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“Boz,” snaps Neli, “you need to get over the whole toe modesty thing. It died along with corsets and hoopskirts, thank God. But you know what didn’t change? Good manners. Why in the world would you call her wine ‘horse piss’? It’s really rude, and you hurt the poor woman’s feelings.”
“Yes, about that. I think you should invite her back for dinner tomorrow.”
“Whyyy?” Neli growls with suspicion.
“I want to apologize.” With my fangs.
Neli gives me one of her judgmental huffs. “You’re thinking about biting her, aren’t you?”
“No…” Yes.
“Uh-huh. Sure. Well, thankfully, after your insults, she’s probably never coming back.”
The words “never coming back” reverberate through my chest. Surprisingly, I do not like that idea. Must be the allure of her untouched body and virginal blood.
“Then you must go to her and fix it so she returns. For dinner. Tomorrow.” My mouth begins to water at the thought of watching her eat. Those lips…so full and sensual. After she dines, I will enjoy her smile as I sip from her delicate neck. I am told my bite is the best. Quite pleasurable. As long as I do not kill them. Yes, as shocking as it sounds, some women protest dying. Should they not be honored to perish in the arms of such a virile beast?
I turn and head up the stone staircase to my bedchamber. Nothing gets me in a good hunting mood like a velvet cape and a pair of black leather trousers, which Neli stole for me today. I hope the neighbors do not realize their clothing line has been plundered by her on line shopping.
I hear Neli’s light footsteps close in as I push open the heavy wooden door to my chamber. The room itself is quite grand with a vaulted ceiling and exquisite stonework throughout, but the real gem is a large four-poster bed made of hand-carved mahogany. Very fine quality that has stood the test of time. The blood-red curtains on all four sides of the bed are new—thank you, Neli, for doing at least one thing correctly—and are perfect for my evenings of seduction. (The red comes in handy to hide the blood.) The other notable features in the room are the paintings. My favorite is the portrait of my master, the Great Kylgorii Gillmoreanu. His pale face, with bony features and dark soulless eyes, gives me great comfort. Like home. Then there is the painting of his master, Prince Pamfilovamimivich. He died after a very large bookshelf fell on top of him. Apparently, he was knocked unconscious and did not make it to his coffin before sunrise. Poor man. The other pieces of art are all my own. I particularly enjoy painting fruit. Round fruit. Bosom-esque fruit.
“Boz! Are you even listening to me?” Neli barks.
“Except for that last part, no.” I continue walking toward my dressing chamber, a smaller room just behind one of the fireplaces. There is also a hidden staircase leading out to the garden. One must always have an escape.
“I said, Boz, I am not letting you seduce our neighbor. Things aren’t like they used to be when you could just snack on anyone you like. Nowadays, they have technologies to catch criminals—satellites in the sky, home security systems, GPS tracking on phones. People notice when other people go missing or end up in a ditch, drained of blood. If you’re not careful, you’ll leave a footprint that’ll lead the police right back here.”
I haven’t the faintest clue what she is talking about nor who these technologenies are. They sound rather annoying. “Silly girl, I do not leave footprints. Not if I do not wish to. I am a vampire.” I do not fly, but I am quite skilled at the fine art of levitating. Take that, technologenie! “And the last time I checked, you are my slave for all eternity and must obey my every command or face shaming your family name.” I start undressing from my formal attire by kicking off my new boots. Neli says the soles are made from a tree called “rubber,” an appropriate name because I have blisters on my heels from all of the rubbing. Nothing beats shoes made by the soft hands of tiny Transylvanian orphans forced to work in exchange for bread crusts. Their attention to detail is unmatched. Hunger is a wonderful motivator.
“Yeah, about that, Boz. I think it’s time to renegotiate.”
I lift my brows and get to unbuttoning my fine lacy shirt.
She continues. “Look, times have changed. People just don’t go around owning other people.”
“I am not a people. Neither are you.” Neli’s soul is bound to mine—I have had her blood, and she has had mine. As long as she remains loyal to me in mind, body, and heart, she remains alive and, more importantly, ageless. If she were to betray me or walk away, she would suffer immeasurable pain and feel as though she were being burned alive. Another fun fact: Only I, her master, can give her the true death. Death by any other hand, including her own, will turn her into a vampire. Her choice. But until then, if I perish, she perishes. Therefore, my survival is critical to her own well-being, and by that, I mean she can continue to eat human food for sustenance. She can live forever, have children, walk in the sunlight, and do everything a regular human does without having to become a vampire. Perhaps Cornelia requires a reminder of this.
