“Welp,” Yoshiko said, hopping up from the sofa with a victorious grin. “Who’s ready for seconds?”
“As long as you’re talking smoothies and not ass-kickings,” Mandy grumbled.
“And blood,” I added, shaking my empty glass.
Yoshiko opened her arms in a theatrical gesture toward the kitchen at the other end of the lounge. “This way, mighty warriors!”
Mandy and I followed her across the room, each taking a barstool as she circled the long counter. The lounge was mostly deserted at this hour—the quote, unquote breakfast rush for the vamps in the house. Most of the donors were either feeding guards or delivering blood pots downstairs.
The fresh bite on Yoshiko’s neck—and the extra wide grin on her face—told me that she’d fed Murphy recently. She touched the spot fondly before fetching a teapot in a pumpkin-colored cozy from the stove along the back counter.
“So, what do you think of the new girls?” I asked, finally feeling brave enough to drop the question. It didn’t sound half as casual out loud as it had in my head.
Yoshiko’s eyes darted up to me before her attention returned to fixing my drink. “They’re nice.”
“That’s…vague,” Mandy said, digging a rogue strawberry out of her glass with her straw.
Yoshiko took a deep breath as she handed me the fresh blood. Then she moved down to the sink where she’d left the blender pitcher to dry earlier. “Truthfully, I haven’t spent much time with them yet. They prefer to keep their mistress company in her room downstairs. Ronan and Tara said they had fun with them in the pool, though.”
“Hmm.” I sipped at my glass of blood to hide my frown.
“Their names are Polly and Kate,” Yoshiko added, sensing my disappointment. “I’m sure you’ve already met Audrey. They grew up together in West Texas, in a traditional donor community, and then studied together at Darkly Hall for eight years. It’s one of the top-rated schools in the country.”
I refrained from rolling my eyes. “Any word if Blood Vice found their captors, as the blood bride-to-be referred to them?”
Yoshiko shook her head. “Only Polly got a look, but it was dark, and she was more interested in the license plate number and locating a phone to call for help.”
“Fast-thinker,” Mandy said, impressed.
“Darkly trains them for crisis situations,” Yoshiko added. “I’m surprised the duke didn’t start there, but I suppose he was trying to strengthen his more local business connections.”
“So, did you study at a blood finishing school?” I asked, trying to balance the gossip with acceptable conversation—per Ursula’s lesson on how to be a busybody the proper way.
Yoshiko blushed and turned her back to us, placing the pitcher back on the blender base. “I did, a long time ago.”
“Which one?” I couldn’t picture Yoshiko in a place like Bathory House, with their strange, cultish restrictions and cookie-cutter look. Plus, Ursula had said that Yoshiko has been trained in how to apply makeup. Bathory House didn’t do makeup. The Southern belle scene at Darkly Hall didn’t seem to fit quite right either.
“Does it matter?” Yoshiko asked.
“I didn’t get to attend,” I said. “Humor me.”
She dug a bag of frozen berries and the coconut milk out of the refrigerator and put some of each into the blender. Next, she grabbed a banana from a hanging basket under the cabinets. The good cheer had abandoned her expression, and she avoided eye contact as she finished adding ingredients to the blender.
“Yeah, Yosh,” Mandy said, her curiosity just as piqued as mine. “Tell us. I want to hear all about your glamorous time at charm school.”
Mandy’s introduction to supernatural society hadn’t been any more informative or kind than mine. What didn’t kill you made you stronger—and confused as hell. We both wanted to know what it was like to be given a choice and an instruction manual for this alarming new existence.
“The Blood Okiya in L.A.,” Yoshiko finally answered. Then she pressed down the lid on the pitcher and hit the power button. As the air buzzed with white noise, Mandy and I exchanged curious glances.
When Yoshiko stopped the blender, I asked, “Isn’t that the one exclusively for the Blood House Geishas?”
“It is.” Yoshiko nodded absently. “I shed a lot of blood, sweat, and tears training to be one of them.”
“But then how—?”
“I was dismissed.” She put the pitcher of smoothie down so hard that it splashed over the edge of the container. Purple goop dripped from the counter and onto the floor, but Yoshiko grabbed a dishrag from the sink and set to work cleaning the mess. “I was terrible at playing the shamisen, terrible at dancing, and I botched my first performance as a maiko—in front of the duke. When the okā-san fired me on the spot, knowing my family would never take me back, Dante hired me.”
“Oh…” I tried to picture Yoshiko as one of the painted geishas I’d seen at the fancy vamp party Roman had taken me to last year before I went through training to be a Blood Vice agent. He’d told me that they ate special diets to flavor their blood, but other than that, they were traditionally trained geishas.
Ursula’s coverage of the fat bats in the vamp world hadn’t revealed much more. The geishas in California were all Japanese Americans from the same community in Torrance. They operated several teahouses in L.A. but also flew all over the world to entertain at parties hosted by rich and famous bloodsuckers. The original Blood Okiya was still in Kyoto, but they had branched out to several other countries in addition to the States.
“You know,” Mandy said, leaning over the counter to reach the smoothie pitcher, “that duke is starting to grow on me. He’s an all right guy.”
Yoshiko nodded and held her glass out, letting Mandy refill it. “He really is.”
“I’ll third that,” I said, toasting their smoothies with my blood.
I meant it, too.
As much as I could hate the duke for Roman’s sake, I adored Dante for so much more.
I didn’t know how it had taken me so long to recognize it for what it was, but I suddenly realized that Dante was a bleeding heart. Yoshiko, Ursula, me… He collected lost causes and gave us a second chance.
And I was willing to bet that we weren’t the only ones at the manor who owed him a debt we could never repay.
* * * * *
Ursula skipped our nightly lesson in favor of beginning her portrait. I should have known that stoking the flames of her vanity would be the easiest way to ditch class. Although, her company was only mildly less infuriating.
“Over there,” she directed Murphy, pointing for him to leave the kerosene lamp he carried on top of the low bookcase that divided the library in half. “Now, be gone.”
“Thank you,” I said as Murphy walked past me. The crease between his brows softened, and he dipped his head in a subtle nod before making his exit.
According to the princess, using artificial lighting was unacceptable for crafting a masterpiece. Two more oil lamps rested at the far end of the long table where she usually conducted our lessons. They provided just enough light for me to see what I was doing with the supplies she’d had delivered.
A huge sheet of thick, textured paper had been clipped to an easel. Several hand towels and an array of pencils, brushes, charcoals, smudge sticks, and pastels lay along the edge of the table. There were also several jars of water and mineral spirits, all arranged on a plastic sheet. I hardly knew where to begin.
“Well?” Ursula said. She stood in front of the window, the glow of the lanterns reflecting off the glass behind her. “Do you have everything you need?”
I nodded. “And then some.”
The gown she’d chosen was a blue so pale it was almost gray. The neckline cut a sharp line just beneath her collarbones, and the shimmery fabric hugged her until it reached the bends of her elbows and knees, where it ended in loose, lace ruffles.
“Where do you want me?” she asked, glancing at her reflection
in the window behind her.
“Wherever. Just make sure it’s a comfortable position that you’re able to stay in for a while.”
Ursula sniffed and sat down, propping her arms on the back of the bench. She folded her legs and tilted up her chin, the epitome of regal confidence. “You may begin.”
“Yes, Your Highness,” I said, struggling to keep the sarcasm out of my tone. If she hadn’t caught my Harry Potter joke, I doubted she’d appreciate an Alice in Wonderland-type inflection.
Among the supplies, I noticed a set of oil pastels. I’d stuck to charcoal in my sketchbook. It had been a long time since I worked with anything else, but I was tempted. While I considered my options, I picked up a gray colored pencil and did a light sketch first, figuring out the scale and proportions.
Despite her high-maintenance personality, Ursula was a model art subject. Maybe it had something to do with being an old vamp, a throwback to a long-gone era of elegance and discipline. She sat statue-still, holding the angle of her chin firmly in place and maintaining intense eye contact with me. She clearly wanted this done right. As soon as I started in with the oil pastels, I realized that she was correct about the lighting, too.
The warmth of the firelight gave new depths to her skin and traced bold highlights in her hair and eyes. Her pale dress held a full spectrum of shadows, and the darkened window created a striking contrast. I tried not to rush as I captured it all, taking extra care with the finer details.
It wasn’t quite like riding a bicycle, but slowly, I began to remember the various tricks and techniques I’d learned in high school. An hour turned into two, but I kept going, my fingers stained to the knuckles from blending, and sweat dotting my brow from the workout such a large piece required.
When I was satisfied with the portrait, I nodded to Ursula. “You can blink now.”
“Finally.” She sighed and let her arms fall to the cushioned bench. Then she stood and crossed the library, stopping beside me to examine the finished product. After a long moment of silent scrutiny, she nodded once. “That will do. Frame and deliver it to my room before sunrise.”
I gave her a tight-lipped smile, annoyed by her rudeness but no longer surprised. “Yes, Your Highness.”
On her way out of the library, she once again paused, turning back to me as if an afterthought. “Well done, my scion.”
* * * * *
They hadn’t taught us how to professionally frame drawings and paintings in my high school art class. If the teacher deemed something good enough for the annual art show, she just taped it to some pre-cut mat board. But, I’d harassed Dante about Blood Vice and Ursula enough times in his studio that I had a general idea of how it should work for something more appropriate for the princess’s bedroom wall.
I removed the portrait from the easel and held it by the top corners as I carried it downstairs. Two guards stood sentry in the foyer on either side of the double doors to the duke’s office, a sure sign that he was working. Neither of them stopped me as I ducked down the back hallway. The doorknob to the studio was difficult to work with my elbow, but I eventually managed to fumble it open and laid the portrait down on the worktable before turning on the overhead light.
The room was more intimidating than I remembered with its massive printing machines and strange collection of tools. I went to the back wall first, where dozens of frames hung from long pegs. Most of them were simple and solid black—perfect for the sunrise and sunset photographs Dante liked to take. But some were more intricate and painted in a variety of metallic hues. I chose a deep copper-colored frame with ivy etchings for Ursula’s portrait.
On a shelf under the work table, I found a piece of museum glass that fit the frame and then used it as a template to cut a matching piece of backer board. I was deep in thought, trying to figure out what came next when someone knocked on the open door. I nearly jumped out of my skin.
“Didn’t mean to frighten you,” Audrey giggled. She stood in the doorway, wearing a white tulle skirt and a navy cashmere sweater. It was an improvement over the plantation gown, but it didn’t make me like her any better. She held up a hand up in peaceful surrender, and I noticed two tiny puncture marks on her wrist. That didn’t make me like her any more.
“I wasn’t frightened,” I snapped. “I was startled. Completely different.”
“Then I apologize for startling you,” she said, completely unfazed by my spitefulness. “We haven’t been properly introduced. I’m Audrey Moore, the duke’s future scion.”
“I know,” I replied, sounding even more juvenile than I had before. “What do you want?”
“Oh, I just found my friend’s bracelet in the hallway,” she said, holding up her other hand. “I was on my way to return it to her when I saw the studio light on…” Her voice trailed off as I turned my back on her and ducked down to grab a piece of mat board from the shelf under the table.
“Well, now you know it’s me. Mystery solved.” I found a yardstick and measured off where I wanted the matting to lay over the portrait. When I turned around, Audrey was still lingering in the doorway, delicate hands folded over her heart. I glanced down at my own, at the pastels caked under my nails and in the creases of my knuckles.
“Is there anything I can do to help?” Audrey asked.
“No.”
“Oh. Okay…”
“Did you need something else?” I blinked at her, wondering if she was having a territorial issue about Dante’s favorite room in the manor.
Audrey smiled weakly. “We’re going to be family soon, and we’ll be living together for some time I’ve been told.”
I grimaced at the reminder. “I’m aware.”
“Have I done something to displease you?” she asked, matching my expression with a sour one of her own. “Please, tell me if I have. I will gladly make whatever amends are required.”
“Wow. I didn’t realize Darkly Hall specialized in people-pleasers,” I scoffed and turned back to the table, trying to remember what I’d been looking for. A utility knife. That was it. I found one in a wire basket hanging from the pegboard behind the table.
“Darkly Hall teaches us to respect and cherish family,” Audrey said defensively. “Especially our immortal family.”
“Then why don’t you show a little respect and leave me alone.” I waved a hand down at the unassembled frame. “Can’t you see I’m busy?”
Her doe eyes watered, but she offered a parting curtsy. “Yes, Your Grace,” she said and then turned and left.
I finished framing Ursula’s portrait in silence, stewing over what an asshat the girl had turned me into—over what an asshat I had turned myself into. She’d flustered me with her bubbly, eager-beaver personality, but that wasn’t a good enough reason to bite her head off.
I wondered what a good enough reason would be. The guilty knot in my gut tightened, but I ignored it as I left the studio and headed for Ursula’s room, the finished portrait in hand. My pride had been dampened by Audrey’s visit, but I still admired the piece. It sparked something in me that I hadn’t felt for some time.
I decided that I’d have to do this again soon. Maybe for Mandy or Murphy. Perhaps even the duke.
Chapter Eleven
It had been almost a week since I’d last seen Dante. Which I’d come to find…rare since Imbolc. He’d go on overnight trips, be gone for two or three days at a time, but he’d always come to find me before he left and again after he returned. And our paths seemed to cross at least every other day whenever he was home. Sometimes, I’d drop in on him. Sometimes, he’d drop in on me.
I’d been waiting for him to make the first move, my pride still bruised from our last conversation. But he seemed to be doing the same thing. Or else he’d entirely forgotten about me, distracted by his perfect new pet.
I wondered how the investigations were going for the potential scions who hadn’t made it this far. I’d pestered Murphy a few times, but he didn’t seem to know anything—nothing he was willing or able to
share with me anyway. As far as I knew, Ingrid was still missing. It wasn’t a good sign.
But I also wondered what would happen if she turned up alive. Would Dante send Audrey back to Austin? Or Ingrid back to Belleville? Would he keep them both? Would I lose my mind with double the envy?
The weekend passed by in an uneventful blur without even Laura’s show to look forward to. Mandy was home, but she’d picked up a few extra guard shifts while one of the duke’s wolves was on paternity leave. And then, Monday night, Murphy caught up with me before our usual sparring time to cancel.
The ball was scheduled for next Wednesday, and the attending security detail was meeting up to go over protocol and to re-test their firearm accuracy in the underground range that split off from the basement and ran the length of the north wing under the gym and garage.
Something that I somehow hadn’t heard about until now.
I knew the duke wouldn’t be attending this meeting. He trusted Murphy to captain his royal guard. And since I was going to be at the ball anyway, and I knew my way around a pistol or two, there was no reason why I shouldn’t have been invited to this gathering and allowed to sharpen up in their fancy range.
That—and a little begging—was how I ended up crammed in a tiny office full of beefy vampires and werewolves in the basement of the manor. Murphy stood in front of a whiteboard at the back of the room. At the last minute, Mandy joined us, nudging in between another guard and me. I didn’t have time to question her before Murphy began his lecture.
“Listen up, men—and ladies. The security system is scheduled for an update later this evening. That means overlapping perimeter shifts. If you have questions, save them for after the meeting so no one is late reporting for duty. If you don’t have time to re-test on the range tonight, I expect you to make time tomorrow night. Anyone who doesn’t will be dismissed from this assignment.”
Blood, Sweat, and Tears (Blood Vice Book 6) Page 7