She could keep him off-balance, if only for a little while. It was a wonderful development, a great change, and an absolutely terrifying risk. “Promise me,” she cooed.Am I really doing this? Jesus. “Promise you won’t leave me behind.”
The growl started, vibrating in his chest. Strangely, the sound wasn’t entirely frightening, if only because she had so much else to worry about before her body took over and everything else was pushed to the sidelines. Oh yes, now she understood how this was power, and could be exercised.
It might be the only currency, the onlycontrolshe had. Fine, she’d use it, for as long as possible.
He made some sort of answer, but the words were strange and harsh, a foreign language. Clearly nothing her few years of high-school Spanish could untangle; Layla pushed at his shoulders, her back arching, still keeping just barely ahead of his attempts to work deeper, to overwhelm.
Then his fangs drove into her throat.
CHAPTER 20
A single mouthfulof honeysalt ambrosia was all he could safely take from her fragility, but it satisfied as no amount of gorging upon mere mortal or fellow sanguinant could. His leman cried out, a sweet husky sound bouncing from tiled walls and floor; her limbs loosened just a fraction, just enough for her to settle entirely upon his phallus. Driven deep, a blade sunk to the hilt in its dark, willing sheath, every weary year of his existence narrowing to a single point.
All the battle, the striving, the agony was dissolved, shredded to nothingness by the taste of his leman, the feel of her closed about him. Every bloodstained moment, every wound, every cry of murder or victory, every bitter defeat or frenzied plundering was nothing compared to this glory.
She was lost in her own pleasure now, water rippling as she undulated in his arms. Forcing his fangs to slide free and sealing the punctures was a duty he could not avoid, performed swift and thoroughly before freeing a hand to cup the back of her head, guiding her to his mouth once more so she could share the taste of sheer wondrous beauty.
He had the march-pattern now, working with her slight body as velvet heat strangled his shaft. Words vibrated in his throat, riding the battle-roar filling his chest, both beast and mating-thrall howling for possession. Promises, blandishments, endearments he had never thought would escape his lips were lost in the kiss; how could she think he would not return to this?
Toher?
A great rushing stillness filled the room. Outside, his enemies lurked; those who would steal her slunk to hide in daylight holes. He barely cared at the moment—she was safe, she was his, and she lingered upon the cusp of release, holding off the crisis with maddening intensity, just beyond his reach.
No. I will please you, at least. It is all I am allowed.
That was the punishment of finding something so beautiful, so unstained, and grasping it with bloody hands. He could long for her affection but would only receive a measure of tolerance—if he were lucky, if he were blessed by whatever god had decided, in a momentary fit of graciousness, to drop her in a soldier’s path.
More than enough.
So, ruthless as ever in combat, he pursued that stillness. Found it, pressed hard upon the shy swelling nubbin of her landica, and tipped his beautiful storm-eyed nymph over the edge.
More cries, her shaking and shuddering, his own body slipping control for a brief eternity, cradling her as the cataclysm raged inside his ageless flesh and her no-longer-wholly mortal form.
It was well past dawn, the Gift already reaching toward the high flame of transition inside his leman; she was clearly weary from a night spent in anxiety. It was easy to slip a bit of thequietusover her, the lightest of psychic pressure. He drew a claw along his chest, blood welling to the surface yet held from spilling free, and guided her head downward. Her mouth fastened sleepily on the slash, drawing with exquisite care. Each swallow caused his entire being to thrum, a string played by delicate fingertips, and he let her take full measure before closing the slash.
The floor was no doubt awash. Tub-trapped water cooled to tepid, though a sanguinant’s bodyfire could more than heat such a small amount. Maximus was content to simply keep his drowsing prize warm enough. She resisted full sleep for some short while, though he thought she would not be able to do so again. For a slight crackle of bones shifting passed through her slenderness, and as her downy cheek rested against him the tiny movements of jaw and maxilla told him her true teeth were forming.
No pain for his nymph, both the change agents and his ichor providing narcotic ease. Her final metamorphosis into the Blood would be lost in deep restorative slumber; he stroked her dark, silk-clinging hair and enjoyed the last brief peace he might ever know.
When he could slip free of her flesh, he carried her to the bed, arranging her slack dreaming limbs, and tucked her in securely. Clothing himself, rearranging a few items—what had she been doing with the chair, he wondered, before deciding it did not matter—and strengthening the invisible seals occupied him well into daytime. The sun was high overhead; he had until dusk.
Covered with the scent of a divine gift, ringed with the feel of her, his very blood sighing her name, Maximus longed to recline at her side. It was impossible; he was not fit to rest upon a nymph’s bed.
Besides, he had to plan.
How many times had he put his back to a wall, sitting with knees drawn up and arms draped loosely, his chin down as he stared at a patch of ground between his heels? Often, during his mortal life, he had done so with gladius lying nearby, his shield propped next to the opposite shoulder, both silent, trusted companions.
After his own violent, agonizing conversion, he had used almost every weapon mortals could dream of. Eventually his own claws more than sufficed, though there was an elegance to some invented implements. Even an old, strong sanguinant might well require something ingenious to carry out orders.
Or to protect a prize.
What will he do? You know your enemy well, predict him.
Maximus drifted between trance-rest and the peculiar focused concentration of strategic anticipation. Attempting to simply flee this city was certainly preferable, but unlikely to succeed. If even one other sanguinant knew of lovely Leila, he would merely be shifting the battle to another locale. His opponents would not cease the hunt until dead or in possession of a leman; wherever he stopped to rest his prize, the terrain might not be so well suited to his purposes, nor scouted thoroughly enough to be properly utilized.
The ground here was prepared; besides, he now possessed an edge no other creature knew of, not even his sleeping guerdon. There was a time for flight or for withstanding siege, then there came the moment for turning upon pursuit with the fury of a cornered beast.
A better opportunity was exceedingly unlikely to occur, especially since the bond with his leman would only deepen. At this point even a single night spent away was too much; his effectiveness had waned with alarming speed during the final few engagements before dawn.
