What does that mean?She strained her ears. A thud, a soft faraway hissing, the vibration lingering just at the bottom of audible if she concentrated. “What wells?”
“Petroleum. Hardlyflamme Grecque, but still deadly to mortals and anything short of an Archon.” His eyes half-closed, and a breathless, staticky sense of lightning about to strike pervaded the bedroom. “It will mask your scent unless they draw very close, which may be what Antinous intends. He knows I have hunted in burning cities; this will be no different.”
Holy shit. It took a couple tries before she could speak. At least now she knew sort of where this place was located. “You mean we’re near the oil fields? And they’re on fire?”That… does not sound good.
“I could leave you here and the seals would keep this space intact, though the lights would almost certainly be cut.” Max spoke quietly, absently,just the facts, ma’am. “Yet Antinous will not show himself unless there is a chance to acquire you, and should I avoid this battle he will not cease hunting us in different locations. The world is wide, but if he chooses to let it be known I have a leman? Any sanguinant possessed of a little might will flock to wherever we rest; he will follow, and eventually I may be worn down. Whoever kills me will be gravely wounded, thus easy to dispatch, and then?—”
“Hold the fuck on. I thought he was after you, not me.” Layla was feelingdistinctlypale now; her legs, despite the bolstering of monster blood, turned a bit gooshy at the knees. “How… what thehell?—”
“You will not forgive me,” Max said, almost gently. “No sanguinant should ever use their leman as bait.”
Layla’s jaw indeed dropped; she now knew what it was like to be so surprised she stood literally fishmouthed. A muffledthwock, sounding very far away, shivered through the bedroom.
The lights did indeed go out; a deep terrible rushing filled her ears, and a vampire’s stone-muscled arms closed around her once more.
The worst thing wasn’t the sudden wet-bandage darkness, a complete absence of light which only lasted a moment as she was pressed into his chest. They rose through a dim, quaking, rumbling space which might have been stairs, took a sharp left turn, and exploded through a wall—or window, since the high sweet tinkle of broken glass chimed atop a steady increasing roar.
Sticky, sultry air loaded with concentrated bursts of scent, pictures arriving on each jolt. Dry dirt, yellow grass, metal heated to a dull red glow, and a thick black bubbling smell like tar softening to liquid on county roads during a heatwave. Bright orange blossoms flared in every direction, choking black smoke columns swaying skyward, and the simmering prickle of an approaching thunderstorm covered her back and arms under the T-shirt and sweater.
It was like being on a hellish, rickety carnival ride, changing direction in sharp wrenching reverses which might have turned her stomach inside out if she’d had anything but monster blood for the past couple days. The nausea was sudden, terrible, and unable to complete itself; she couldn’t even vomit to feel better.
Layla was almost grateful when a horrific impact slammed in from the right and she was spinning, weightless, flying.
Up and down changed places in sickmaking do-si-do, the world blur-whirring around her, and she had time to thinkthis is gonna hurtbefore she hit.
The biggest shock was that itdidn’t. Stunned and breathless, Layla found herself at full stop, crouching on a deeply bent right leg, her left foot straight out to the side, ankle impossibly bent and bootsole braced flat. Her right hand slapped sandy dirt, her left flung straight out, fingers relaxed as a ballerina’s; a small nearby shrub bush rattled warningly.
Did I just do a superhero landing? Far-fucking-out, man.That last bit was all Steve, but she didn’t have time to think about her dead… friends?Crewwas a better word, but…
The roar was massive, titanic, a dinosaur screaming in theater surround-sound. A wall of dry oven-heat rushed past. The orange glares were oil pumps, their heads no longer nodding; a few were twisted like paper and glowing, deformed by billowing, liquid orange flame with bright yellow at its heart, the earth’s blood turning to smoke in an oddly gorgeous panorama of destruction.
“Holyshi—” she began, but a smear of motion tumbled past, thrumming growls briefly slicing the many-throated fire-howl.
Her vision was amped to max, her ears full of crackle-hissing cacophony, her tongue glued to the roof of her mouth. A sudden reflexive movement flung her sideways; Layla ended up crouched next to a giant metal tank, its rounded white-painted sides groaning sharply as another wall of heat swept past.
Not good, not good at all.
Another leap, and she began to get the hang of it. Like rolling down Pratton Hill on a dare in middle school, her one claim to hometown fame. Nobody else was crazy enough to take that steep incline with bike, board, or inlines; she’d done it on Meemaw’s ancient rattling four-wheel skates.
Jimmy Nanourek, remember him? Always saying my mama was a groupieslut, and then dared me to go down Pratton.
She’d shut him up but good. The memory was sharp and awful, though curiously darkened, as if seen through tinted glass. Layla gulped a burst of smoke-drenched air and coughed, her eyes streaming.
The flameburst darkness was alive with shadows zipping here and there, a tingle at her nape as she realized what they were.
Vampires.
No.Sanguinant.
They streaked between the flames-pillars with eerie floating grace, and the thought that she was seeing more biters in a few square feet than most professional hunters ever did in a lifetime was both hilarious and horrifying.
Especially when several of the streaks swirled like ink on a greased plate, swooping toward her.
A soft, searing breeze eddied—she realized the biters were moving fast to avoid the heat, and also clearlysearchingfor something—as a vampire coalesced in front of her. A stocky blond man in a slightly disarranged pale linen suit, full lips pulled back to expose a full set of gleaming fangs, bright blue eyes narrowed and wet, vivid crimson sparks dilating in his pupils.
Oh dear God. Layla darted a gaze to her left, her only avenue of escape, and the biter blurred into motion.
Then he disintegrated, rivulets of rot speeding through his entire frame before a shower of glittering grit exploded in every direction, and Max was there, regal nose slightly wrinkled, shaking his hands briskly as if finishing a disagreeable chore. His claws were out, long and pointed, his hair was a floating mess of curls brushed by heat-currents, and his eyes glowedliquid red from lid to lid. He bent, as if inviting her to dance; her hand reached up of its own accord, and she was yanked away as the tank behind her creaked sharply again.
