“I guess…I guess I was dreaming,” my brow furrowed and I shook my head in disbelief. A dream within a dream? Where the fuck was Leo to save the day?
“I guess,” he said sarcastically, still theatrically rubbing his jaw to prove his point.
“I said I was sorry.” After the dream I’d just come out of, he was lucky I was still sitting there watching him bleed.
My hand lifted on its own and rubbed along my neckline. Everything was still intact.
“What were you dreaming about that had you so frightened?” He looked at me with such sorrowful eyes I wondered if he knew it was about him.
“Something scary apparently,” I said simply.
He smiled through the damage to his perfect mouth, “Thanks for the wakeup call.” A thick red slit peered at me from his bottom lip and I winced. Only a little.
“What time is it?” I asked. Feeling a bit embarrassed as the events from the night before flooded into my memory. I knew I’d been pretty damned drunk. At least, unlike my dream, I was still wearing my clothes. No one stripped me naked.
Damn.
“Just after six.”
I stared at him. No light in my room wasn’t only a dream, it was a piece of reality seeping in. “P.M.”
I continued to stare at him astonished, “You’ve got to be kidding me. How long was I sleeping?”
He chuckled lightly and I swore I saw a blush flush into his cheeks. “A while. It was after five in the morning last I glanced at you. You were sleeping soundly then.” The look on his face told me he was trying very hard not to laugh. I thought quickly about what had happened, if there had been anything I should be aware of before I finished this conversation. I couldn’t remember much passed the after party. All I knew was he’d slept in the bed next to me for the better part of my comatose state.
No coffins. No horrific gnawing at the neck region. And likely lots of snoring and drooling. Fuck.
“All fucking day? Shit,” I laughed a little. “I dreamt I woke up and it was so dark I didn’t know what time it was. It was very disorienting. Still is.” I smiled and looked down at my hands. It was hard enough looking at him on a good day. Let alone on the day I dreamt he was trying to kill me, then subsequently, cold cocking him in the face.
“Yes. The light is…frowned upon in this house. A bit of extremists at the House of Porte. Marienne, the Primus, prefers her home sun-free,” he smiled and looked more normal that I’d ever noticed before.
“Really?” I replayed my dream in my head. No sun. All the windows were shut up downstairs and the front door was locked tight. So as to not allow in any undo light. “Pretty extreme, huh?” I nodded soaking it in. Extreme enough to keep a stock pile of coffins in the basement perhaps?
“Yes. More so than Malcolm I’d say. More traditional. Malcolm sees our…situation as more of an opportunity for profit than revering in the culture.”
“How many other Houses feel the same way?” I asked trying to sound interested but not chopping at the bloody bit. Which I was, but he didn’t need to know that.
“As Malcolm?”
I nodded.
“Not many. Malcolm is a special breed.” He laughed at his own joke and I smiled to be nice. It really wasn’t funny. “Most Houses are traditional, with traditional beliefs. A few don’t even take part in these annual events because they feel it’s not smart to include the public in our culture.”
“Really? How many houses are there?”
“Quite a many. You can bet nearly every state has one, New York has three,” he said this as if it was a big deal. “With the exception of Utah, you should be able to find a Primus residing in every state.”
“Why not Utah?”
“Could you imagine a place like Macabre Saturnine popping up in Utah?” he laughed and so did I. That was actually a humorous notion.
“So, each house has a Primus and a Secondus. Why?”
“It’s always been.” His hand moved to his lip and wiped away the last of the blood from his mouth. The red slit remained blood free for the time being.
“Since…the seventies?” I laughed too loudly. “I mean, how long have there really been Sanguinarians? Since Anne Rice?” I was still chuckling when he looked at me and stole my breath. “I’m sorry. It just all seems a little over-the-top. It’s all make-believe. Obviously someone went to a lot of trouble coming up with all of this. Houses, Primus, Secondus, rules of house, ceremonies, all of it, just seems a bit much.”
“Perhaps to you, a mundane.” He actually turned his nose up at me just a bit.
“What did you call me? Look, Cyrus, I’ve noticed the last few days you’re kinda shit on around here. Well, mostly by Malcolm. I just don’t understand why you deal with it. It’s like sticking around a D&D game when someone is kicking you in the nuts all night.” Pointless and a bit silly if you asked me.
Regardless of nightmares of coffin-filled rooms and yearnings to be bit by the lovely Cyrus Atossa, I knew this was all pretend. A fun little game made up by those who wanted to truly be immortal. Far be it for me to stop them, hey let your freak flag fly, but in the end if you couldn’t admit it was fake didn’t that make you a little nutty?
Maybe just as nutty as the girl who dreams of dead daddies and vampires?
“It’s best you don’t allow anyone in this house hear you refer to them and their life as a game of D&D.” His tone was of the serious variety, as was his expression.
“But you have to understand where I’m coming from here, right? You have to know this isn’t real.”
Unless of course it is in which case we have an entirely new can of graveyard worms on our hands.
“I’m not the one in question here. It’s the House of Porte that concerns you?” he said as if he already knew, with utmost certainty, I was prying into the lives of the inhabitants of the home I was sleeping in. As much as he knew, somehow, in the back of my head, I was afraid of this house. Of New Orleans, and the things I’d learned. The things I would learn.
“Yes. I guess in a way you’re right. Tell me more about the Houses. How does this work? Who is the founder of all this nonsen…er…rich culture?” I raise my brows and changed my tone to a lighter more sarcastic attitude.
“The founder of the House of Cailleadh was a man named Nicolas Sandorus.”
“Sandorus? Like Sandora?” Malcolm’s magazine and a pretty vampire girl I’d met in Fresno.
He chuckled a bit. “Yes, you remember. I told you once before, Sandora is a popular nightside name for our ladies. Nicolas, Nico, Sandorus was the first Primus of the House of Sandora, now called the House of Cailleadh. I was his Secondus before Malcolm came. House of Sandora was not located in southern California, but still was the representing House for the state of California. Sandorus represented the Western Cabal from his seat as Primus. As Marienne represents the Southern Cabal. As Malcolm does now in the West.”
Nice history lesson. Wonder if Huell Howser has an episode on this rich history of California? California’s Golden Vampire Dens. This is California’s Gold!
“I’ll warn you, I have no clue what you’re talking about. But I do know two things; It’s all very interesting and I want to know everything you can tell me, and you look darn pretty saying it,” I smiled and he blushed. Inside I cheered. I had successfully made that man turn a lovely shade of red. “So, if you were Secondus, shouldn’t you have taken over instead of Malcolm? Isn’t that how it usually works?” Made sense to my ‘mundane’ sensibility.
“You’d assume, but no. Vampire politics can get a bit dicey and very confusing if you’re not involved directly.” He was speaking a little too openly with me about it all. A man of mystery turned informant. Not likely. There was a lot more he was leaving out.
“So, what you’re saying is, you aren’t allowed to talk about it?” I may be just a dumb girl, but all in all, I was still a snoop. It was my job to dig for the truth. Well, it was before all this pretty vampy boy nonsense crept in and stole my rationality.
“Basically, yes. Since Malcolm invited you personally, you were allowed to attend the summit and of course the masque, but those are all surface events. Nothing of importance happens at those. Nothing the community wouldn’t want to be, I don’t know, published for the world to see,” an accusatory tone overtook his voice.
A reporter joke. Nice indirect jab directed right at me. As if I’d run off and set their stories out to print tomorrow. Shit, it’d take at least a few days before I could get it to go to print.
“It’s all a face? I see. Now, you’ve intrigued me more than you should have.” Idiot.
“I hope no more than I did last night.” His smile reminded me of the night before and my vomiting. I dropped my head into my hands and groaned.
“I’m so sorry. If I can make it up…” my voice gave away just how humiliated I truly felt.
He spoke and brought my eyes back to attention. “I can think of so many ways,” he said. The smile hadn’t left his face; he just talked through it.
A knock at the door tore me away from those gleaming white teeth. “Yes?”
“Hey drunktard! How you feeling?” Tatum strutted into my humble room on bare feet carrying a large glass of orange juice. “Here, drink it.”
My eyes turned to slits as I glared at the beautiful blonde who I’d once trusted with my life. The girl who was slowly but sure slipping into the abyss of vampires and red headed freaks. The girl who was dragging me right along with her.
I snatched the glass from her grip and took a big swig. “Gaw! Is this a screw driver?” I asked loudly.
“Yes. Drink it. We need to get ready,” she said with a nod.
“For what?” The last thing I wanted to do was get up and go out again. Let alone spend any more time than necessary with the likes of Tatum.
“A party, duh.” Her facial expression was extreme and pure Tatum. For a split second, I felt like everything was right with the world.
“Didn’t we just go to a party?”
“We went to the Masque. Semi-formal. Tonight, Cinderella, you go to a ball! But you must finish your chores before you can go anywhere. And your first chore is kissing this fine boy here,” she leaned over and slung her slender arm around Cyrus’s shoulder. “He has been dying to get a hold of that sweet ass for months now. Don’t leave him hanging….” she giggled and shifted her eyes to his lower extremities, “or whatever.” She moved quickly from the boy and kissed me on the forehead. “Now, get your chores done and get your ass ready. Your chariot arrives in an hour.” Tatum’s long legs carried her quickly out the door leaving me alone and awkward with Cyrus.
That miniscule Tatum experience was so reminiscent of the good old days, pre-vampire clubs, that it made me hopeful for the future. Maybe Tatum had one last ace up her sleeve to redeem our ever-failing relationship.
“So, do you guys ever stop partying?” I asked with my eyes trained on the fancy bedspread.
“Not usually. For the most part, they see no need.” I caught a shrug from the corner of my eye. “Who? Malcolm?” I asked, sniffing at the glass of orange death Tatum had handed me.
“And the others. Most of the guests at the Masque are fledglings, followers, that sort. But, as far as the elders go,-Malcolm, Marienne, and the others,-they all have business ventures that allow then to live quite…freely. What else do you do with your time when all that’s required of you is to sustain your own life? Eat, drink, be merry.”
“Fuckin’, fightin’, all that,” I replied in my best cockney accent.
“Yeah, all that.” He caught the reference and laughed.
I blushed at the thought and stood from the bed. Sure, drunk Dylan was all about getting some, but sober Dylan was awkward and self-conscious. Not to mention the fact that I now felt so damned on edge in this house of Dracula and all I really wanted to do was look under the stairs for that door.
“I should probably get ready. I doubt there’s any way I’ll be getting out of going out tonight. Scary witch bitches or no, Tatum will take me by force. Besides, I really would rather not stay in this house all night by myself. Jeez, there isn’t even a TV in here,” I said trying to cover for the thoughts that danced in my head.
“Malcolm would not allow me to stay here with you, or that would be our Saturday evening.”
A stupid look spread across my face and butterflies shot up into my chest. Without thinking about it, a nervous, and kind of creepy, laugh fluttered from my lips.
“Well,” I started with a tone that was a bit too high pitched, “what the hell am I supposed to wear?”
“Formal. Most will be in Victorian garb. You didn’t bring anything?” His voice told me he was a bit concerned with my lack of preparation.
“No. I wasn’t aware of any of the events this weekend. I packed like I was going on vacation. And one generally does not bring a full Victorian gown as a carry-on.”
His brow creased in the center. “Well, I’m not sure then. Oh, maybe…” he trailed off as he got up from the edge of the bed.
He walked to the beautiful armoire that stood in the other corner of the room. I noticed the gray and blue striped pajama pants he’d been wearing. They flopped around his bare feet as he moved so confidently across the room. I stood there like an idiot and watched him open both doors to the cherry wood cabinet.
“Here you are,” he pulled a wooden hanger from the cabinet covered in lace and frills. All pink and black.
“Borrow a dress from someone else’s stash? Not my style. Besides, I’m not your average bear. My big ass will never fit into that,” my head shook vehemently protesting.
“Hmm. Well, then who’s this for?” he pulled a scrawled note from the hook of the hanger and handed it to me.
Cyrus stood very still and quiet while I read the words on the parchment paper. ‘Dylan, a sexy gown for the minx I know is hidden within you. Release your inhibitions and have some fun for once. Your beauty will shine if you let it. I love you more than you know. Yours, Tatum.’
I didn’t know what to say. The ace up her sleeve? I’d been so pissed at her for the way she’d been acting then she goes and totally redeemed herself. Well, kind of. Not letting me embarrass myself was kind of her thing. And to have had an awesome and likely expensive costume hidden in my room, for Lord knew how long, was very much in the style of Tatum Price. I knew in there somewhere she loved me and I loved her too. Even if she was a cunt bitch whore.
“You sneaky monkey. How long has that been there?” I asked Cyrus.
“A while,” he stepped closer and handed me the hanger. “Get ready.” He leaned forward and caught me off-guard with a kiss on my forehead. “I cannot wait to see it on you.”
Without another word, he left me alone in my room without a view. Being alone for the first time in over a full day was a bit of a shock to the senses. My brain was actually able to process all that I’d absorbed in the events of my Friday night.
Cyrus was the second in command for the House of whatever in Los Angeles, there were headless bitches all over the United States, a wicked voodoo queen was out for my head, and I puked on an extremely hot vampire boy. What in the fuck was happening to my life?
Why, suddenly, did I know there was a lifestyle vampire hierarchy, and how in the fuck did I end up in such a compromising position with one of them? There were some fan girls who would pay good money to end up in my situation. Unfortunately for some, these vampy boys were not immortal. Or sparkly. They were on the other hand, annoying, bossy, sexy, and likely pretty dangerous. Aside from the whole living forever thing, they were pretty true to form. Coffins in the basement? Yet to be confirmed. But I had to say, if my dream of dead things in the basement of the house of Dracula came to fruition, I swore I was done with the whole mess of them. If only to save my own skin.
Since when did I become little miss premonition?
Chapter Thirteen
My newly acquired ball gown, if you could call it that, showed off a lot more skin that I’d ever intended
on showing. I didn’t even show off this much in a bathing suit. The top-half consisted of a faux sheer corset, lacing up my back from the top of my ass. A shrug went over the top with sleeves that ended in oversized ruffles. The skirt was mostly open in the front and showed off my stocking clad legs complete with pink garter. It was bustled and made my ass look bigger than it actually was; I wasn’t exactly happy with that. Other than looking like a massive slut, the costume was pretty killer. I forced myself to relax and figured there would never be another occasion in which I would ever be able to wear it, so I’d better suck it up and have fun.
“So sick,” Tatum burst into the room without warning and made me jump.
The sight of her caused a flurry of mixed emotions to flutter around in my head. I hadn’t talked to her at length the majority of the trip and had so much to say it hurt my tongue to keep it well bitten.
“Thank you so much. I had no idea I’d need something like this. I love it, but did you really have to make it so…little?” I laughed a bit and checked out my awesome rack in the full mirror that should be a window.
Tatum was quiet for a minute before she said, “Hmm, well, it looks really great on you.” Her reflection in the mirror over my shoulder showed a wrinkle in the center of her neatly plucked eyebrows.
“Really? I feel like a cow,” I did feel a bit like a sausage crammed in the corset, but I knew it wasn’t as bad as my ego made it out to be.
“Let me tighten those lacings for you.” She set her huge makeup case on the dresser and came to me.
“Oh, yeah, that’s what I need to be…umph…oh…ah…uck.” Tatum pulled and tugged at the ribbon that held me in that sexy device of torture. “Well, at least I know I won’t be eating anything tonight. Or, breathing.” I checked the mirror one last time and was astonished at the size of my waistline. Fuck breathing, skinny beat oxygen any day.
Tatum didn’t talk much after that. She grabbed her makeup bag and started away at my face. Powder puffs and pointed pencils swiped across my eyes. Thank God, she was tall enough to work on me standing up; I doubted I’d be able to sit strapped into that corset the way I was. I was kind of glad she’d told me to keep my mouth shut while she worked. It was very likely something inappropriate would come out and she’d jab me in the eye with a pencil.
Endless Night (Dylan Hart Odyssey of The Occult Series) Page 12