by Jen Colly
Carrying the peach monstrosity, she slipped from the bathroom. “Did you really think I’d wear this thing?”
“This is the gown Elin left you?” One fist covering his mouth, he coughed, a poor attempt at hiding his amusement.
She tossed the dress at him, hitting him right in the face. Of course, with so much fabric, she couldn’t miss. He appeared from under the gown, and draped it neatly over a chair.
“It was nice of her to let me borrow it, but it didn’t fit,” she said, popping on her fat little gold hoop earrings.
“It didn’t fit? Did you forget I heard you laughing through the door?”
“The gown is hideous.” She pointed first at the dress, then at him. “But you’re going to tell her it didn’t fit or else you’ll hurt her feelings. Now, how do I look?”
He stared at her with such intensity from across the room, not saying a word, her smile faltered. Perhaps her choice of a sweater and slacks would offend a vampire society. “I can change,” she offered.
Soren took a step toward her, then another. He was a breath away, and before she could speak, he’d cradled her face in his hands. She hadn’t expected this, but she didn’t push him away.
Eyes closed, she savored the warmth of his rough hands. Whatever had tripped his trigger brought his lips inches from hers. They hadn’t made contact, but she anticipated his kiss, melting against him.
A solid knock at the door severed the moment, but not entirely. She opened her eyes as he took a deep breath, then his hands fell away from her. Behind him, the door creaked opened, followed by a discreet cough. Soren regained his self-control and turned, facing the intruder.
A tall man with ridiculously long black hair loomed in the doorway like it belonged to him. He eyed them both expectantly.
“Lord Navarre, this is Faith.” Soren stepped aside.
“Welcome, Faith.” He gave her a slight bow. “I only stopped by to make certain you both would be joining us for dinner.”
“We were leaving,” Soren said.
“Oh, were you?” Navarre asked in a disbelieving tone.
Faith avoided eye contact, already feeling the prickly heat wash over her face.
“Walk with me,” Navarre said, already on his way.
Soren took her by the elbow and guided her out the door. Navarre gestured as he pointed out various tapestries and artwork along the way. A light shone in his eyes as he spoke about his city. Gifts from lords of the past, treasures sent from Spain.
Faith had trouble paying attention. Soren’s fingers brushed against her arm, and each stroke conjured up the image of his lips close to hers. At least, she assumed he’d planned on giving her a kiss. It would certainly have dampened the mood if she’d been expecting warm lips, and instead his sharp teeth pierced her neck.
She glanced over at Soren, who dutifully followed Navarre’s gestures. How did you kiss someone with fangs?
“Here we are. Beautiful, isn’t it?” Navarre asked, though he clearly expected no response.
She gasped as she entered the dining hall. Beautiful was an understatement. Sweeping red curtains bordered in gold fringe framed every doorway. Long tables formed a large rectangle in the center of the room, the outer sides lined with black chairs cushioned in red. Golden candelabras ran down the center of the tables, pinning the pristine white tablecloth in place.
The chandeliers hung low, the golden dragons on them seeming to climb out from under white glass lotus flowers. Impressively detailed, the black and gold fish scale pattern on the ceiling rose to the center of the room, its center a delicately designed high dome. The grandeur would befit the home of any king.
A man in a powdered wig and long blue coat complete with gold piping and buttons played a grand piano in the corner. A light, happy song, which somehow wove the illusion of a small and comfortable room.
“Come, sit at my table,” Lord Navarre offered, and they followed him, advancing slowly through the gathered people.
Vampires mingled in small groups, their low conversations hushing only briefly to observe their lord and his guests. Though she did her best not to gawk, she couldn’t take herself out of tourist mode.
Women were in elegant gowns, and men had dressed in their finest. Their styles varied drastically. Lord Navarre wore black slacks with a white collared shirt, and many copied him. Other men chose to be more extravagant, wearing ruffled cravats and velvety crimson jackets trimmed in gold. A few women could have stepped off a Paris runway, while another handful seemed stuck in the eighteenth century.
Navarre cleared his throat, and Faith redirected her attention to the conversation beside her.
“Any promising young men this season?” Navarre asked.
“I’m giving you two.”
“Two?” Navarre repeated.
“Yes. Titus and Dyre have skill and great instincts. Better yet, they work exceptionally well together,” Soren said, holding her hand and keeping her at his side.
“Good, very good.” Navarre nodded. “Though I’m not relishing the inevitable visits from the parents of failed students, especially the aristocrats.”
“Nor I. They attempt swaying my decision before bringing the issue to you,” Soren said.
“Soren,” a young man called from the left.
His fluid stride seemed completely dangerous, feral, and it alarmed her. His approach didn’t faze Soren, and that was a comfort. He stopped a few feet from them, and as he did, she noted that he stood a few inches taller than her. His lack of towering height did nothing to silence the tiny voice inside her head shouting out a warning. This man was dangerous.
“Is this her?” He nodded in her direction, his words more of a prompt than a question.
“Faith, I’d like you to meet Captain Savard,” Soren said.
With what Soren put his students through, she found it hard to believe this man could best any of them, let alone lead them. How could this man be a captain? He barely looked old enough to shave, and he lacked the thick muscles the Guardians possessed. “You’re the captain? But you’re so young,” she blurted out.
“What I do is not about age. I know the location of each of my men at any given moment. I know how many people are in this city, in this room, and who is a potential enemy. I know who is armed and who is not.” The captain leaned an inch or two closer and said in a quieter version of his smooth, controlled voice, “I know that you’ve been gifted with a knife. Yet you chose not to bring it tonight. You must feel extremely safe among us.”
“How did you know I have a knife?”
“I didn’t know, I assumed. But I know now,” the captain said with a tight, impersonal smile.
“Soren told you, didn’t he?” she guessed, sending Soren an accusatory glance.
“No, I said nothing.” He shook his head.
“Really, how did you know?” she asked the captain.
“It’s my job.” The captain tipped his head in a short bow. “It was a pleasure meeting you, Faith.”
“Why did you want to meet me?” She was having a difficult time figuring out this captain.
“A woman named Faith Calburn has access to this city. A name does me no good without a face.” He gave her a small, controlled smile then excused himself.
She watched him walk away, just as puzzled and alarmed as when he’d first approached. “What do you suppose he meant?”
“You’ll get used to Savard,” Lord Navarre said, sharing a glance with Soren.
“And don’t let his looks deceive you. The good captain is older than I am by at least a full century,” Soren said.
Her jaw dropped at the hint of his lifespan. She would have liked a better explanation, but before she could ask, he ushered her to her seat. Bracketed by Soren and Navarre, she felt insignificant and completely out of place between the two powerful men.
A solid
-looking woman with her hair pinned up in a tight knot made her way down the table with a cart full of plates. She set a plate before Lord Navarre, then served Faith. The smell of roasted meat made her mouth water. She took the lace edged napkin from under the silverware, and placed it over her lap as she inspected her plate.
Normal food! Thank God. “Are those mashed potatoes?” she asked.
“Mashed the hell out of ’em myself,” the woman said with a wink.
“Oh, I just love you.” Faith smiled brilliantly at the woman, then hunted down her fork.
“Finally, someone who appreciates me,” the woman said, catching Soren in an accusing glare.
“I do appreciate you, Nelly,” he defended himself.
“Aye, but when was the last time you said it?”
“Probably the last time you made me strawberry pie. How long has it been?” His eyes twinkled with playful mischief and a sweet smile curved his mouth.
“Nigh on a decade,” she said with absolute certainty.
“Has it really been that long? Why would you stop making it? You know it’s my favorite.”
“You were getting soggy around the middle,” Nelly said with a curt nod as she shuffled away.
“Proof of my appreciation,” he called after her.
Faith cleared her throat to catch Soren’s attention, a smile pinched between her lips. “So, you were…what did she say? Soggy?”
“When you live as long as we do, you’re bound to have good years and bad years,” he said, his defense somewhat playful.
“How many of these years, good and bad, have you had?” Curiosity tormented her.
“A couple hundred.” Soren brought the wineglass to his lips, drinking deeply.
“Two hundred years old, and you still can’t drive?” Faith stared at him. “On the upside, you look great.”
At the sound of a few coughs and cleared throats, Faith looked past Navarre. Several men attempted to disguise their laughter.
“Thank you,” Soren mumbled.
“Thank you?” A well-groomed man leaned forward and inserted himself into their conversation from the other side of Lord Navarre, his wavy black hair pulled together at the base of his neck. “All you can say is thank you? How on earth did you catch such a beautiful creature? You certainly didn’t lure her with your charm.”
“Julian,” he warned.
“Really, man. We live in France. At least pretend you have an ounce of romance in your blood,” Julian urged.
“Back off,” Soren said, pinning Julian with a dark look.
Faith turned to Soren. “He’s right, you know. We are in France. How is it you don’t have much of an accent?”
“Living underground, we don’t pick up the local accents. We have a dialect unique to our city.” He leaned in, dropped his voice to a whisper. “The only vampires with a French accent are those who live above most of their life, like Gustav.”
“Oh,” she said quietly then focused on her food and kept her mouth shut. Apparently Gustav was a controversial subject.
Faith enjoyed learning about their strange, secluded culture, but sadly the meal ended sooner than she’d hoped. The plates had been taken away long ago, and the remaining guests gathered in small groups around the room. She’d half expected the men to wander off for cigars and brandy, and maybe some had, but most remained and gossiped worse than women.
Being human, she’d assumed she would be at the bottom of the social ladder, since technically she was their food source. Instead of being scorned and rebuffed, they openly invited her to participate in conversations and treated her as a guest.
Navarre bombarded her with questions, ranging anywhere from current public transportation, to vampire lore in America. Not only did he ask, he hung on her every word, drinking in the knowledge she gave him.
Soren left her with Navarre, which she didn’t think strange until he took Julian aside. Their conversation appeared rather serious by the way they tipped their heads toward each other and spoke quietly.
“I hear your kind worship rabbits,” Navarre said.
“Rabbits are nice,” she said. Was Soren whispering to Julian about his Guardians, Steffen, or demons? He glanced at her, then quickly away. Were they talking about her?
“Faith?” Navarre called her name loudly.
She jumped, startled and embarrassed. “I’m sorry, I wasn’t paying attention.”
“Clearly.” His certainty came with a quirked eyebrow. “I lost you the moment Soren walked away. Shall we join them?”
“Please.” She took the arm he offered, allowing him to lead.
With each step, the better she heard them. The topic eluded her, until she heard her name.
“I’m making a mess of this with Faith,” Soren said to Julian. “I’m not a social man, never have been.”
“Problem being?” Julian asked.
“I haven’t done a damn thing right.”
“What?” he asked, then shrugged. “She’s fine.”
“She’s here because I screwed up. She ran because I left her with Bareth and he scared her. Julian, I like her.”
“Ah, I see...” Julian looked up and must have seen her a few steps away. He greeted her with a cheerful smile. “We were just talking about you.”
She looked between the two, suspicious. Poor Soren had that classic deer-in-the-headlights look plastered across his face. “Should I be afraid?”
“No, but Soren should be. He asked if my wife, Yasmin, would take you shopping. She would be thrilled to drag you through every shop in the city,” he said, sending his version of a sly wink at Soren.
She got the distinct impression Soren had asked for help, though this might not be what he’d intended. If he wanted to be thoughtful, she’d bite. “You have shops here?”
“Many, and Yasmin would love your company. She’d also love seeing you spend Soren’s money like a madwoman,” Julian said with a grin.
“I’ll do my best.”
A short burst of laughter came from two small children, who raced through the dining hall. The boy ran, his smile positively impish as he glanced back at the young girl following him. The girl giggled, her round cheeks high and constantly smiling, dark curls bouncing with each step.
The boy looked up and skidded to a halt, barely avoiding a crash with Navarre. He reached out, caught the girl before she made the same mistake. With wide eyes, both children looked past the imposing lord, and their fearful gazes rested on Julian instead.
“Run, Ivette!” the boy yelled, and instantly she obeyed. He sent them a quick, bright smile, then followed her.
“Julian, were those your children?” Navarre asked.
“I do believe so. If you would excuse me, please. It’s time for a chase.” Julian rolled up his sleeves and dashed after them.
Several minutes later Julian walked by the doorway with a giggling child under each arm. The love they shared as a family warmed her heart. She understood why Soren adored his home and protected these people so fiercely.
“Will I meet your wife, too?” she asked Navarre, looking forward to the prospect of female companionship with Julian’s wife, not to mention shopping.
“I’m afraid not.” Navarre smiled sadly, gave them a short nod, and walked away.
“What did I say?” she asked.
“Navarre hasn’t mated.”
“I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to hurt him.” Faith remembered Steffen, and as she did, concern creased her brow. “He won’t, you know, be like Steffen?”
“No. Navarre won’t walk into the sun. His people mean too much to him. Honestly, I believe they are what keeps him alive.”
She watched with Soren as Navarre made his way around the room, talking at least briefly with everyone present. “Is he looking for his mate?”
“Are you offering yourself as
a candidate?” he asked, one eyebrow rising.
“Absolutely not. I only meant that if he knows what he wants, he should make an effort.”
“We should go,” he said, turning to leave. She looped her arm around his without being asked, and he looked completely surprised. “It’s not that easy for us. Having a mate is not a simple church ceremony. It’s a lifelong commitment. No outs. Our legends say the only pull greater than the sun is the love of your true mate.”
“How beautiful,” she said, followed by a wistful sigh.
“And sad. We lose many of our kind to sheer loneliness.” He dropped his head slightly.
Several chairs and loveseats lined the foyer outside the dining hall, each similarly framed by ornately carved wood. Funny, but not one of them seemed suitable for actual sitting. People lingered here, and many more trickled into the hallways.
She clung to Soren’s arm as he cut a path through them. One man studied her from his seat ahead. His hair shifted against his shoulders as he turned his head, followed her intently with his gaze. Before she could consider being outraged, Soren pulled her close and literally growled at the man.
Hoping to gain Soren’s attention, she cleared her throat delicately. It didn’t work. On her second attempt, she grabbed his hand and wrapped his arm around her shoulders. He glanced down at her, and she started walking. He could either stay by her side, or let go and get into a fight.
He kept his arm around her. Conflict averted, and point still made.
“Why are they looking at me like that?” she asked.
“They’re unmated.” He’d said the last word like it left a foul taste in his mouth. Head ducked, he spoke softly against her ear. “And they know you’re human.”
“They want...” she began, but couldn’t focus on how to form words as his lips moved deliciously over her ear.
“Your blood.” His blunt clarification was a cold splash of reality.
“You only feed from humans?” She eyed the next two men they passed warily, feeling like live bait in a tiger cage.
“No, but you’re a rarity here, a delicacy. I have no illusions they would be kind if they took from you. That’s why I gave you the knife.” He shifted his hand from her shoulder and covered her neck, shielding her from any lingering stares. His hand rested there intimately, possessively.