Besides, if his now-chief opponent’s opening move was as Maximus suspected, Leila might well be broken by complete terror, though physically unharmed inside the seal. Even a leman driven to feral insanity was too precious to lay aside, and he could keep her contained for centuries while patiently waiting for recovery.
Yet he did not wish to, especially if by some mischance he did not kill his enemy and the hunt commenced. No matter which way he turned the situation inside his skull-case, a logical conclusion was unavoidable. Hemustwin here, now, and entirely. There was one slim chance to surpass all previous battles, a single gamble he would never have a better chance at winning.
Fellow sanguinant called him Nemesis, and apparently even mortals heard those whispers; if he accomplished this, he could consider himself worthy of the name. Never mind it had been first granted by Father—no.
ByAntinous. He could no longer call his Maker anything but a danger to be eradicated.
Sweet Leila would more than likely grow to despise him, as he could now admit he hated the one who had seen a dying soldier upon a Hispania battlefield and granted the Gift almost as an afterthought. Maximus had survived the change, and for millennia he had fought when commanded, killed when required, drank oceans of blood, trampled those Antinous wished erased.
No more. This would see an end to it, one way or another. His only regret was for what his nymph would have to suffer upon the next dusk.
CHAPTER 21
Her evil plan had worked;he apparently wasn’t going to leave her imprisoned much longer. Which was such great news Layla almost didn’t mind flicking into consciousness like a light switch and nearly levitating off the bed in a single twitch.
If she could just stop losing her clothes, she’d call it a definite win. The torn sweats were part of a sodden heap in the corner of the bathroom, along with the ruins of Max’s yesterday outfit plus a towel full of congealed grit and dried blood, topped with the shirt he’d sliced off her last night when the bathtub interaction really got going.
Thank God he didn’t seem ready for a rematch. Instead, he watched while she used the sole clean washcloth to scrub up in approved vampire-hunter fashion, and he even laid out the chifforobe’s very last supplies on the bed, which was now neatly made with hospital corners.
Apparently vampires, unlike human males, could do basic housekeeping.
He was just the same—sweater, trousers, boots. But he’d cut down a T-shirt and the last pair of Carhartts for her, and torn the last T-shirt into strips to act as a belt. The work pants were stillridiculously balloon-y, but her legs weren’t bare and he might not rip the tough fabric quite so easily.
It was a cheerful thought.
“So we’re going to make a break for it?” She was almost lost inside his last clean sweater, attempting to find the neck, floundering in what felt like acres of black wool. “Because this Father-guy?—”
“Antinous.” His accent was a lot less janky now, but the name sounded super ancient anyway. Max tugged at the sweater hem, held the shoulders so she could get her arms through, and perhaps there was a ghost of a smile lingering in his set, remote expression as she rolled the sleeves up and irritably shoved her hair back.
The deep, inalienable sense of physical health had intensified, if that were possible. The only trouble was the lights glaring—had he turned them up while she slept? And even if she wasn’t craving monster blood her mouth still felt weird, as if she’d just had a thorough cleaning by a not particularly gentle dentist. Still, she felt as if she had a reasonable handle on the last few days; so long as she kept thinking about the most immediate problem, she wouldn’t have to dwell on, for example, her prospective status as a biter.
Did other vampires adjust the same way? Could she somehow reverse the process? If, for example, Max met with an accident before she got a mouthful of human blood… the stories were conflicting, movies and folklore swilling around and the dark web forums full of argument on that score.
One problem at a time, Layla.
Her hair wasn’t hopelessly knotted, either, any tangles parting under mere finger-pressure. Layla tipped her head back and decided on the tightest French braid she could manage, since they were going to be moving fast. No elastics, but shecould make do with a strip of T-shirt or trouser hem. “Antinous, yeah. Okay. What do you need me to do?”
It actually felt fucking wonderful to be planning an operation. Maybe Max, all two-thousand years of expertise, wanted a vampire-hunting partner?
A tiny worm of pride poked its head up in Layla’s chest, though there was plenty not-so-good to be had in recent events. Such as, oh, ninety-nine percent of her crew being eradicated and this guy being directly responsible, as well as his habit of tearing her clothes offandthe fact that she’d basically seduced him last night.
Maybe she was turning into a monster, a real Dracula hoochie. If that got her out of hock and with a clear shot at escape, though, it could be worth the price. Teaming up with hunters you didn’t personally like was part of the game.
The truly inescapable question returned, like a dedicated bill collector.What if you end up snacking on humans, though?
“I would ask…” Max trailed off.
When she turned, he was studying her, dark eyes narrowed and his mouth a thin line.
Ohfuck. Had she made a mistake right out of the gate? She stared back, fingers frozen, her throat suddenly dry with fear instead of yesterday’s terrible, consuming thirst, and even the sense of buzzing, energetic well-being couldn’t cover a jolt of dark red fear.
The steadyka-thumpof his heartbeat didn’t alter. He could almost certainly hear her nervous, jumping pulse.
He took a step closer, then another. Layla stood, arms raised, stupidly holding a half-finished braid, and could not even begin to tell what he was going to do.
But he halted just at the edge of her personal space, gazing down at her. What was it like to be so tall, so powerful? She’d extracted a promise to not leave her locked up again, but reallythere was no recourse if he decided on take-backsies—or even just ‘forgot’, the way men always did when they didn’t care for an agreement.
“You are in full transition,” Max said, finally. “Much stronger and swifter than a mortal, though those may still inadvertently damage you with fragmenting ammunition. I will clear any dogsbodies present as a matter of course, but accidents happen. Listen to your body, it will protect you so far as it can. As for the sanguinant…” His lip lifted; she watched, fascinated, as the full set of fangs appeared with a slight creak-crackle noise, then retreated before he continued as if he hadn’t just snarled like a wolf. “As for them, once you are scented no bearer of the Blood will risk damaging you. Fledglings will be dizzied by your proximity and strike at those nearby in an attempt to weed out other claimants. The elders will drive the battle away from your vicinity if possible, always seeking to catch you. And there is a very high chance you will be caught.”
