You’re not afraid I’ll make a break for it? Bea was almost grateful to lean against the post; its thick yellow paint, chipped and cracked, glowed reassuringly. An engine had started on the floor below, someone determined to get out of Dodge by the sound of it. She could hear tires gripping, the slight chirp as it took a corner maybe a little too quickly. Sounded like a fairly heavy vehicle. Another followed.
Her mouth wasn’t dry, but there was a strange taste—sweet, as if he’d kissed her again. Bea’s nape tickled, an insistent warning.
He was almost to the SUV, approaching at a careless amble. The prickling wouldn’t go away.
“Lukas?” Her voice sounded very small. “Something’s?—”
BOOM.
The car exploded, a giant orange chrysanthemum, belching black smoke.
CHAPTER 34
He had expected the blow and turned at the requisite angle to deflect, shrapnel slicing past and a sudden acrid stink of burning petrol—a faint ghost of almost-lemons as well, which meant C4 without an odorizing marker—ballooning outward. His leman was safely behind a concrete shelter, no doubt a little startled; her scent was far more pleasant than this, though fluctuating heavily since the last half of the train ride as the Gift burned toward the surface.
The flame-burst caressed him—a sanguinant’s ancient enemy, living fire. It had been some time since his eyes watered or his nose stung like this.
A pop, a zinging; he realized it was a fusillade, bullets humming like bees, chipping bits of the floor and walls, ricochets almost musical in their rhythm and intensity. A simple matter to locate the guns, and that was interesting—they were set on tripods, no doubt remote-controlled.
Of course, he would hear the pulse of a mortal assassin, and sniper fire was easy enough to dodge. The bomb had been triggered remotely as well—he had not tripped anything mechanical, so perhaps a laser beam, or a hidden camera.
Several impacts at once, metal rosettes exploding on impact. A new type of ammunition, and the fire’s caress attempted to burrow inward along paths opened by bullets.
Engines gunned, drew nearer. A screeching of tires, metal grinding as a mechanism unlatched—a door, opening. A short, hopeless cry his entire body wished to answer, but his concentration could not be broken at the moment. A burst of pistons slamming as fuel was dumped into spark-chambers, and the bullets were really quite a nuisance. An elder would be bled out in moments if the explosion had not set him alight; as it was, Lukas’s discomfort was slowly mounting.
His suit might be ruined. Again.
Footsteps. Barked orders. More firing. Yes, they had hidden below, probably in soundproofed vehicles—which rather argued for hidden cameras. The meditative state did not waver, though Lukas decided this affair had gone quite far enough.
He burst from burning wreckage with a snarl. Yes, multiple vehicles—two black vans and one blue, plus a set of taillights vanishing at the other end of the floor as someone made good an escape. Several mortals in what they called ‘tactical’ gear, spilling out of the vans and spreading out, four already firing, all yelling, their scents a heavy wave of sweat, bad food, garlic, gun oil, acrid excitement. More missiles, dry clicks as the remote-operated guns ran out of ammunition, mortal male pulses clipping along high and hard, and a blow to his cheek snapped his head aside.
One of their so-new bullets. It actually caused a brief burst of something like pain, luxuriously sweet without the buffer of ossification.
He was on the first assailant in a moment, the one with a white cross painted on the chest of his black body armor, like a crusader of old. That was enough of a giveaway, though the religious amulets most wore would also have been a clue. So would the feathers tied in one man’s coppery hair, the tattoo of an occult symbol just visible upon the cheek of another, the cowls and cravats of old-fashioned chainmail, in blackened metal so as not to give away location with a stray gleam.
Hunters. The chainmail was to protect them from sanguinant feeding, the body armor a new type of flexible honeycomb ceramic; however, mortal bodies still did not take to bludgeoning well. Their cries became fear instead of combat-howls, his own growl swallowing the snaprush of flame and bursts of automatic fire. Thick black smoke swirled—they might even have disabled the structure’s fire suppression system.
He found a certain amount of force would overcome the ceramic armor’s resistance, and plunged his hand into the chest of an assailant. Viscera exploded. He could have gorged, true, yet he did not wish her to see the animalistic feeding necessary in such conditions, draining in single gulps, tearing, the spray and the bathing in hot life-giving claret. This was business requiring cold precision, so he attended to it with smoking clothes, his coat in tatters but the suit underneath still mostly whole.
Did they think me a mere elder? Or did they expect the explosive plus an additive in the petrol—and this ammunition—to turn the trick?
There was a third possibility, one Lukas considered as he tore the head cleanly from another hunter, ignoring the mortal’s attempt to sink a shining kukri into his chest. It was a beautiful piece of craftsmanship, worthy of a better owner; he would have liked to retain it, but did not think his leman would appreciate the memento. Instead, he ripped the mortal’s ribcage asunder, snarling.
The animal was free, though not blinded by bloodcraze. He could feel his leman’s mouth, shy and sweet under his, hear her quiet, husky murmur.
So what happens next? Her most-favored question. She did not seem to realize her own fascination with the world was exceptional, her sensitivity extraordinary. Her eyes could level mountains, if not with their own incandescence then with a single flicker in his direction, for he would do whatever she required.
He did drain the final hunter, but with his back to her refuge so she would not have to see his jaw distended, hear the gulping covered by the roaring of the fire as it settled into consuming whatever fuel remained. The smoke was merciful, though acrid.
The claret was merely nutrition, no longer a pleasure. Still, he swallowed the mud gladly, only realizing when he dropped the empty shell that he need not have bothered to hide the act.
His leman was gone. Another escape attempt, taking advantage of temporary confusion?
No. The fleeing vehicle, he decided. This trap had another dimension; she was not yet completely taken by the Gift, and showed distinct signs of disorientation. Perhaps she was even confused, thinking them a manner of rescue. Interesting indeed, and now not only had he been betrayed, but the traitors had completed their own ruin by laying hands upon what belonged to a true predator.
Lukas paused only long enough to toss the bodies upon the burning vehicle, bursting into mistform just as smaller explosions of unexpended ammunition began to pop and ricochet once more, a mock-battle echoing in an empty concrete well.
CHAPTER 35
