“The mating instincts are very strong. Every sanguinant was mortal once, after all.”
“Mating, huh.” A pause, as she absorbed this. “I’m, uh, not gonna have little vampire babies, am I?” A tone of sleepy near-horror, though her maker’s claret would be insulating her from anything save warm relaxation.
Lukas could barely believe his ears, but the query made sense. The gaps in her knowledge of the demimonde were both amusing and mildly horrifying. “No. Sanguinant are bitten, not born. We do not...procreate.” Though the attempt is quite pleasant.
Another restless shift. “Can we at least move a little? There are splinters.”
“Slowly, in a moment.” He had to think very carefully about how to shift them both; the lower third of the staircase was very nearly a ruin. “I must find something to wrap you in, and we must travel some distance before dawn. I do not wish to shelter you here.”
“Yeah, I haven’t been home since…” A wave of trembling passed through her slim softness, tension fighting with post-feeding languor. “What are you doing here?”
“Following you, of course. Lift your arms...there. Hold fast, I will shift us both.” Lukas could now see how to untangle them from the forest of splinters. She obeyed slowly, and he could not help but enjoy the event. “Though while I was here, the warrens needed cleansing; I attended to that while you rested. They will not trouble you again; other greiben clans will dislike your possession of the gem, but it is not their elder. They will not dare pursue you.”
“No way.” Light, laughing slang. She clung to him as he moved, one limb at a time, with infinite care. “You’ve been busy. How did you find me?”
“You are my leman.” No more need be said. Lukas settled into sitting, his shoulders braced against the wall; she had cooperated beautifully, her legs wrapped about him, and gasped as they finished settling upon a patch of damp, relatively clean floor.
He could stay in this position forever, his lap full of leman, her heels tucked behind his hips, her head nestled below his chin. He could tangle his fingers in her hair, slide his other hand under sodden cashmere—the jumper had held up remarkably well. The greisoul was a hard warm lump pressed between them, though not digging, and best of all, he was still buried in her, as close as possible to the breathing, irresistible heart of all existence.
“But how?” Persisting, curious, his kitten even settled herself more firmly upon his shaft, the heat of her core enough to proof him against any chill even were he not sanguinant. “Tell me.”
Brave enough to demand, now. It was a cheersome turn of events. “Do you think I could feed you and not find you? Your blood cries out to me, lady mine.” Ask for more. Ask for anything, save escape. The rattling ice-rain intensified, and the problem of how to bring her to another lair before dawn was a troublesome one.
Though not entirely lacking solution.
“But…” She halted—perhaps in trepidation, though he made neither move nor sound to provoke such caution.
Explanations might soothe, and there was time. “It was more difficult to find you after the fête, but I had a blood-trail then—the wound on your knee. Now you’ve been claimed, and fed. Much easier.” His fingertips slipped through damp, curling silk. The texture of her hair was a continuous marvel, as was her skin, the arches of her ribs. “Rest. You are still very near mortal, and the rain may be less than pleasant until I find a vehicle to carry you in some comfort.”
“I’ve got a car.” Amazingly, his leman laughed, a low sensuous chuckle. “I can drive.”
“Let me have the honor. I am older, after all.” So easy to pretend he had some measure of her trust, instead of another mere temporary, tentative détente.
“Yeah.” Sobering now, a quicksilver turn of mood, though she still rested against him. “Sometimes you’re almost a funny guy, Lukas.”
It meant little—simply the warm lingering relaxation of her maker’s blood. Still, he was absurdly touched, and stung at the same moment.
There seemed nothing else to say. For that short while as the storm mounted outside, freezing wind mouthing the shattered doorway, he was at peace. Perhaps she was as well.
Though he did not think it likely.
The car was a heavy electric-blue item gilded with freezing, its interior saturated with her scent and a faint note of a previous owner underneath; clearly she had slept in its embrace. Lukas decided not to ask its provenance, though he did note the plate number for later investigation. The upholstery was a trifle damp; regardless, it performed its duty admirably, and with his leman—wrapped solicitously in a knitted blanket taken from the dwelling, which still held all manner of ephemera from her previous tenure—settled in the passenger seat, he was very nearly content.
Apparently the house had been sealed just after her brother’s misfortune, as if during plague times. She had given a longing glance at the now-shattered stairs, but shook her head and turned away when asked if she wished to linger a few moments. There’s an afghan on the couch in the den, I’ll just use that.
Carrying her swiftly under dripping, ice-freighted trees to find the vehicle was very nearly pleasant, though far colder than he liked.
Languid from feeding, she occasionally lifted a hand from the blanket’s protective depths, moving her fingers and staring in rapt fascination. Still struggling to snow, the storm had to settle for a mix of small flakes and ice pellets with an increasingly rare fraction of liquid drops, but it would not be long before temperatures plunged and Boreas howled from polar wastes to take his due.
Despite the conditions, there was just enough time to reach the lair he had in mind. Lukas focused on controlling the machinery, alert to the possibility of accident or impasse; really, the labour mortals spent on roads, when they could afford it, was one of the most compelling arguments for their status as a truly cooperative species. A small army of large vehicles for spraying salt, spreading traction-grit, or scraping away snow was held in readiness to meet the challenge, and weather prediction was no longer solely a matter of sailors’ wisdom and guesswork—though plenty of the latter remained.
His prize stirred as the valley descent was completed, the car handling with aplomb a long, ice-freighted turn onto a highway heading south. “What happens if we get pulled over?”
Does that truly worry you? Still, mortals might look askance at a well-wrapped leman and her rag-clad protector. Or perhaps not, since oddities of their own kind filled the night. “There is no reason to do so, but I am well equipped for the eventuality. Should a simple piece of identification not suit, a little of the quietus will. We will be left to ourselves, never fear.”
“Great.” She drew the word out, perhaps with a hint of sarcasm. Which was another happy indicator; even outright mockery was better than constant, devouring fear. “Where are we going? We’ve only got half a tank.”
“South. Fuel is easily acquired.”
