Bleeding Hearts: Book One of the Demimonde

by Ash Krafton

  Before I'd wake, sweating and gasping, he'd speak one sentence. Did you really think a door could stop me?

  And he'd smile.

  One night, Marek arrived as he'd done every night for about a week. He knocked, I hollered "come in," and he manifested out of sight in the hallway. It saved me the trouble of getting up to answer the door. As long as I didn't have to watch the hocus pocus, I could deal.

  Instead of assuming his usual spot on my couch, he disappeared into my room.

  I was baffled. So was Euphrates, who thumped down the hallway and stalked into the parlor with his tail straight up like a chipmunk. He looked so affronted at having been disturbed that I laughed. Euphrates had gradually allowed Marek to enter the apartment, but his tolerance did not extend to hospitality. He stayed in my bedroom, well away from Marek.

  The cat slunk his way around the perimeter of the room. I bent down and reached under the desk, trying to coax him out of the corner, when a polite cough made me jump, straight up and into the bottom of the desk.

  Rubbing my head and wincing, I noticed Marek in the doorway. Euphrates took off like a rocket and seemed to evaporate in a cloud of dust bunnies. Meep meep!

  "You okay?" Marek asked.

  "Yeah. Uh..." I gestured vaguely with my free hand. "What are you doing with my laundry?"

  "It's not laundry yet. These are from your closet." Holding up his hands, he displayed two outfits. "Pick one and put it on."

  "Bossy much?" I noticed he wore a sharp suit of exquisite charcoal. I didn't need to look in a mirror to know I looked like the second week of summer camp. A week of staying up until dawn, sleeping like crap, and still trying to work the day shift left me no more ambitious than t-shirt and sweats.

  "I'm not bossy. I'm just telling you to do something." He didn't flinch when the pillow I launched thumped into his chest. "Or I can do it for you. Either way is fine with me."

  Twenty minutes later I was dressed (on my own, thank you) and reasonably groomed. Marek made coffee while I showered and emerged from my waking coma. He'd even toasted a bagel for me. I had no idea he was so domesticated.

  He stood in the hall outside the bathroom as I finished getting ready, hands in his pockets, leaning in his deceptively lazy manner. I twisted my hair up experimentally and reached for a clip. "So, you gonna clue me in?"

  "Not like that." Marek craned his neck and stared intently at my hair. "No need to put that pretty neck out there for all to see."

  My eyes grew as wide as saucers and I hastily shook my hair down again.

  He nodded in approval as I settled my hair down around my shoulders. "I know the last week has been difficult. But you seem to have been cooped up here. Have you even left your apartment?"

  I tried to remember. Come to think of it, no. I hadn't really left. All the work I accomplished, I emailed to the office. Barbara suggested I work from home when I called her Monday about my raging stomach virus, a true case of two-bucket disease that was probably virulently contagious. She didn't even want details, which was a pity because I had a great cache of them; as an ex-nurse, I have a fertile imagination.

  I hadn't been to The Mag all week. Apart from running to the corner deli, I'd pretty much become a hermit. Of course, the main reason was the awful schedule I kept. Now I realized something else. I'd been afraid to leave.

  Feeling guilty, I shrugged and toyed with my bangs.

  He sighed, a deep regretful sound. "It's my own fault. I went about all this all wrong. You withdrew from the world, not embraced it as I had hoped."

  I shot him a look. "Embrace it? Is that what you wanted? Because, I gotta be honest—I don't go around embracing things that want to kill me."

  He pinched his lips together. "That's what I mean. Yes, okay. Much of what I told you is...savage...compared to what you expect from the ones who surround you. But, tell me, are meals the defining characteristic of your society? Is there more to you, Sophie, than what you consume to stay alive?"

  I dug through my make-up bag in search of eyeliner. I've been trying to keep an open mind but it disturbed me to hear him say things like meals and consume, knowing he meant people.

  Uncapping an eye pencil, I considered his point and reluctantly conceded. "What about the savagery?" I countered. "How can I go outside, not knowing if the taxi driver or the stranger asking directions really means to take my life?"

  "Sophie, this is the city. Those threats existed long before you learned of the DV."

  I said nothing. He was right.

  Staring down at my trembling hand, I figured it'd probably be best to go with no make-up at all, rather than doodle shaky lines over my face like some epileptic crack whore. My brown eyes, dark with anxiety, ringed with lack of sleep, looked big enough. Make-up would only make it worse.

  Pushing away from the wall, Marek slid in behind me and met my gaze in the mirror. He gently brushed my shoulders with his hands, stroking them slowly down my arms.

  The comforting motion soothed my nervous trembling. I felt my tension slip away as if he'd pushed off an itchy cloak. Calm and coolness smoothed over my jangling nerves and his expression confirmed the comfort wasn't imagined. He intentionally used compulsion, enforcing that whatever he might be, he wasn't completely scary.

  "You're tired, and the coffee really got you buzzing," he whispered. "Relax so you don't stab yourself with that pencil."

  I leaned back, allowing his hands to hold me against him. Exhaling, I smiled. He couldn't be evil and feel like sanctuary at the same time. There had to be rules about that.

  A moment passed in contented silence. He squeezed me gently before letting go. "Finish up. I made reservations."

  As he backed up to leave the bathroom, I stopped him, sliding my fingers around his biceps. His eyes, expectant and surprised, brightened momentarily, a pulse of light.

  "Marek, tell me... promise me... I'll be safe with you?" Everything I've worried about since meeting him was embedded in that question.

  He returned my intensity with an intensity of his own. Swallowing hard, he spoke with a rough voice. "As safe as any woman is with a man who wants her."

  His mouth was a seductive line that invited closer inspection, but I felt a mental push as he compelled me to turn back to the mirror. "Finish painting your eyes," he insisted playfully. "Tonight, I'll introduce you to my world."

  The valet opened my door, outstretched hand sheathed in a spotless white glove.

  I ignored it and got out on my own. I didn't like the thought of a stranger touching me. I tried not to look suspiciously at him and summoned a phony smile, grateful when Marek appeared at my side.

  I'd never been inside Folletti's although I'd read plenty about the restaurant. Whenever The Mag published a list of hot spots in town, it always mentioned Folletti's as one of the top attractions. It had been the subject of an in-depth write-up more than once. Despite its popularity, I'd never had enough interest to venture inside.

  The outside had the appearance of its original business; it had been a shirt factory until the late seventies. A massive four-story building of faded red brick, it took up a full third of a city block. Now remodeled into a multi-level entertainment complex, it boasted a classy restaurant, a more casual pizza parlor, a game room, two nightclubs, and a penthouse bar.

  Folletti's was a popular spot for the underage crowd, who were granted admittance to the first two floors. Security guards conspicuously patrolled and kept trouble to a minimum. In fact, I'd never heard of a single incident ever happening at Folletti's.

  Access upstairs was limited to the over-twenty-one crowd and management had a reputation for enforcing age restrictions. As a result, Folletti's was big with parents, too. They'd drop off their kids at the pizza joint and drive around to the restaurant side.

  It was family-friendly yet trendy enough to keep the singles crowd more than satisfied. Their managers had to be MENSA for sheer marketing genius.

  As I preceded Marek into the foyer of the restaurant, I saw why I
'd never been invited here before. Folletti's was out of my league. I'd suspected the place would be high-end but until this moment I didn't realize just how nose-bleedingly high. The inside had been decorated in tasteful gold and crystal. Not overdone, just elegant. The staff sported tuxedos, the waitresses wore little black dresses sans aprons.

  A glance into the dining room revealed it was definitely a couples' place. Table for two by candlelight seemed to be the prevailing theme. Good thing I hadn't argued Marek's choice of apparel; even better I'd improvised with a string of pearls. Marek had seemed pleased and smiled at me in a way that seemed both indulgent and confident.

  He checked our jackets and was immediately recognized by the maitre d', who dipped his head in courtesy and dispatched a passing waiter. Marek stood with hands clasped behind his back and wore a look of patient expectation.

  I touched my necklace with tentative fingers, hoping my lipstick was even and my slip wasn't showing. The specials board appeared to be hand painted in oils on scented wood. The places where I normally dined taped a photocopy in their window or used a marker board.

  I swallowed against the dryness of my mouth. Chilean sea bass? Wasn't that on the endangered species list? And what exactly was guanciale? I couldn't even pronounce it. I meant to ask Marek but a ruddy-complexioned man in a tux approached, catching my attention immediately.

  I usually had a knack for sizing people up. I put on my politest smile but within moments I had to struggle to keep it in place.

  First impressions tend to be the strongest, and his was one of sheer force. He pushed his aggression in front of him like a snowplow. Striding purposefully, he didn't greet Marek—he confronted him.

  "Marek." The man's black eyebrows, like smears of greasepaint, drew severe lines over glittering black eyes. The insincerity in his voice was not quite concealed. "To what do we owe this great pleasure?"

  "Do I need a reason to drop by?" Marek replied without looking down at the shorter man's face. He seemed more interested in watching the dining room than speaking with him.

  "I assume you're not here to dally with your playthings." He shot an appraising glance at me, his eyes flicking up and down, taking all of my appearance in at once. "Although, I saw several of your brood upstairs..."

  "My manners are atrocious." Marek cut him off, but not before I'd gotten a clear idea of exactly what the guy meant. "May I present Ms. Sophie Galen. Sophie, this is Andre Caen, the evening manager."

  He pronounced the name Khan, as in Genghis. Suited the jerk, anyway.

  Caen bristled at the manner by which he'd been introduced. Apparently, he thought of himself as being much more important. Marek didn't seem the least bit upset by Caen's attempt to intimidate him so if he could blow him off, then by golly, so would I. Try, I mean.

  "Pleased to meet you," I said. I smiled as vacantly as I could, watching a smug look settle upon Caen's face. Marek dismissed him, turning toward the maitre d' who had hesitantly drawn near, waiting to take us to our table. Breathing out a sigh of relief, I didn't dawdle as he led us into the dining room.

  Our table nestled in a quiet niche behind a fountain. Water flowed down over tiny silver bells, chiming a soothing melody. Marek had just drawn out my chair for me when a younger man called his name. I'd hoped this guy wouldn't be as annoying as the last.

  However, Marek's eyes were warm when he turned to greet him and I relaxed. "Rodrian," he said. "This is Sophie. Sophie, meet my brother."

  He wasn't as tall or as broad as Marek, but still nicely built. His dark brown hair had been styled sleekly but might have been chin-length and wavy if left loose. Hazel eyes glowed briefly at the sound of my name and amber sparks smoldered as he turned to me.

  I held out my hand to shake but instead he turned my hand, kissing it. Looking up at me, he winked. "I've heard much about you, Sophie."

  I liked him immediately. "All good, I hope?"

  "My brother is not the least poetic but what he's told me sounded like pure verse. Still, he didn't do you justice." Marek cleared his throat and Rodrian released my hand with a grin. He tucked a smart little bow. "Welcome to Folletti's. It will be my sincere pleasure to serve you."

  "You're a waiter?"

  "No, the owner."

  Figured. Bossy Marek would, of course, have a bossy brother. I sat down and smoothed my skirt as Rodrian stepped closer to Marek.

  Glancing over his shoulder, Rodrian waited for a woman to walk past, nodding and smiling like the perfect host. When he turned back, the playful mood disappeared and he became all business. He spoke quietly but made no effort to conceal his words from me.

  "Brother, I must speak with you soon. His men were here earlier. They insist we reconsider our position on the new legislation. I know what you said," he whispered hurriedly, as Marek made an exasperated noise. "I sent them away. They knew I stalled. I don't know how much longer I can keep it up."

  Marek looked undaunted. "Just ignore them. They'll stop coming when they realize we won't be coerced. The Master's gaze will soon be drawn from us."

  "But the tributes? They won't leave us alone forever, not when we can be made to pay to keep peace. They'll be back. They always come back."

  "Rodrian, trust me. Everything will work out the way we planned. Worse comes to worst, you sell the place and we begin anew elsewhere."

  Rodrian's expression fell. He didn't seem to like the idea but made quiet noises of acquiescence; it seemed more habit than actual assent. Summoning a smile for me, Rodrian switched gears and once more played host.

  "I hope you enjoy your evening, Sophie. I look forward to seeing you again. Marek." Rodrian nodded to his brother and left.

  Marek took his seat as the wine stewards appeared. They served us from separate bottles, although the hue of the libation appeared similar. Marek watched me carefully to see if I'd react, but I didn't. I didn't want to contemplate the contents of his glass too much.

  "Well." Marek set down his glass and leaned toward me. The gesture lowered his head and he gazed at me from under his pitch-black lashes. "Are you enjoying yourself, yet?"

  A glance at the people surrounding us did little to relieve my apprehension. Everyone but me seemed elegant and relaxed. I sat on eggshells, worrying that I'd spill my glass or use the wrong fork.

  Then I realized: so what if I did? Unless I set the place on fire or threw holy water on someone, Marek wouldn't care. His brother was the owner and Marek personified force. Even Caen's demonstration couldn't challenge my conception of who truly mattered here.

  Since no one else here oozed strength the way Marek did, I decided I didn't care about anyone else's opinion. I only needed to concentrate on Marek. With that pleasant task in mind, I smiled back at him, sincerely and full of anticipation.

  "Good," he chuckled. "For a moment I worried Caen had upset you."

  "I know men like Caen," I said. "Little boys make lots of noise. He didn't impress me."

  He reached for his glass. "Think no more of him. He's hardly representative of what I want you to experience tonight. He is not an ideal DV."

  "Is Rodrian?"

  "Not as much as I." His tone sounded sullen.

  I laughed, goofy smile spreading. "Are you jealous?"

  "Not jealous," he said firmly. I didn't believe him. "Rodrian is a ladies' man to be sure, but he knows better than to draw your attention."

  I smirked at him and picked up the menu.

  "Not jealous," he insisted.

  What a liar.

  "Marek." A well-dressed man called out he passed near our table, his voice a pleasant tenor that matched his build. "How are you, friend?"

  Marek raised his head at the sound of the voice and smiled. He used his napkin hastily before dropping it next to his plate as he stood, reaching to take the man's outstretched hand. Their handshake seemed familiar and warm and Marek leaned to clap him on the shoulder.

  "Frank, it has been far too long." He indicated me with a sweep of his hand. "Let me introduce you to Soph
ie Galen. Sophie, this is Frank Levene and his wife Annette."

  A pretty blonde emerged from her husband's side and we exchanged hellos. Annette had an admirable grip for a woman—confident, direct. Not wilting or flimsy. She didn't make it a contest, either. Her husband shook as well, matching his pressure to mine.

  "Senator Levene," I said, and received a smile for recognizing him. "It's an honor."

  "Please, call me Frank. 'Senator' is a working name and my wife doesn't allow work during dinner."

  Frank Levene was an influential Senator who'd held his seat for several terms. He had a knack for humanizing political issues so common people could understand the consequences. Constituents admired him, lawmakers respected him, and anyone on the other side of his campaigns faced a rough battle.

  Right now, he was the center of media attention regarding the tax hikes. His opposition to the issue was well-known and he had tremendous support behind him. I'd only read his name about eight million times in the last month at work.

  Marek knew him personally. Why wasn't I surprised?

  Marek and Frank talked briefly, inquiries about family and vague references to business. After promising to speak again soon, the Levenes continued on their ways and Marek returned to his seat. Obviously he hadn't been kidding when he'd told me he was involved in politics.

  "He seems really nice," I said.

  Marek reached for his wineglass. "He's a good boy."

  "Boy?" I laughed. "He's fifty, at least. Someone that dignified-looking kind of surpasses good boy, don't you think?"

  "You're right. I've known him for so long I sometimes forget."

  "You two go back far?"

  "Mmm hmm," he assented while he drank. "I met him when he was in elementary school. He was nine, I think. Scrawny, never seeming to fit into his clothes. Quiet, unassertive, used to being told to behave. His potential, though... that I could see plainly. He had an inner spirit. You could say I mentored him."