Simple matter to hunt down a quartet of fledglings, since a glance at the listed crime scene locations revealed a certain pattern. Even the appearance of their Maker—an elder of some power and potential, perhaps pleased that his gambit had brought a response, however tardy—was dismally predictable. Lukas had thought to question said elder, but the shag-haired beast howled in a guttural tongue from the Teutonic forests before Varus lost his legions, tipped into bloodcraze as the last and probably most favored of his get was drained, decapitated, then torn to pieces in a twinkling.
Really, they should have known better than to provoke a daywalker. Lukas rose from the ruins of the elder’s corpse, gobbets of swiftly disintegrating flesh shaking from his flickering hands, the deathdust immediately dampened by rain. Freight cars stood stolidly under lashing sleet, uninterested in the drama; a rumbling of live engines echoed nearby was accompanied by bright white trainlights. Still, any mortal out tonight would be entirely preoccupied with spending as little time as possible in the cold.
Fresh, welcome strength surged through his veins; the most potent claret was that of another predator. Distilled by his own body, it would also strengthen his prize, perhaps speeding her transition. Pleasant to anticipate the event, though speculating upon her likely mood once he returned was not quite cheerful.
The railroad yards were either a wonderful place to hide—screened by cold iron, adjacent to districts where prey was easily found, busy yet deserted at once—or an entirely stupid choice, since it was naturally where the one holding this territory would look first. Especially since the pattern of the few attacks delineated in the files carefully avoided that space.
The elder had survived this long, but perhaps ossified beyond the point of flexible planning. Incursions upon prime territory often came in cycles as populations both mortal and demimonde shifted, and of course Lukas’s move from Everly to Andranov might denote enough weakening to provide others of his kind with good hunting grounds.
The only concerning bit was his suspicions in another area, but those could be addressed at leisure.
He made certain all evidence of sanguinant presence was erased, weighing the advisability of taking a measure of mortal claret as well in order to be certain of satisfying his leman’s demands.
A short hop over the high fence on the northern side yards, a quick plunge through a dripping greenbelt, and he was in a residential area. It was early yet; winter nights fell during rush hour and many mortals were settling into their homes for dinner. Did she long for an approximation of modern mortal life? Easy enough to provide, especially since she would teach him the proper responses by mere, sweet context. Lukas crouched on the roof of a brightly lit home, watching the yards with an unblinking stare.
Just in case.
I want something different this time. The memory sent opulent shivers all through his ageless frame; sleet starred with tiny snow-granules was chilly, yes, but a few feedings after the true teeth appeared and a fledgling was impervious to most weather. How best to proceed? She might discover a few pleasures in her new existence—travel, luxury, patronage, perhaps even art.
How would she welcome him? He listened to the restless sweep-slap of precipitation, the varied symphony of mortal life inside their ingenious houses—tricks of modern construction were fascinating, and now that he was free of calcification he might study more of the advances in that area. Wise denizens of the demimonde were always interested in science and progress, if only to protect their own existence.
Finally, he judged this part of the problem solved enough. Despite his eagerness to return, Lukas took a long looping route through certain parts of the city between the yards and the Causeway, alert to any further sign of trouble. The rot may not have spread too far; if he were still sunk in the slowly congealing resin of age, would he be conscious of the infection right under his nose? Or had her arrival been the precipitating event?
Even this short absence was uncomfortable. The longer spent away from a bonded leman, the more swiftly calcification would return. The habit of checking his own responses and perceptions was old and very nearly comforting, save for the fact that he had not known how close he was to suffocating in his own hoary pile of centuries before the first tinge of her scent brushed him.
Moving alongside the freeway, he absently calculated the rate of traffic, testing the pattern for discrepancies. None audible, visible, or sensed. Perhaps the plans had not moved very far; yet it seemed her arrival had set certain affairs in motion. She could vivify more than his own existence, clearly.
Meditation upon her responses, even if falling far short of the mark, was a pleasant companion. It did not matter if all leman were so intoxicatingly stubborn; he had his prize, and that was enough. Adorable was a much better word than cute; he would simply have to be old-fashioned.
Finally, Lukas turned for the lair, plans and contingencies boiling just under conscious thought as icy water falling from the sky’s blind vault sluiced the evidence of battle from torn, fluttering cloth. The thicker-soled shoes held up admirably, a wonderful suggestion on Hardison’s part, but he must needs make himself presentable before visiting his lady’s bower.
Unfortunately, he arrived to find a house in ferment, a high window shattered, and his tender, vulnerable fledgling flown.
CHAPTER 25
After a run of bad luck, any small bit of help seemed like a gift from heaven.
Running down a winding North Bluffs road at superspeed was all right, except when Bea stopped her ribs heaved so hard she retched, leaning against a lone streetlamp. Sleet poured down, sticking the sweater to her torso, and her jeans were soaked to the knee. Her sneakers were sodden, too, but that was okay.
Everything was okay, because she was free.
And what to her wondering eyes should appear but a smear of brightly lit parking lot in the distance, behind a screen of near-leafless trees? She hadn’t even known there was a transit center on this side of the Causeway.
The problem of getting on a bus while looking like a drowned rat and without a cent to her name was solved by a heavyset, whistling male driver leaving his big silver craft closed but unlocked before ambling for the brick building holding bathrooms both public and employee. Bea prayed before testing the door, slipped through, pushed it closed—far easier than the resisting oak slab she’d had to wrestle before—and huddled on a seat halfway back, not even peering out the window, sliding down as far as possible to attempt some kind of concealment, hoping against hope.
As if the world had decided to balance out the shitty fortune of failing to kill an oversexed, name-changing bloodsucker, she was dealt another break when the driver returned to find several people waiting to board. Better yet, he opened up the bus and didn’t even glance at the interior, being too busy getting the fare-card reader switched on. “Free ride, holiday,” he chanted as they trooped up the steps. “Free ride, holiday.”
The unspoken public transport commitment to everyone minding their own damn business held, and by the time ten or so passengers had arranged themselves, Bea realized a few of them were almost as soaked as she was. Some were even wearing bits of Halloween costume, which gave a nasty shock to her already-battered nerves.
What day is it? She’d forgotten completely, and further forgotten about the free-ride program for occasions prone to drunk driving. She hadn’t had to sneak aboard at all.
Apparently everyone was commuting home from day jobs at the Bluff mansions, probably a thankless task even at the best of times. Bea was glad for the cover; she’d been expecting to be caught, pleading with the bus driver to just let her stay on, giving a sob story and risking him radioing in for a transit cop or two. Which she doubted she had the energy to handle, even if running away and attempting to cross the Causeway on foot was her other option.
She could probably thumb a ride, but why bother? Instead, Bea waited until nobody seemed to be looking before uncurling to sit upright, trying to act like she’d just been tying her shoes or picking up a dropped item. Doing her best to look innocent and self-absorbed, she stared out the window, listening intently for any sign the driver was going to single her out.
It was unnerving to see so many other human faces after...everything. The lights hurt her eyes; her nose was awash with a complex fug of sweat, bad breath, the ghost of what everyone had last eaten, wet clothing, a faint burnt-plastic tinge of public transit. Hearing other human heartbeats made the dry patch at the back of her throat wake up a bit, but running so hard seemed to have accustomed her to new super-senses. The bus rumbled to life, the driver gabbled an announcement into the overhead, and after a patience-straining wait the contraption lunged into motion.
She hadn’t looked where the bus was going, but the universe threw her yet another bone—it passed right through the free-ride section around Marymont and the community college campus. She didn’t even have to pass the driver to get out, since the doors in the middle of the bus wheezed open once they were on the other side of West 135th, and from there it was a short hop to the subway and a long walk to the only place she could possibly go.
