“Is it this thing?” She couldn’t free her hand, had to tuck her chin to indicate the necklace. “Because if it is, I can just?—”
“It is not the greisoul.” Patient as Jared explaining one of his conspiracy theories, accompanied by what very well might be an awful ring of truthfulness. At least he didn’t hint she was stupid for not knowing, or for not listening more carefully to any explanations before now. “It is rather some intrinsic quality—we do not know how or why, only that leman are rare, and to be prized. Consider that eventually my blood will grant you daywalking, and another sanguinant may be even less to your taste than myself. I am, at least, the beast you now know.”
That’s not really a plus. Bea’s chin set, the trademark stubborn look her parents always despaired of. Jare thought her mulishness deeply hilarious; nobody ever understood it was her only defense against an entire goddamn world constantly finding her far less than second-best by comparison to him. “So what now? What happens next?” Let’s get it over with, whatever it is.
“A few small matters must be attended to. Afterward, though...what would you like?” He cradled her hand in both of his, gently enough she could very nearly forget the crushing strength. “What does Beatrice Dunlevy want from life?”
I never thought much past the staking, honestly. Bea found herself staring at his hands. His thumb moved slightly, stroking the underside of her wrist where his lips had pressed. His skin felt normal now, not feverish; it was actually kind of soothing to be touched so gently. “I don’t know,” she heard herself say, dully, and the familiar bite of shame from having to use those three little words was almost worse than sitting naked in a mildewed blanket or being pinned under and ravaged by a monster.
Next would come the disappointment, the withdrawal, the knowledge of never quite measuring up. And it was sounding like she had a longer-than-average lifespan to endure that curse, probably as payment for being the Dunlevy sibling safe in the house while the better one was dismembered.
“How wonderful,” Lukas said, softly. “When you decide, tell me.”
Bea’s eyes prickled. It wasn’t fair for a monster to sound so...she couldn’t find the word. “Okay, sure. Right now, though, I could do with a shower. And some clothes—that won’t be ripped off me,” she added, hastily.
“Of course.” Immediate agreement, though he didn’t let go of her hand. “I will do my best, kitten. Always.”
CHAPTER 32
He had neither dreamt nor thought such things possible—first the luxury of twilight rest without fear of true-death, then arriving at consciousness to find his leman somberly, shyly willing to grant him singular grace. The quicksilver turn nearly left him gasping like a landed fish.
He took her in the shower’s warm embrace, her back against warmed tile wall and her damp cheek pressed to his, the thrall riding him unmercifully as she whispered slow down, just a little...oh...there, yes, and her willingness was far sweeter than the Gift had ever been. Her pleasure arrived in great gripping waves, nearly robbing him of the strength to resist his own release. Following her rhythm, her sweet husky little cries echo-overlapping, wringing one last honeyed spasm free as his fangs sank slowly into her throat. A single smoky, delicious mouthful, merely to confirm she was very close to full transition, and he regretfully withdrew; rinsing a languid, relaxed leman was a more diffuse but no less exquisite experience.
Her hair had fully shed the black dye; gold with coppery tinges edging many a sleek wave, it was pure sanguinant glory. The tender damp satin of mortal skin was sleek and burnished now. He had heard leman described as lamps in the night; now he knew why.
Once the seals were taken down, however, there was no time for anything but careful attention to their surroundings. This lair was furnished in overstuffed, deliberately almost-shabby style, an imitation of actual comfort. Outside, a soft hiss of falling snow rose and receded in waves, the peculiar sound meaning small flakes not quite convinced of their own inevitability; his senses dilated as he shepherded a towel-wrapped Beatrice to the decoy bedroom.
No hint of other scent in the luxurious little brownstone, no untoward rustling in the nearest neighbors, either. These were largely vacation or second homes, retreats from more frenetic city existence; mortals of a certain status were fond of such things.
“So, do you have these places built or remodeled? They can’t all come with saferooms.” Beatrice scrubbed at her damp hair with casual roughness; the offerings, paltry as they were, seemed to meet with her approval. At least, she let out a sigh of presumed relief upon seeing a selection of her preferred denims, and chose a wine-red jumper with an intriguingly steep V-neck as well.
She disdained the underthings, for some reason. He had no complaint.
“It depends. Even an unfinished space may serve, so long as the seals can be set.” He kept a wary watch upon the windows, though most were blinkered by slatted blinds and heavy drapes. Instinct told him it would not be very long now; still, this was not a tactically sound place for what he suspected. “Your trainers were nearly unsalvageable; the new ones should fit.”
“Trainers.” A sly, engaging half-chuckle as she laid the towel aside; she dropped onto the cheerful yellow-draped bed, bending to tie shoelaces, and he was hard-pressed not to have her again. Especially when the jumper’s neckline showed that lovely freckle, peeking at him from a generous slice of décolletage. “When did you come over the pond, sir?” A mimicking of his speech-pattern; he had not thought he sounded so...stilted.
“In the latter half of Victoria’s reign. I thought it would help me shake off a degree of calcification.” Two new slim silver cellphones had to take precedence over more civilized accoutrements; Lukas disliked the absence of watch or cufflinks, but he had been lucky to secure even these supplies. Mortal weather-watchers predicted the storm would only intensify over the next handful of days, laying the foundation for further waves of packed icefeathers. To the north, the sleet had already turned to freezing rain.
“Yeah, you were in Chicago. 1905, right?” A quick, calculating glance, almost fearful, though her pulse did not change much. “The Comptain Murders. You know that’s still being argued about? Everyone’s got a theory.”
“It was nothing extraordinary. A battle for territory, incidental mortal casualties necessitating a change in identities.” He checked the phone cases once more, then tucked them away. The thought that she had traced that particular thread gave him a half-chary, half-lovely frisson; it irked him to have left even muddled traces, yet her attention was most welcome. “Most mortals simply do not wish to know of the demimonde; the rest have short lives and even shorter memories. A few alterations, and they will not recognize even one they held as a friend.”
“Yeah, you have this thing where you look different every time you…” She straightened, and despite the lightness of her tone, those wide, liquid eyes held more than a touch of fear.
“Simple tricks,” he assured, gravely. “Playing to mortal expectations. Often they see only what they wish, and that is a great aid to passing unnoticed. All the same, I am aware I have grown somewhat...stiff. You will teach me better.”
“Huh.” Not quite convinced, she nevertheless granted him a rather timid smile. “How am I supposed to do that?”
“No need for effort, kitten. Your mere presence is enough.” He still heard nothing untoward outside the lair; he was loath to break this small enchanted interlude, for what loomed ahead might unnerve her. Yet the sooner dealt with, the sooner he could soothe her, and begin the business of teaching his prize the more enjoyable aspects of her new existence. “Tell me, do you like trains?”
“Like, the subway?” Puzzled but not suspicious, yet the ghost of trepidation still lingered. A bright, fragile bird, no longer battering herself against the cage bars—but any untoward movement might startle her into frantic flight. “It’s fine, I guess.”
“No, passenger trains. If you dislike such things, we can drive.”
“You’ll let me drive?” She leaned back on her hands, giving a few charming trainer-kicks, a little girl asking for sweets. Yet her smile held a knowing edge, testing a boundary, curious what a measure of seduction could grant.
If only you knew, sweet Beatrice. “Not tonight.”
