No trace of another sanguinant, nor hint of any presence save hers. A sleek black item upon the small table which could be used for meals or converted into another bed was… he groped for the term.
It was not thetele-vision, a wonder he had grasped even while mad, as it was like the kinematograph—a technological marvel spoken of in tones of wonder just before his catastrophe. But another deep, drenching inhale and he had the proper term. Yes, a wholly modern thing,com-pu-ter; he had noticed the glowing screens as he watched mortals through windows or at a distance, attempting to absorb what he could of prey-habits as he struggled against the madness. They had smaller varieties now as well, wondrous devices fitting in pockets, their bright glass faces apparently hypnotic even if the attraction escaped him.
He hungered to learn more, to listen to her explain this strange scientific sorcery, to become conversant, then proficient, then skilled. Leman did not suffer calcification, did not become rigid and hidebound with time. Ever curious, ever sensitive, they moved through eternity’s wasteland, transforming sterility to lush garden—and their bonded protectors shared in that priceless gift. To have a leman was to be immune from the trap of killcraze during glut, banishing the languor of multicolored visions which starved a sanguinant by fractions, to shake away the stultifying curse of numb, accreted age.
Such miracles were of necessity rare, and invaluable. No sanguinant would ever willingly let one fall from their grasp. Discovered when mortal, they were to be bitten and claimed immediately; to find one protected by another sanguinant was to challenge for possession and be either victorious or dead.
Yet here she was, an inarguable fact. The sense that he was hallucinating before true-death shook him at intervals, dispelled each time he filled mouth and nose with that wonderful fragrance.
As in so many cautionary tales, he must see again to believe. Perhaps he would be struck down for his daring; all the same, he was helpless to turn aside.
He did not precisely need the ingeniously constructed ladder leading to her couch. Yet he used it anyway, moving with patient stealth so complete he barely stirred trapped, motionless air. His pulse thundered, disobeying the command to silence, but there was no one to hear.
Only a fledgling fast asleep, her lovely skein of cedarbark hair spread across a flower-patterned pillowcase. One tender arm thrust under pillow and head, dark eyelashes a fan against her cheekbones; she had not even taken her shoes off. The flush of rest colored those thin cheeks, her mouth in repose far less somberly drawn, her free hand limp and carelessly close to the bed’s edge. A trace of gleaming upon her pretty fingertips caught his attention, and the wanderer froze.
Death-dust. So she had indeed been present at the trespasser’s demise. A leman, so young and yet capable of such violence? His sense of her age in the Blood was now nearly exact, and if she were more than a half-century in darkness he would… what?
Eat my hat, he had heard mortals say. What an amusing phrase; now he could appreciate it. Especially since he was wearing one—or was he? Yes, he possessed a battered greyish piece in the style of this territory, camouflage acquired from he knew not where like the rest of his raiment, removed with punctilious manners so soon as he entered her domicile. He had set it upon the table next to thecom-pu-ter.
No doubt he was a ragged, sorry sight. His existence had for some while precluded such luxuries as a proper nest, though he had small tomb-lairs aplenty and even the earth itself would hold one of his age at need. Nor had he bothered to amass certain things necessary for a leman’s comfort. To do so was a new challenge, one he must and would rise to.
For a moment, the enormity of what was occurring shook him to the very floor of consciousness and body both.
He had survived. The storm of flame and agony was past, a long night of insanity broken; the fever was done and a cool hand pressed to his brow. He studied his rescuer’s face once more, lost in wonder. Impossible to say which he adored more, the peace of her repose or the wonder of her awake, displaying a kaleidoscope of thought and emotion like swift-changing weather upon plain or mountainside. Drinking her in, each breath nailing him more firmly to a coherent, understandable world once more, he also realized he knew neither his name nor her own.
All in good time. His true teeth were free now, each faint breath sliding painfully past, and though a fledgling’s sleep was often mistaken for mortal death he sensed the infinitely slow tide-change of her sweet, beckoning blood. She did not stir as he crept, inch by fraction of inch, onto the bed. Slow as sinking quicksand, he slithered to embrace his deliverance, and the first touch was hesitantly reverent.
Arranging sleep-heavy limbs was no difficulty. Nor was tipping her chin aside—she was tall for a woman, fitting perfectly against his own neglect-wasted frame—and finding the near-imperceptible pulse. His fang-tips hovered uncertainly as a new thought intruded upon careful, one-pointed concentration.
Such a blessing, the ability to focus again. To have considerations instead of mere murderous distraction.
First the bite, then the claiming, a sanguinant proverb. Yet she was unconscious, clearly ill-fed, and had endured the trespasser’s violence to boot. To wake and find herself suddenly…
A faint thrum was the growl beginning deep in his ribcage, provoked by the thought of a now-gone intruder laying hands upon her. The need struck, dark and terrible, every inch of cloth against his skin a fierce irritant, and even the mating-thrall was a vivid, razor-edged pleasure after so much terrified numbness. How long had it been since he had felt the urge, a full erection uncomfortably bound and gagged?
Must protect. Yes, that was the overarching goal, yet when a thoroughly modern fledgling awoke, what would she think of attentions paid during her somnolence? It did not matter; a lemanmustbe claimed.
And yet.
His control slipped, instinct striking snake-quick. Had she a bonded protector still living, his teeth would have been unable to pierce, but his fangs sank into glorious yielding.
Molten syrup, clear and fine as the strongest unwatered wine. So hot, so sweet, sogood; the essence of heat and beauty hit the back of his throat and slid down, spreading through every vein and artery bright-quick as lightning, lingering in a deep haze.
The second gift of a leman—an immediate addiction, a single mouthful rendering all other blood into tasteless sludge. Necessary and nutritious, certainly, but the temptation of glut was wholly erased in a moment, since what could compare toher? He would never feel the craze again, the Sanguinant’s Thirst narrowed to one very specific flavor.
If he had not already cherished the scent which repaired his sanity, the taste of her would have provided worshipful reverence. Oh, yes, now he understood the whispers through the demimonde, the proverbs translated into any language those of the Blood knew. Most held leman to be a fiction, yet he held one in his very arms and his fangs sank deeper as he pulled a second mouthful, the growl rattling every surface of this tiny habitation.
A welcome obsession, a rock catching a falling man’s hand, a rope clutching a drowning swimmer. She burned through him, the blood carrying sadness, an eternity of lonely nights, a complex pattern of emotion and instinct making up a leman.
Hisleman. And by every god or spirit ever honored he longed for the next step, to rid them both of clothing and take her in time-honored fashion.
One last pull against her veins, the burnt-caramel edge far more pronounced now. She was on the very edge of starvation, tissues ready to self-cannibalize. To take more would be a criminal misuse, unworthy of a man granted a miracle.
It required a great deal of will to withdraw, to clean the slight wounds with his tongue, healing agents spread with lingering care. To lie still, eyes closed and unfamiliar serenity filling him to the brim, as his arms tingled with the feel of her and the rest of him burned with pleasurable almost-pain.
The sun had mounted quite high, pressing against thin metal walls. A single finger of its light would cause irreparable harm, but she had shielded this small cave well. He had some few hours to prepare for her waking; he must re-accustom his tongue to her native language, acquire better clothing, begin arrangements for her comfort and protection.
Licking his lips, absorbing every last trace of her taste, his nose buried in her tumbled hair and her scent wrapping about his very bones, he reveled in the sheer luxury of finally thinking clearly.