Given Wrenfeldt’s age, it would not take more than half a year—if that long—for his physical dissolution to become total. It was an agonizing death, and another sanguinant could not save him. Not that another would be inclined to welcome such a discard; why bother, when a much younger and less suspect item could be acquired with so little trouble?
“Of course.” He ignored the whimpers behind him; the release of the quietus allowed pain to begin piercing the veil of shock. The dogsbody might not even be able to leave this small, dusty room. “Clasp my neck, kitten. We must move quickly, and the snow thickens.”
Her arms stole upward, fingers interlacing at his nape. Lukas swept her up, and took her from the small charnel-house.
They were far away when Wrenfeldt began throat-cut howling, but Lukas was certain she did not hear. His leman was so weary, after all, and as he pressed her head to his chest he also covered her other ear with his palm, his fingers tangled in her clinging, windblown hair.
There were certain places well used to hosting the demimonde, though their employees remained largely unconscious of the fact; what money could not accomplish among mortals, a certain amount of invisible pressure inevitably managed to overcome. He had planned to use this hotel anyway, and the iron-haired clerk at the front desk—though eyeing Lukas’s ruined garb somewhat askance—was familiar enough with the quality of fabric speaking more loudly than any parlous condition.
Besides, no desk clerk was averse to earning a little extra cash, especially two crisp, folded bills proffered in the politest, most acceptable manner. Such maneuvers had not changed for centuries, and no doubt many travelers were stranded by the gathering storm. Most importantly, the credit card Lukas produced for an identity Wren had never touched was of the requisite type to impress, another subtle signal.
And the rumpled, sleepy angel leaning against Lukas’s side was beautiful enough to daze any onlooker lucky enough to catch a glimpse. She bore only a few smudges of soot on clothes of the same understated but extreme quality, and that was enough of a passport to overcome any residual uncertainty.
No luggage, but a yawning bellboy was nevertheless roused to show them to the suite—the clerk was either earning his own bribe or that rarest of creatures, a manager eager to spread good fortune. Nevertheless, Lukas wildly overtipped the young man in his scarlet uniform as well, and made certain both blinds and curtains were drawn.
Beatrice swayed with fatigue near the foot of a very large bed clad in a patterned pale-green duvet and likewise spring-colored pillows. There was a little more taste than usual in the suite’s decorating, but it hardly mattered; the walls and door took seals just as any other bolthole would, and he was careful to hang the do not disturb tag beforehand.
Too exhausted to be skittish, she let him slide the red coat from her shoulders. The greisoul glimmered, full of its own secret fire, and he longed to strip her, run his fingertips over her curves, reassure himself of her wholeness. Yet she was so pale, nearly transparent, and dark smudges rested under heavy-lidded eyes.
He dragged a claw over his wrist, let the flesh part. “Drink.”
His leman did not demur, but fastened on. Her true teeth had arrived, and their sliding into his flesh was an exquisite sting. Lukas eased her down upon the bed, letting her draw again and again. The thrall poked and prodded; he pressed his face into her hair and did his best to enfold her in his larger bulk.
He closed the wound in stages; her fangs slipped free as dawn took hold. Beatrice sighed, fading into a fledgling’s rest.
Anything Wren or Hardison could possibly have uncovered was suspect. Once more it was necessary to burn a network of influence and assets to the ground, moving elsewhere as the flames faded. Eventually new growth covered ashes.
Along with fire, it was the only certainty. Normally he would feel the urge to mourn, if only to keep ossification at bay with a grief as sharp as the stony, clinging fingers.
Not now. Nor did he move to rise just yet, though there was daylight work to accomplish—travel to arrange, luggage to acquire, hunting just before dusk in order to feed her once more when darkness covered the world. All that could wait a few short, luxurious hours.
Every ending also means a certain freedom. A harsh lesson only time could grant, carrying its own reward. Lukas closed his eyes, and the blackness for once was kind.
He breathed her in, ignored the thrall’s discomfort.
I thought you were dead. As if that were possible when he now had so much to enjoy, the world a dangerous garden to experience through her shining eyes. Eventually she might even understand what it meant that her sanguinant was no longer merely daywalker but Archon.
Time enough for anything, now. He cradled Paradise in his arms, and listened to the imperceptible sound of his fledgling’s deathly sleep.
EPILOGUE
Some months later
Full moon hanging over a harbor, bioluminescence tinting warm lapping waves, stars crowding a sky too soft to be truly black, a breeze redolent of garlic, salt, cooking meat, roses, car exhaust, and a liquid golden tang reminiscent of olive oil—Bea braced her elbows on the stone balustrade, enjoying the last leftover sun-warmth leaching from its roughness.
The nights were still getting shorter, but at least this faint echo of sunshine lingered well after dusk. The study’s windows were floor-length, more like doors and easy to prop ajar; she liked this terrace a lot. Sneaking out to look at the night despite having a lot of studying to catch up on was a time-honored tradition.
If she unfocused her gaze, the town’s lights shimmered starlike as well. Bright interweaving threads of violin, accordion, and guitar drifted up the hill, fading in and out as the breeze shifted. Learning how to use super-senses hadn’t taken long, and now she wondered how she’d ever gotten along in the world without the sharp edges, the interplay of colors never before dreamt of, hearing every scratch and whisper of the night as well as the drowsy thunder of human heartbeats, each pulse distinct and unique.
She sensed him before he spoke, of course. Lukas resolved in the shadows, linen shirt and loosely elegant summer trousers glimmering faintly. It was fun to dress him; he no longer looked like a starchy, near-clumsy old man trapped in an awkwardly young-seeming body. He’d grown his hair out too, though shaking it from his eyes every so often might have annoyed him. His habit of ambling along with hands deep in his pockets certainly helped him look a lot more human.
“I know, I know.” Bea heaved an only partly theatrical sigh, taking a last long look at the moon’s cratered, beautiful grin. The vast luminous disc was yellowish, prickling her eyes slightly—reflected sunlight, after all, even if robbed of hurtful power. “I should be working. I’m so behind on the stupid math requirements I might never catch up.”
The study’s lamps burned softly, casting golden squares and triangles on the terrace; he stayed in deeper shadow, as usual. A whisper of cloth moving was his shrug. “No need to hurry, kitten. There’s a festival in the town tonight.”
So that’s what it is. “I was wondering about the music.” She straightened reluctantly, turning away from sea, moon, stars. Above the house of biscuit-colored stone more cliffs rose, olive-green vegetation hiding in deep vertical cracks, the top alive with trees older than Philadelphia. “Let me guess. You want to drag me away from the books to have a little fun, because I’m too young to be so serious.”
“Something like that.” His Italian was apparently very good, hers no more than passable though everyone was extremely polite with her attempts. The housekeeper, groundskeeper, and the kid Lukas paid to run small errands and fetch things for Signora Costa all apparently considered Bea to be slightly dim though well-meaning, a decorative bauble for the young husband Lukas played with relish. “I thought I could first drag you to bed and do something very pleasant, before we take the car downhill and spend a few hours drinking chianti in the square.”
