“Was that his plan?” The immensity of the idiocy was almost amusing. “It would not work. The change agents in the saliva are necessary as well; you would have had to bite him with intention.”
“With intention,” she muttered, darkly. “I guess I did, in a way. But really, you didn’t have to… to try and rescue me. Thank you.”
Did you think I would not?She did not understand or credit the simplest things, but there was time. Jonathan weighed his next words carefully indeed. “I did have to, and I would again.Though it will not be necessary; I will not allow you beyond arm’s reach for a very long while, sweet Simone. Perhaps ever.”
“Allow me, huh?” Another sly sideways glance, this time with a faint gleam of mischief. “We’re going to have some discussions if you want to stick around, old man.”
Old man. Was it mere accuracy, or an endearment? “Whatever you like.”
“I don’t know how to be a vamp.” A catch to her breath, soft and charming, before she corrected herself. “A sanguinant. So, uh, I have some questions. Is that… will you…”
“Ask.” He settled more firmly in the seat, scanning their surroundings. So, that was what the mortals had designed upon her. A troubling development, and deserving of caution—there had been others seeking to steal the Dark Gift before, never with much success. Still, now that a single mortal had attempted it in this particular fashion, others would follow. It was inevitable.
He would have to work swiftly, wrap her in safety, accumulate wealth, familiarize himself with the current levers of mortal power.
But first, there was his sweet, priceless leman. She was uneasy; she knew so little of her own strength, let alone his. And she held to silence for a few miles, the vehicle humming happily under her hands.
What creature would not?
“Okay.” Enchanting, her glance at the instrument panel, her deep breath to brace herself. Her grasp upon the wheel eased a fraction. “First things first, I guess. Can I have coffee?”
CHAPTER 31
Several months later
A downright luxury,to wake up on clean white cotton percale. No need to leap instantly out of bed, though as soon as Simone rolled over she heard the click and faint whine as the television was turned off, relative silence filling the penthouse. No seals either, since they weren’t traveling; John took the invisible shimmers off just before dusk, so long as there was ‘no danger’.
He had awaydifferent idea of risk than she did, that was for sure.
The first ritual was opening the drapes; it only took a button, but she liked doing it by hand. San Francisco sparkled and twinkled below, spreading down to the bay. The Golden Gate was a strand of yellow stars, and even on this floor she could hear the faint breathing of the city, the hum of traffic, the ever-present surf-murmur of human crowding.
Most nights, the whisper was comforting.
A vintage silk bathrobe, the kind she’d always secretly coveted, was ready on a row of wooden pegs; she yawned,padding down the hall, scraping her soles happily on thick blue carpet. According to the resident expert, the yawn reflex was a holdover from pre-infection.
Mortal time, John would say.Before the Dark Gift.
He wasn’t kidding about money being easy for older vamps, or maybe he had investments socked away from ‘before the fire’. Somehow he’d accumulated enough for this apartment, the furnishings, a new surprise almost every night. Even the cleaning and other chores were handled; no city ever really slept, and with enough money you could get maid service at any hour, day or night.
For the first time in her life, she didn’t have to lift a finger. A giant change of affairs, one she tentatively almost liked.
Simone’s own nest egg sat tidily in a fresh account under a different name, insulated from ‘Jane Smith’ by a series of transfers and redirects. Sometimes she called up the statements just to look at them, and each time the sharp swell of relief was the same. All safe, all hers, untouched by daily expenses.
John simply shrugged.It is my honor to see to your comfort,he’d say.And your feeding.
Which of course generally touched off one of his nymphomaniac episodes.
The penthouse was an open plan, all glass and chrome. He had a fascination with both; Simone was just glad he didn’t want to live underground like some folklore vamps. Still, his cautions about completely drawing the heavy blackout drapes in the bedroom before dawn were nearly endless.
The kitchen shone, clean as a whistle. A bubbling, a burbling, the heavenly smell of coffee—it was one of the new pod machines in slick indigo enamel, its lines consciously Art Deco. It worked just fine and the cleanup was easy, one of the very few chores she didn’t let anyone else near.
The brewing had just about stopped when warm air brushed her hair; his arms slid around her waist. “I have missed you,” he murmured, and nipped lightly at her earlobe.
Her knees went faintly weak, as usual. “Restrain yourself, old man. I need caffeine.”
“It has no effect, save psychological.” He nipped again, one hand describing her hip under thin silk. Nowadays it wasn’t black jeans and button-ups but a thoroughly modern haircut, T-shirts, and butter-soft stonewash, though he kept the cowboy boots. “And you are too delicious. I can’t help it.”
“Hm.” Hard not to feel pleased, not to feel a little flutter deep down in her stomach. The whole leman thing was unbelievable, but she had to admit his story was consistent.
