The male howled. Stocky and dark, curl-haired, he was the one who had held Leila against a brick wall, his hands roaming her slenderness; not only that, but he had fled with no attempt to protect her—although, Maximus admitted, theignavuswould have died with the others, had he tried.
Now this absolute poltroon had committed an even graver sin. Tearing prey in half was too quick, crushing every remaining bone in a frail mortal body would be satisfying but might disturb sweet Leila, evisceration was messy and might also unnerve her. What was left?
“No!” A hoarse shout, a metallic clang, a light pattering of footsteps. She did not flee—no, now his nymph crossed the space between them and flung herself at his back, her scraped and swollen hands grasping his left forearm. “No, please, no, don’t hurt him, please don’t?—”
The male screamed, an agonizing wail. Maximus’s true teeth sprang free; thequietusdescended, squeezing no less sharply than his fingers. The cry died on a gurgle, and the mortal stilled.
Now decisions could be made.
Leila continued to tug at her sanguinant’s arm, achieving nothing—she could not hope to move him with physical force. Still, the soldier hesitated and turned his head slightly, chin tucked almost to his shoulder. To catch her in corner-vision was also piercingly sweet, a glimpse of lingering beauty.
She froze, slim fingers tangled in his torn sweater-sleeve. “Please,” she whispered. “It’s not his fault, it’s best practice, okay? Please don’t hurt him.”
There was a suspicious weight in Maximus’s throat; his back twitched, flesh expelling the last few bits of shattered bullet. Ejected with some small force, they pattered into darkness; he had to force his true teeth away. He could easily drain this prey, take her to rest, and consider at leisure what had transpired in the last few hours. The night was old, she required rest, he had much to think upon.
Once more his plans were disarranged. But that was the nature of battle.Fog of war, the mortal theorists called it, and they were far more correct than they knew.
Another flurry of tugging. “Please.” Frantic pleading, wholly unaware of her own power, blind to the inevitable result of misplaced mercy. “Please, Max. It’s Max, right? Maximus. I’ll do anything you want, I promise I’ll cooperate, just please,pleasedon’t hurt him.”
How very strange. Yet she was a woman, and a modern mortal at that. He had already let this male vanish once, despite her companions’ attack upon Father’s dogsbodies and more importantly, the rule that it was always best to rid a leman of any lingering emotional ties. Initial severity aided in adjustment to their new status.
No sanguinant survived long without understanding cruel necessity, whether momentary—or permanent.
He eyed the male, who quivered under thequietus. She offered far more resistance to that invisible pressure, but then again, she was leman.
Hisleman.
The soldier leaned down slightly, took a good whiff of the mortal male. Naturally the scent was already fixed in memory; a predator did not forget such things. But he wished to drive the point home, not least for the nymph who hung upon his arm, trembling with pain and fatigue.
“You may go,” he said, though it irked. “I suggest you return to whatever home you have and forget the demimonde. If I catch sight or scent of you again, nothing will save you.” What else could he add? “Remember always that you live only becauseshewishes it.”
One final squeeze, small bones grinding, flesh turning to paste, the metal of the gun making a low, unhappy sound as it bent. Great clear drops stood out on the mortal’s brow; his pupils were huge, andquietusdenied him the questionable relief of howling in agony.
I can always hunt him down later. A comforting thought, but should he do so without his leman’s knowledge?
Maximus decided that was a decision for another night. He dropped the hapless coward, took up his wandering prize, and left thequietusto drain away its own accord.
Upon the outskirts of the city, a cracked, fraying paved driveway barred only by a cattle gate rose up a slight dusty incline to a compact two-story farmhouse, the slight prominence surrounded by nodding metal pumps drawing crude petroleum upward. He circled the structure thrice before deciding it wasclear, and there was a certain grim satisfaction in circumventing the security system—held in passive mode since the mortal troops who had accompanied him to this outpost would be well upon their way, returning to Father’s abode for new missions.
Or they had been cleared from the board by ruddy-haired William.
The latter was far more likely, as the mortal soldiers’ loyalties might be rendered suspect or superfluous to William’s requirements. Besides, active measures were expensive, and despite his vast wealth the patriarch Antinous was something of a skinflint. None would expect a traitorous soldier to take refuge here; if luck was kind, news of the ruddy youth’s demise would tarry upon its way to the patriarch’s ears.
Despite its seeming remoteness and dedication to the machinery of extraction, this place was surprisingly adjacent to more densely settled slices of the city. Its only drawback was a lack of access to highways leading outward, but since those could be under watch by now—and other means of egress surveilled as well, the soldier suspected—it was a fine place for a wary wolf to hide, gather his thoughts, and tend his prize.
Carrying a wounded, semiconscious leman was a thorny pleasure. He pressed his lips to her temple, attempting to express some measure of comfort; she fit in his arms as if specifically sculpted for the perch.
The true value of this lair was not the outer shell, though during daylight the dogsbodies and mortal troops he had selected for the original task—removing Esgard the Varangian so Father could take this territory—had been comfortable enough. No, the stairs leading to a concrete-sheathed basement were far more useful, and the saferoom at their foot reasonably well equipped.
Securing the single entrance to that haven was a distinct relief, as was the glow from incandescent fixtures. The furniturewas old and heavy—bedstead, large fully stocked wardrobe made of fragrant wood, a plain wooden chair the soldier had hardly glanced at during his first visit, judging it fit only to hang a holster on. Of more immediate concern was the bathing-room. The plumbing was antique and robust, heavy porcelain slightly discolored with age, but the tub was cast-iron and quite capacious.
Invisible seals shimmered into being, and he surprised himself with a sigh. Safe enough until next sunset, and now he had time to consider what he might be required to do in order to not merely take his treasure from this city but also permanently safeguard her.
He finally realized his clothing consisted mostly of fluttering rags. Her dress was better, though still torn and stained; they would have to make do with what remained in the wardrobe.
First, though, his sweet star-eyed Leila required proper care.
And feeding.
