“So, you obviously aren’t nocturnal now,” I remarked.
“Some still keep to the old ways.” She leaned in and grinned. “Personally, I never wake up before at least noon.” We heard the men come back in. She looked over her shoulder at the door then at me and asked, “What’s with the boxes?”
“It appears Lucien is moving in,” I replied, unable to hide my distaste for this idea.
She looked over her shoulder at the door again and again mumbled under her breath, “He sure doesn’t waste any time.”
“Waste any time what?” I asked.
She looked back to me and answered, “I’ll let Lucien explain it.”
I shook my head. “Stephanie, no disrespect, but I’d rather you did the explaining.”
Her eyes softened and she said quietly, “I take it things aren’t going well between you two.”
“Nope,” I replied instantly.
“Did he not feed?” she asked, sounding slightly incredulous.
“Yep. He fed,” I shared. “Things got out of hand and he forgot to anesthetize me,” I waved my hand in the air, “or whatever.”
I watched her face shut down and realized it was to mask her reaction.
Then her hand came out and grabbed mine before she whispered in a voice that dripped compassion, “Oh honey.”
At her words and the tone in which they were uttered I wanted to cry. I really did. She obviously understood even if it was from her viewpoint, not the victim’s. It was good sitting across from someone, even someone I barely knew, who understood.
But I didn’t cry. I felt the tears welling but I held them back. It took a lot out of me but I fucking well did it.
She watched my struggle and when I’d come out victorious she gave my hand a firm squeeze.
“You need to get drunk,” she declared, taking her hand away.
I thought that was an excellent idea. Then I remembered why it might not be an excellent idea.
“Lucien said he’s feeding again tonight.”
She stood and pulled me up with her. “Good. It’ll serve him right to get some secondhand alcohol in his system,” she commented with feeling and leaned into me while she walked me from the room. “Feeding from someone inebriated,” she gave a mock shudder, “tastes crap.”
At learning that knowledge, I liked her plan all the better.
* * * * *
Stephanie and I were hanging off the stools that sat around the huge island bar that separated the enormous kitchen from the breakfast nook and comfy-kitchen-living-area. Yes, I had a comfy-kitchen-living-area with a big, fluffy couch, an attractive, low coffee table and a gigantic, round bean bag that two small adults could pile themselves into. Who needs all that? I already had a living room and family room for goodness sakes!
Both Stephanie and I had consumed more than our fair share of vodka martinis under the watchful and reproachful (I might add) eyes of Edwina when the next thing happened.
More boxes arrived.
These weren’t cardboard boxes filled with Lucien’s clothes. These were glossy black boxes of all shapes and sizes, each of them tied with a blood-red satin bow.
The minute Stephanie eyed the delivery man carrying a tower of boxes, she cried, “Yippee! Lucien’s been shopping.”
This news did not make me happy.
“Oh, my dear. You may be moody but you must have pleased him somehow,” Edwina pronounced having lost her stern glare and donning a gleaming smile. She was following delivery man number two.
I ignored Edwina and watched Stephanie who was already digging into the stash with an abandon that was slightly scary.
He’d said a package would arrive. A package.
Did he expect me to wear all this stuff at once?
Stephanie pulled out a flash of material, swinging it around and then smoothing it against her front.
“This is stunning. Come here, Leah, try this on,” she demanded.
I looked at what she held.
She was right. It was stunning. It was the most exquisite thing I’d ever seen.
An evening dress, black matte silk, flowy skirt with a slit up the front lined in aubergine satin, halter-topped and backless.
Both delivery men came in again, each bearing another tower of boxes.
“More?” I whispered.
Stephanie didn’t hear me or ignored me, likely the second, she was on a mission.
“Come here, Leah. This first,” she was shaking the black gown at me, “then this.” She picked up what looked like a cream-colored skirt lined in pale blue and it had a kick pleat.
I slid off my stool and drunkenly wobbled into the comfy-kitchen-living area.
I touched the fabric of the black gown. It was glorious.
Stephanie let it go to turn her attention to another box and I caught it before it fell to the ground.
I held the dress up in front of me.
I really wanted to enjoy this. I really, really did. But instead it made me feel more trapped, more suffocated, more owned.
Lucien was dressing up his pet. And I was his pet.
It made me feel somehow dirty.
“Why on earth would he buy me this stuff? I’ll never wear it,” I mumbled or, I should say, slurred. We’d had a lot of martinis.
Stephanie paused in her gleeful activity and looked at me. “What do you mean, you’ll never wear it?”
“I live in a house in the middle of nowhere. My job is to hang around until a vampire wants to feed from me.”
Stephanie straightened and caught my eyes. “Yes, that’s part of your job. Another part of your job is to play escort should he want to show you off. At the opera. Or a dinner party. Or A Feast.”
God, I hoped Lucien didn’t like opera. That would suck because I loathed it.
I decided to latch onto something else she said, something Lucien had mentioned before. “A feast?”
She nodded. “A Feast. Some vamps take their concubines to Feasts. I don’t but I know on occasion that Lucien does.”
“What’s a feast?” I asked and Edwina made a little pip noise and both Stephanie and I swung our eyes to her.
“You don’t approve?” Stephanie asked, not dangerously, curiously.
“Not to his taking the girls there, no,” Edwina answered softly then started to gather up discarded tissue, ribbons and boxes. “They can get dangerous.”
“What’s a feast?” I asked again but Stephanie was still studying Edwina.
“Lucien would never let anything happen to one of his concubines.”
“I know,” Edwina said and straightened. “It’s just…” she hesitated, looked between us and finished, proclaiming, “my girls are good girls.”
This made me even more intrigued so I asked, louder this time, “What’s a feast?”
“She may need another martini for this,” Edwina mumbled, dropped the detritus and headed to the martini shaker.
I was no longer intrigued, I was now concerned. So much so I plonked down on the fluffy couch amidst a mountain of tissue paper as the two delivery men added two more towers of boxes to the plethora.
Stephanie plonked down beside me and Edwina fetched us fresh martinis.
Then Stephanie explained. “Vamps can feed from two places, their concubines and any mortal who attends A Feast. That’s it. That’s the law.”
“So why are they dangerous? Do they round up the victims…?” I stopped speaking when Stephanie’s face grew scary hard.
“They aren’t victims, Leah. They choose to be there.” Her voice was as hard as her face.
I ignored her voice mainly because I couldn’t imagine what she said was true.
She studied my expression and her face softened.
“It’s not like it was with you and Lucien,” she said under her breath so Edwina, who was tidying my new, extravagant wardrobe, couldn’t hear. “Most mortals love it. Some even become addicted to it. There are even ex-concubines there.”
I felt my eyes grow round and she
nodded and continued, “It’s frowned upon, of course. A concubine will lose her or his reputation by attending Feasts after they’ve been released. Their families are normally shunned. Their line will henceforth go unchosen at Selections. They usually don’t attend once a concubine falls mostly because they aren’t invited.”
“Why?” I asked.
“Feasts are where common mortals go.” She put her hand on mine. “You, honey, are anything but common.”
This sounded sickeningly superior.
She must have read my face because she went on, “They love it, the mortals who attend. They don’t care. They build their whole lives around it, traveling from Feast to Feast. They’re like groupies.”
And this sounded simply sickening.
“I still don’t get why it’s dangerous,” I pressed and Stephanie leaned back.
“Because anything goes,” she replied. “Lots of liquor, loud music, dancing and bodies. Any mortal is fair game. Some have two, three, even more vampires feeding on them at once. There are some Feasts, not the ones Lucien attends, mind, where there are drugs. Sex. Orgies.”
“Wow,” I whispered and she smiled.
“The good ones are fun. You can take your fill of as many mortals as you want. It’s great.”
It didn’t sound great but that was just me.
“Why would you take a concubine there?” I asked.
She shrugged. “To share another part of your life with her. If you’ve got a good one, to show her off to other vampires.”
Something struck me. “If anything goes, and a concubine is mortal, is she fair game?”
Stephanie hesitated a moment before answering, “At the wilder ones, with vamps who don’t take good care of their girls, yes.” I sucked in breath and she hurried on, “But Lucien doesn’t go to those.”
“So, that’s why it’s dangerous,” I whispered and Edwina made another pip noise. Again Stephanie and I looked at her.
“Not entirely,” Stephanie replied, glancing back my way.
“What is it, entirely?” I pushed.
Stephanie sighed before saying, “Even at the good ones, things can get out of hand. Vampires are what we are. It isn’t unheard of for there to be bloodlust. In the throes of bloodlust a vampire will go for anything mortal. It’s not unusual for concubines to be used by other vamps, even offered by their own vampire to his friends.”
“Oh my God,” I breathed.
“Lucien wouldn’t do that,” she rushed to assure me.
“Oh my God,” I breathed again.
She leaned toward me. “Leah, seriously, Lucien would never share. Ever. You have to believe me. I’m being very serious.”
I just stared at her.
She kept talking. “He’d sense if things were deteriorating and he’d get you out of there. It wouldn’t matter. No vampire is stupid enough to touch what’s Lucien’s. He’d burn. Lucien would make sure of it. He’d do it himself. He’s even done it before.”
“Done what before?”
“Burned another vampire. If memory serves, he’s done it twice. Once was after something happened at A Feast. The other vamp didn’t even feed from his concubine, he just touched her. Lucien went mad, hunted him down, made him burn. The second was –”
She didn’t finish, I interrupted her by whispering, “Made him burn?”
Stephanie nodded. “Lucien killed him without a thought and he’d been within his rights. You don’t touch another vamp’s concubine. Most vampires cover it up, make a monetary agreement. They don’t take it that far. Any money that exchanges hands they give to their concubine to buy her silence. But Lucien would take it that far, no doubt about it. If it happens, it reflects on her vampire. He’ll seek vengeance and it’ll be granted. And she can demand immediate release and that too will be granted.”
“You can demand release?” I was too drunk to mask the hope in my voice.
“Yes,” Stephanie answered. “It’s tantamount to neglect which is grounds for unconditional release.”
My inebriated mind recalled reading that in my contract.
Why hadn’t I thought of that before?
There were grounds for unconditional release. Neglect, which Lucien had definitely not done, and extreme cruelty, which he could have done.
My brain was drunkenly churning so I didn’t catch Stephanie getting close.
“That doesn’t count,” she said softly, reading my drunken thoughts. “It happens to us all, not often but it does. I’m surprised it happened to Lucien but not surprised at the same time, considering it’s you. We lose focus or control. We’re vampires, you’re concubines. It’s the nature of the relationship.”
There it was. My hopes were dashed.
Again.
“I don’t like anything about the relationship. Not. One. Thing,” I announced and then took a huge sip of my martini.
When I was done swallowing, I caught her sly grin. “I’ll call you tomorrow morning after he feeds tonight and we’ll see what you say about the relationship then.”
I rolled my eyes. Stephanie laughed.
“Don’t you have more boxes to open?” I asked tartly.
She looked down at the boxes on the coffee table, her eyes narrowed and she reached out to grab one.
“This one has a note on it.” She yanked off the bow using the thick, cream card that was attached. “It says, ‘This is for tonight’.” She turned it to face me. “That’s Lucien’s handwriting.”
I looked at the bold, slashing, powerful, black scrawl that, in itself, was a command even if I couldn’t make out the words that seemed to be moving under my eyes. Of course it was his handwriting.
She thrust the box in my hands. “Open it. I have to see this.”
“No,” I thrust it back, “you open it.”
She pushed it back to me. “No, I want to see your face when you see what’s inside.”
I glared at her. She had eternity to live; she could play this game forever. I had only another forty, fifty years, if I was lucky.
I pulled open the box. It was, to my relief, not bondage gear.
It was, to my surprise and secret delight, something even more exquisite than the black gown.
A rich taupe camisole with dusty, lilac flowers imprinting the silk jacquard, trimmed in delicate taupe lace. The cups were half-jacquard, half-lace. The body was jacquard as were the thin straps. There were matching Brazilian cut panties, the front was jacquard with lace trim, the back almost entirely lace except a tantalizing triangle of jacquard at the top. There were sweet little rosettes at the waistband of the panties under the navel and at the juncture of the bodice where it met each of the straps of the camisole.
Stephanie eyeballed the camisole and panties as she took a sip from her martini. “Lucien always had good taste.” Her gaze moved to my face, a smile lit in her eyes and she repeated, “Always.”
I decided, yet again, I really liked Stephanie.
“Thanks,” I whispered.
She gave me a wink and nodded to the lingerie. “New order. Try that on first. Then the black gown.”
“We’ll have a fashion parade!” Edwina shouted enthusiastically from the kitchen where she was cooking dinner. I jumped because I forgot she was there.
A fashion parade didn’t seem like a bad idea. Or at least it didn’t after four martinis.
I jumped up, wobbled then righted myself and announced, “I’ll change, you open more boxes.”
Stephanie didn’t need to be told twice.
I started to run to the powder room but skidded to a halt and asked Edwina like I was a tweenie and Stephanie had come over after school, “Can Stephanie stay for dinner?”
“Of course, dear.” Edwina smiled and I smiled back.
Then I whirled to Stephanie. “Will you stay for dinner?”
She was still digging through boxes and didn’t look up when she answered, “I’d like that.”
Happy for the first time in weeks, I took my pretty lingerie, deciding not to
think of it as a gift from Lucien as that would spoil the fun, and ran to the powder room to start the fashion parade.
Chapter Seven
The Punishment
Lucien walked into the kitchen from the garage and halted.
Edwina was busy at the sink scouring pots and pans. The living area looked like an exclusive boutique exploded in it. Red tissue paper, ribbons and black boxes were scattered everywhere, mounds of the clothing Lucien purchased for Leah were smoothed out on the backs and arms of furniture. On the countertop of the island bar were three used martini glasses all with silver toothpicks resting in varying states of martini remains. One still had a half-eaten olive on it.
Edwina turned to him with a bright smile on her face and he instantly knew she was intoxicated. He saw it and he smelled it.
This surprised him.
In the forty years she’d worked for him he had never, not once, come to his concubine’s home to find it a mess, to find the kitchen not sparkling clean, to find Edwina inebriated while on duty.
He’d seen her that way, of course, during parties or celebrations where she attended as a guest. For instance the birthday parties he threw every year for his concubines past and present. And the first anniversary of The Bloodletting which it was a tradition to celebrate.
Any other time, never.
“You’re here!” Edwina greeted happily, a huge drunken smile on her face.
Lucien’s eyes scanned the room again and went back to Edwina. “What happened?”
She glanced over her shoulder at the mess, lifted a hand from the sink and waved it around, slopping soapy water and bubbles on the floor, the counter, her shoulder.
“We had a fashion parade,” she explained bizarrely, ignoring the mess she made and went back to scouring. “Leah’s up in your bedroom.” Her voice dropped to a happy murmur, “Such a sweet, beautiful girl.”
Lucien studied his housekeeper.
Leah was hardly a girl. She was forty years old, for God’s sake.
She was, of course, beautiful. But sweet?
“How is she?” Lucien found himself asking and he had no earthly idea why.
He had also, in the years he’d employed Edwina, never requested such information.