Even that was marvelous, exquisite luxury after so long of no feeling at all—not even grey apathy, simplyabsence. She could drive the blade into his chest so many times as she wished. In each and every instance, he would be thankful for the sheer rushing glory of sensation.
A tiny gleam between her long dark lashes; was she too afraid to gaze upon her new protector? “Can I… are you done?”
I have not yet begun, little Leila. But it seems I have done poorly indeed. “I will move, very slowly. Are you hurt?”
For some reason, the question seemed to amuse her. At least, his new leman began to laugh, causing a fascinating series of tiny shifts and contractions around his shaft. He had to use several centuries’ worth of habitual focus to withdraw, inch by slow resisting inch. When he was finally untangled she immediately turned onto her side, curling into a tight ball, and burst into tears.
Sorrow and the consciousness of his own failure was sweet as well, though it pierced his ribs’ bony shield as nothing since his own mortal sword ever had. The sumptuousness of merefeelinghad claws; those shards sank into him and twisted while she sobbed as if her own priceless, wonderful, mortal heart were broken.
The night was fleeing. He would have preferred a bath, a slow gentle ritual to perhaps soothe his new prize, some conversation to accustom her to his attentions. At least the day’s deliveries to the suite’s outer room, prompted by the ‘clean’ cellphone, had been accomplished—a paltry offering, nothing to what he would eventually provide, but he was uneasy at remaining any longer in this locale.
Now she was pale and unresisting, though she took a dampened washcloth and scrubbed at her face as if angry at her own tears. Her lovely blue-grey eyes were rimmed with tender inflamed pink, evidence of weeping blurring her beauty in an altogether enticing manner, and she seemed not to notice her denims were shredded.
His claws had stripped those trousers most efficiently, not to mention broken the button on his own. Her shirt was torn at the hem; she plucked at it vaguely with sweet delicate fingertips, attempting to stretch the fabric into covering dark pubic fleece or the lovely curves of her hindquarters, fit for a goddess’s statue.
At least in this age, clothing was easy to obtain. When he led her out of the bedroom she stared dully at the suite’s carpet, mismatched socks making quiet brushing sounds as she followed the gentle pressure at her elbow. He had arranged the open suitcase on the pink-and-yellow couch in the outer room, hoping at least something among the offerings would meet with her approval.
“There was little time, so…” Was this feelingawkwardness? It was just as delightsome as every other emotion returned to him, burnished by her presence. He knew how to thrust a pile of gear at a dogsbody or fledgling, how to bring a squad to readiness with a single word, how to teach weapons care, trigger discipline, tactical awareness.
But how did one deal with a beautiful, numbly staring leman? Especially as she pulled at her shirt’s hem again, barely glancing at a pile of expensive cloth?
In the end he selected a dark-red dress much akin to what she had worn the previous night—had it really been such a short while ago? The world, the entireuniversehad changed in a few brief hours.
Her name belonged to a Persian princess; she deserved diaphanous woven-air robes, rings and necklaces dripping with gems to match her lucent eyes, diadems fit for one of such exalted status, anklets of chiming bells. It hurt to see her so thin, so uncertain, in modern mortal rags.
Though trembling, she still offered no resistance when he extended a claw-tip to cut the shirt free; a tiny, clearly fearfulflinch tore at his heart. She raised her arms obediently when told to. At least he knew one did not step into this type of garment, and he had very little trouble with the fastening—the zipper up the back, the single button at the top between her lovely frail shoulderblades. Wide straps over her sweetly rounded shoulders, the waistline settled low, the skirt falling in glimmering folds to her delicious, rounded knees.
“It fits,” his leman said, clearly surprised. Silken hair, loose and gloriously rumpled, fell to the middle of her back; she pushed blue-black tendrils from her face with a small, irritable motion, piercing his heart afresh.
“Of course.” He was not yet expert in discerning her preferences, but he could easily convert tactical gears’ sizing to civilian. “Still, you will have to tell me what you like.”
All animation and wonder fled. Her hands dropped loosely to her sides, and she turned her head slightly, staring past him.
At the door to the hotel hallway.
Ah. “Thinking of escape?”
A single, extraordinarily vengeful glance—she could slay a man with that look alone, though he was cheered to see any break in the apathy. “If I try, you’ll hurt me.”
“No.” Though he could not expect her to believe as much, Maximus realized; he quickly closed and fastened the suitcase. The mating-thrall was temporarily sated inside his bones yet stirred sleepily at the bare thought of a chase, protective and predatory instincts working in tandem. “It will simply lead to a pleasant interlude,puella mea.”
“How do you know my name?” At least she was speaking. Questions led to answers, so he could hopefully begin explanations.
“I heard your companions address you.” He paused, straightened, and offered his hand as he had seen modern mortals do. In his day, one greeted friends or prestigiousstrangers far more intimately. “I… am Maximus. That was—ismy name. Though you may choose another, if you like; I will answer.”
Her forehead furrowed. “Maximus?” Her accent robbed the syllables of their old meaning, but it was also pleasant to hear the word again. In fact, it stirred old dark mortal memories. “Like the… You’ve got to be kidding.”
Did he remember how to jest? It had been so long since he had been tempted to a short, barking chuckle or even the shadow of a smile. Perhaps she would teach him that, as well.
Anticipating the lesson was another pleasure. So many, a veritable banquet crowding upon him, and no risk of true-death by glut. He lowered his hand, a trifle awkwardly. “No. Do you dislike it? Simply choose another.” Names were easy as mortal money, as taking a territory and commandeering its resources for shelter, clothing, amusement, prey.
A thin thread of unease trickled through him, lush as any other newly restored emotion. Yes, names could be changed like modern machine-woven raiment, yet he had forgotten his own.
Not least because his Maker had granted him another. Answering toNemesisfor… how long? He found, somewhat to his surprise, that he could not guess with any accuracy. Several centuries, as the mortal world underwent metamorphosis and the dust of ages accreted, shifts in prey languages or periodic bouts of battle and murder providing the only calendar-marks.
“Uh. Okay.” A faint shadow of interest wrinkled sweet Leila’s brow; she brushed vaguely at her tousled mane and shuddered. “What…”
Her uncertainty was only to be expected, even as he longed to banish its shadowy wing. Perhaps it was best to give her an objective. “We must quit this place. There is some distance to travel before dawn.”
