He had already stripped the SIM from the small modern ‘phone’ Father’s troops could use to track him; the other, updated every few years, was as secret as could be managed. The wonder of this particular mortal technology struck him afresh, and he marveled at its implications in a way he had not been able to while age-calcification lay thick upon him. Father’s newest fledgling, selected for both aesthetic appeal and modern technical prowess, had patiently explained the principles and applications several times, repeating each point so many times as necessary, and finally the soldier had grasped enough for use, as he could most weapons.
Now, though, he could fully understand what the pretty straw-haired youth had been attempting to impart. A shame he would never see young Otto again—unless, that was, events took a truly distressing turn.
Father ordered the pruning of his household’s ranks at regular intervals. Perhaps it was the patriarch’s favorite method of warding away the creeping rigidity, though the soldier knew his Maker derived a great deal of sadistic enjoyment from watching Nemesis wreak havoc upon those he had more often than not trained and commanded.
Is that who I am?The soldier stopped, turning over the second cellphone in his hands, and looked to the bed.
Now his nymph was tucked under the covers, her boots neatly arranged at the bedside. He had thought perhaps she would not wish to sleep clothed, but if he touched even the button at her denims’ waistband—much less the zipper—he would not be able to refrain from claiming her.
The initial event was of some import to leman, or so rumor and lore insisted. Naturally the prize could be psychologically broken past resistance, or even taken unaware… but that was a terrible beginning. Even the fellow soldiers of his mortal life had opinions upon the proper way to conduct such affairs after the first paroxysm of sack and pillage, or when a veteran returned home after doing his duty.
So far he had avoided the worst mistake, or so he hoped. He pressed the power button on the side of the thin metallic rectangle and waited for the electronic servant to awaken. Really the things were akin to the spirits said to wait upon certain gods; after a certain point, there was very little difference between technology and divine powers.
“Maximus.” He heard his own voice, and almost twitched. Singsong talk to oneself could be a sign of accelerating ossification, an irretrievable descent into madness rendering a sanguinant sloppy enough to be dispatched by mischance, human hunters—or their own kind.
The demimonde teemed with predators, visible and otherwise.
He was now proof against fatal rigidity, paralysis, insanity. Every breath freighted with his leman’s perfume was further evidence; the sudden relief of that clinging, ever-present fear was worth any tribute she might exact. “That was my praenomen.”
Of course his mortal nomen and cognomen were gone, lost to time just as his gens and every human being who might remember who he had been—except for Father, of course.
He will be furious at the loss. Nemesis was a tool to be used, and a faithful one. Yet for some while the soldier had wondered if perhaps his own Maker had decayed past the Rubicon, so to speak. The soldier’s plans to escape also included a fewcontingencies for taking Father’s territory and other possessions—treacherous to even think of, yes, but also necessary.
Unavoidable, since any man who claimed to be rational must plan for the future.
At the moment, his first consideration was not freedom but protecting his frail prize. Who would not be mortal for much longer, true, but would remain achingly vulnerable not only to daylight and mischance but also plain theft. For a moment the soldier let himself imagine what might transpire if the patriarch found out and managed to lay hands upon her.
The growl rose from his chest, a sanguinant’s battle-warning vibrating in air gone hot and motionless under invisible seals, and Leila’s steady breathing halted. She stirred, making a soft sleepy sound, and turned on her side, settling into more-natural somnolence as fatigue asserted itself through thequietus.
She might never understand what she had saved him from. He had forgotten even his ownname, centuries passing under his keel with their changing mortal fashions only worth a few bemused glances. Even studying the ways and inventions of mortal warfare had not been enough to keep him more than partially awake.
If not for her appearance, how long before he succumbed to true-death, either sinking into dreaded but necessary rest or by some error during combat, dying upon an enemy’s claws? Or maddened past bearing by the incomprehensible modern world, perhaps even walking into the crucifying kiss of sunlight to seek the relief of permanent oblivion?
A shudder worked down his body. He almost closed his fist, rendering the phone useless as it splintered, but halted the motion just in time. His head tipped back, fangs bared and still throbbing; his own scent had changed, enfolding her lighter, lovely rose-and-musk. A dainty, priceless prize, falling into bloodstained claws.
Very well.“Maximus,” he repeated. “That is my name.” When she woke, he would begin afresh—a new man, painstakingly learning her preferences, modern ways, and modern mores, insofar as he could.
The campaign might be long; it was rumored some leman never became resigned to cushioned, protective captivity. Nevertheless, each battle would be satisfying in its own right, and in any case he had no other option.
The phone had fallen asleep as well. He woke it with a poke at the touchscreen, granted it permission to update, and began his preparations.
CHAPTER 7
At first shethought the guys had gone out for donuts and left her to sleep in, as they sometimes did; she deeply disliked the feeling of being abandoned, sure, but a few hours of peace and quiet almost made up for it. As a bonus, there were no nightmares, unless she counted a particular vivid dream about being trapped in a deteriorating warehouse while a terrifying invisible force whisked her squad one by one into darkness.
Before she opened her eyes, Layla could even pretend the slight headache was a combination of summer dehydration and missing the morning coffee call. Her throat felt raspy and there was an odd heaviness in her limbs, like the fourth-day echo of a super hard workout with one of Shawn’s crew.
Thinking of O’Shaughnassey so early in the morning was a bad sign. Layla groaned, rubbed at her face with nearly numb palms, and draped an arm across her eyes. The outside world could goddamn well wait for a few more minutes.
Doozy of a dream. I almost thought…
It was so quiet. And blessedly, wonderfully cool, though she was under tangled covers and her T-shirt had ridden up but good. She’d slept in her jeans again, ugh. Plus, her surroundingsoutright smelled wrong—no overlapping mildew, old pizza, and gun oil, but canned air, heavily sprayed Pledge, and industrial-strength fabric detergent.
That wasn’t a dream.Sudden, inarguable certainty, rising like a shark in dark water. Then the instinctive certainty she was being watched arrived, unwelcome and familiar; memory flooded in, a bright, nasty collage of terror.
“Good evening,” the vampire said, and Layla was out of the bed like a shot. The sheets and coverlet tried to stop her, wrapped like clinging seaweed, but she scrambled free—harsh lick of rugburn against her right palm, her knee hitting the pink-carpeted floor hard enough to click her teeth together—and threw herself for the door she must have somehow, on some level, remembered.
Or she tried to. Less than halfway there a pair of iron-hard arms closed around her and she was lifted off madly flailing sock feet. She writhed, attempting to elbow him, to shake free, to kick, but wild motion made absolutely zero difference. A hot, dry palm closed over her mouth, trapping a despairing scream, and a deep, imperturbable male voice purred near her ear, muffled by tangled hair and the thumping of her panicked heart.
