To think of laying his head in her lap, perhaps while she smoothed his hair and smiled down at him… oh, the vision was sweet yet also a trap, a sucking tar-pit aiding the one who had stolen his nymph.
She was taken, no doubt terrified. Antinous would not injure a leman, but he would certainlybreakher, given the opportunity. Even if the patriarch did not torment herwithout leaving a physical mark—well within his capabilities, an amusement often indulged in—the thirst itself could be used to shatter any claim to sanity. She would be rendered mad, perhaps permanently.
No less holy, no less tender and fragrant, but utterly lost to reason.
The thought pierced Nemesis’s chest as the claws of his enemies had failed to, and that sting was so sweet it pushed back the numbness, the creeping stupidity.
A mortal city, torn and bleeding, was rid of all sanguinant save three—Father, eldest son, and fragile, beautiful sylph. Sirens wailed from every quarter; the fire was breathing hard, gorging itself and making its own weather to some degree. Thickening smoke spiraled skyward, any true thunder hiding behind a lower, closer roar of combustion and air heated to flow thick as oil.
Despite that, a faint green aroma struggled along in tendrils, summer-drained flora anticipating rain. Perhaps the plants prayed as well; would the gods heed their silent cries? Or did whatever dryads and naiads lingering in this age know one of their own was in danger, pleading with silent Olympus?
He realized he was standing uselessly in the open, and her scent was fading. No matter, she was his fledgling, and so long as she was awake he could trace her passage. An internal pull, infinitely faint, could take precedence now that he had cleared away all Father’s progeny.
Antinous would not mind the winnowing; no doubt he considered Nemesis had performed a final service in murdering every single sibling, niece, nephew, cousin. The patriarch would create no more children of the Blood to work his will—the risk of another sanguinant, even his own get, discovering sweet Leila was too great.
Far better to use mortals as servants henceforth, and concern himself solely with a ripe, toothsome prize.
Any resistance on her part would be met with crushing, overwhelming response. The patriarch required instant, unstinting obedience as a matter of course; he often made fledglings simply to break and discard them into true-death. Nemesis knew his own cruelty, as only a soldier can; Antinous’s was of another species, that of imperial rule. Leila’s fragile defiance—so delicious, so attractive—would not save her.
Nemesis could swear he wished to rescue her from a beast even less kind than himself, and perhaps that was so. Yet another, deeper truth overpowered that consideration.
She washis, and another sanguinant had laid hands upon the garland.
The soldier had let a mortal male escape at her pleading, wishing to show whatever mercy he could. Nemesis could not allow a mad emperor to retain the prize. If a soldier must die as well, leaving the nymph to wander until another sanguinant found and claimed…
Wake up. Her voice, low but urgent.You’re just standing there, Max. Wake up, for me.
Of course he would, there was no command he would obey with more alacrity. He lifted his head, finding the night was old, almost fully drained. He knew precisely where his enemy would take her, the battleground Maximus himself had prepared so short a while ago.
I know you’re tired.Her fingers, so tentative, along his scarred shoulder. She had deigned to touch a filth-crusted legionnaire, stripped away the dust of centuries, brought him wholly to life for the first time in his cursed existence, mortal or sanguinant.You can rest, if you want. It’s okay.
No repose until the battle was done. It had been true in his mortal lifetime, true when he fell upon his sword afterthat awful, crushing defeat he could no longer quite remember the importance of, and remained accurate as he choked and gasped, denied a swift ending by slight miscalculation in angle. Antinous’s face, swimming in the bloody darkening haze of true-death’s approach.
I can use you, the patriarch said, and indeed he had.
The northwest horizon bore a distinct, sullen red smear; even night-flying mortal vehicles were active now to view and hopefully contain the blaze—such wonderful, ingenious things. Maximus wished to see what mortals would do next. He wanted Leila to explain this current age to him, longed to use hands and mouth to discover her slim curves, to experiment with different varieties of pleasing her, wanted very badly to ease the thrall’s mounting, painful pressure over and over in her hot, unrelentingly gorgeous furnace.
Then get moving. Archly amused, as she had never dared taunt him. The voice was another trick of rising ossification, threatening to drown him before he reached Antinous’s bolthole.
Maximus blurred into the whispering speed, streaking through clinging, smoke-tainted darkness. The pull of his fledgling was oddly weak, as if she were deeply injured; still, it was unquestionably in the direction he had planned for.
The thought of her distress brought another explosion of useful rage, briefly battering aside the numbness. He could not linger.
Especially since the eastern horizon, as if wishing to outdo the northwest glare, held a thin line of grey.
CHAPTER 27
Difficult,like swimming through clear, melted plastic—Layla found she could twitch, concentrating on her own body as if it were foreign territory, a lead-filled puppet with invisible strings.
Reaching to strip away the stupid necklace almost caused her to black out. She decided not to bother and focused instead on standing. Her legs worked, though barely; she swayed drunkenly, new vampire reflexes pulling her back from falling on her ass at the very last moment. Pushing too hard caused the strange colorless lassitude to swamp her, and when she turned toward the window her knees gave way, spilling her to carpet that smelled older than Meemaw Cathy’s trailer rugs.
And significantly less clean.
“Do not wander,” the ancient, horrible vampire’s voice repeated near her ear, and a wave of terror struggled with paralysis. Had he returned?
No, she was just hearing things. What the fuck was this necklace? A magical shock collar? Well, if she could believe in vampires, in Sasquatches, in little green men or invisiblecurtains keeping her trapped, a magic leman-leash wasn’t so outlandish.
Knees. On her knees, pushing upward; she got the trick of working against the funny unseen resistance. If she moved very, very slowly, concentrating on each muscle and balancing adjustment, it was possible.
