“Your...brother?” Calm puzzlement was best, he decided. “What was his name, then? Perhaps we may start there.”
Apparently she did not wish to do so. Instead, the sublime creature who had staked him let out a rusty scream and lurched into motion, moving with a great deal of swift efficiency for a mortal. It was like seeing a colt astagger in a spring meadow; Lukas lost himself in further appreciation for a moment before rising, catching her wrist, and spinning her slight weight on its axis. Locking his other arm about her naked waist was perfectly wonderful, though the warm living weight clasped tightly to his own much more durable frame strained his control again.
The stake hit the carpet.
She was so soft. Pitching back and forth, kicking, hissing like a maddened cat, his new leman also loosed a torrent of surprisingly foul modern obscenities, delivered in a husky, enraged contralto which slid a pleasant rasp down Lukas’s back.
If she did not cease moving so beautifully against his entire front, he was going to do something truly regrettable. He wanted the initial encounter performed correctly; a leman could indeed be broken, but that was hardly ideal. They were traditionally given the Gift immediately upon meeting, and perhaps he should do so.
Ruthlessness was generally best. His arms tightened, his mouth next to her perfect, shell-like ear, and a whisper left him as the psychic pressure of quietus clamped upon a helpless mortal.
“Shh, kitten.” He waited as her struggles slowed, inhaling deeply. Filling his lungs with the fragrance of an unbonded leman was contradictory, both powerfully soothing and tightening his every bloodstring. His groin throbbed painfully. “I am an animal, yes. But a considerate one; do not make this difficult for yourself.”
She held out far longer than other, physically stronger mortals; the stubbornness was charming. Finally, though, his prize went limp, breathing deep, her eyelids fluttering dreamily.
So, so tempting. Yet she was also so very thin, ribs and the high sweet curves of her hipbones clearly visible; fresh bruises lingered on fine, tender skin so pale the blue map of her veins begged for tracing with reverent fingertips.
He had to move very carefully to lay her upon the bed, and could not take more than small furtive glances at the tableau while dressing her. He should have brought something of more quality, but the time constraint of chasing down the most valuable prey of his entire existence precluded any such nicety.
A cursory search found her only luggage, a backpack, contained a change of clothes—no red dress, just denim trousers, T-shirt, a cheap dark-blue jumper. Indigo, a fitting color for such a prize, though no longer so expensive. He could not bother with the underclothes, since his hands were shaking imperceptibly and the thrall-throes mounting with each moment spent breathing her in.
Yet he did pause while working a battered trainer onto her perfect, sock-clad left foot. Lukas’s head cocked, a faint brush at the edge of sensitive hearing not quite breaking the spell of his new, somnolent leman.
How very odd. The attention was certainly malignant, but was it coincidence? This was a far too urban an area for such things. Had someone nearby angered the little excrescences? Lukas slipped the phone from his jacket’s breast pocket; at least he had changed his cloth and possibly made a good first impression.
Wearing the same blood-spattered suit she had attempted to murder him in might have given the wrong idea.
Wrenfeldt answered on the second ring, perhaps a little nervous at his master’s uncharacteristic behavior. “Yes, sir?”
“Bring the car around.” Lukas had to enunciate carefully, for his fangs were achingly sensitive. “You have a bit of cold iron upon your person, yes?” Any dogsbody was taught such elementary self-defense against no few of the demimonde’s weaker annoyances.
“Nail in my pocket, sir. As usual.”
“Good.” Lukas found himself staring at her hand, laid gently against cheap pink counterpane. Her pretty fingers were slack, delicate knuckles wounded perhaps in the elevator; he would have to exercise far more care with this most enthusiastic playmate. The slight sound of invisible interest remained, a watchful, lingering bane.
No matter. She was removed from the mortal world now; very few even in the demimonde’s higher reaches would interfere with a daywalker’s leman. He scooped up the stake, since perhaps it held some sentimental value. Had she attempted this with others of his kind?
No, for she would have been taken. Even a fledgling, rendered drunk by the scent, would seek to hold such a gift.
A few minutes later Room 23 was empty, outer door firmly closed, the light in the bathroom burning. Steam still hung in the air, slowly settle-swirling.
CHAPTER 5
After the jolt of terror and strange swimming delirium, there was soft cloudy nothingness. Bea was vaguely aware of low voices, of movement, but it was all very far away. Nothing mattered.
Am I dead?
It wasn’t entirely out of the question. You heard all sorts of hideous things while attempting to break into the monster-hunting scene. Sasquatch, bloodsuckers, werewolves, the little green men with their shark-teeth and clinging fog, the staircases in the woods, Mothman, phantom hitchhikers, alien abductions all had their places in folklore or urban legend, but nobody wanted to see the autopsy reports or wobbly, staticky recordings. Nobody cared to think about the missing-persons statistics, or hear the truly goosebump-inducing proof of anything truly weird.
Most people simply liked to leave a movie theater after a good scare, the itch scratched and catharsis achieved. Anything truly wiggy tended to make sane human beings run in the opposite direction, plus most folks refused to testify about really inexplicable happenings. Ignoring was safer, consigning the events to neat little mental boxes only unlocked by booze or late-night AM radio ravings.
It was very bright. Bea blinked several times, waiting for the glare to resolve into shapes and colors. Or maybe she was in heaven?
That’s really unlikely.
No, her eyes were just fucked up. A few moments of further blinking and rubbing revealed, of all things, a bedroom.
At least, the room had a bed. A real gollywhopping four-poster number, spires of lovingly polished hardwood carved into tall, skinny winged figures. The sheets were pale blue and felt high threadcount, aquamarine and navy cotton blankets, a vast indigo velvet comforter that had to be filled with down. And she could tell the sheets were good because her legs were bare, along with her shoulders.
