeing her in this mood was a luxuriously honed pleasure, whisper-sharp, biting deep. “I am old, and my preference for saferooms is space and simplicity. I did not anticipate your discomfort.”
“What if you get hit by a bus or something, and I’m locked up here? Please...Lukas.” Using his mortal name, a thorny pleasure—she should never sound so fearful. “I swear, I won’t try anything. I’ll be good.”
At least she was not simply, numbly submitting. She might even hazily guess at his unwillingness to cause her more than the minimum necessary distress. Lukas raised a hand—mortal-slowly, though it took an effort—to clasp her slim, soft shoulder, and she froze.
He could lie, perhaps. Or misdirect with not-quite-falsehood. Yet he had been truthful until now, and wished to remain so with his leman; later, she might even count it a sign of trustworthiness. “If I am so careless as to suffer true-death, the seals will release. In that case you might flee and escape notice for some short while, but no sanguinant will let a leman wander. You would be caught, and claimed, soon enough.” His true teeth ached, the animal restless even contemplating such an eventuality. “But have no worries. I am too old to be easily slain; I survive. It is my only true talent.” A bitter confession, indeed. Lukas would have liked to offer her more.
Far, far more.
Beatrice’s gaze swung past him, fastened upon the saferoom door. She watched as it closed of its own accord with a soft, definite snick of latch, a deeper sound of deadbolt engaging. It was no great trick, any sanguinant elder could exercise such control upon physical material already sensitized by previous seals.
To a mortal, or a fledgling in the first bloom of the Gift, it might seem otherwise. His leman withdrew, though the physical movement was merely a slight shift, leaning away from him. Closing herself off, a castle on a crumbling shore, determined to resist the tide.
The ocean had time, and so did he. For the moment, however, he anticipated using a certain amount of savagery in dealing with those who rendered his intervention a necessity, just when he had glimpsed how sweet her eventual acceptance might be.
“Rest.” Care in enunciating, since his fangs were very nearly free. “I will return before dawn to feed you.” I might even bring a few heads, to lay them at your door. Would you care for that, my so-modern kitten?
He burst into mistform, streaming away, and the invisible seals settled into place. It was a truly unsatisfying farewell, yet he had little choice.
If he stayed even a few more moments, he might well accede to her pleas despite any better judgment. The calcification was gone, yes…but his ageless heart ached badly at even the idea of her distress.
CHAPTER 23
