“Yes.”
She nodded, braced herself, then plowed on. “Gabe has the ability to confer resistance to vampiric mind effects,” she said ina rush. “When I was in his apartment, he fed from me. Because I asked him to, so I could be protected from Minh.”
Antoine was quiet for several paces, and she looked at him in concern. “That explains much,” he said at last, his tone strained. “So he has fed twice from you?”
“Yes. Just twice.”Twice too many.“I’m sorry. I didn’t know if you could do the resistance thing, and… if I hadn’t… Minh would’ve controlled me again.” She looked up at him, voice low. “I couldn’t face that, Antoine.”
“I understand. And I could not have offered you the same. I was not aware such an ability existed.”
“Are you angry?”
“No,ma chérie.In truth, I do not much care for another vampire feeding upon you, but it is done, and I am glad that you have this resistance.”
“It won’t happen again. You’re back now. I was worried that if he didn’t feed, my power would—”
“Think nothing of it. As I said, it is done.”
His tone was carefully clipped, the words fine, but she couldn’t help sensing what it had cost him to utter them. She wished they’d never come out among all these people, but merely sat in his living room and talked. He deserved better than discussing it with frivolous costumes brushing past.
“Is there somewhere nearby? I’m ready to be alone with you.”
“Not far.”
They continued on down the street, sidestepping undergrads unable to hold their drink, and Cally had already had enough. It was a relief when Antoine stopped outside a gallery, its shutters closed, and rapped twice on the door. It opened swiftly, letting them into welcoming peace and quiet.
A woman inside introduced herself as the owner, then made herself scarce, leaving them alone to wander as they pleased.
Cally watched her go. “They’re leaving us with the art? Do they trust you so much?” But she was glad it was just the two of them.
“It may be callous to say so, but money opens a lot of doors,” Antoine said dryly. “I don’t often have an excuse to spend it. Notnearly as much as Marcel does.” He gestured toward the gallery. “After you.”
Cally wandered in, running her eyes over the art. Most of it did nothing for her—pleasing to the eye in some cases, confusing and pointless in others. She stopped before a landscape depicting a haystack in an otherwise empty field, blue skies above.
“Do you like it?” Antoine asked from close behind her.
“I don’t know,” she said truthfully. “It’s all right, I suppose. I wouldn’t put it up in my living room.”
His lips twitched. “Your perspective is refreshing.Come, let us try the next room.”
They made a game of it, taking turns to choose the pieces that appealed the most. Antoine stopped before the sculpture of a ballerina, crouched as she adjusted her shoe.
“Does this one call to you?” Cally asked, coming up beside him.
“No,” he said, turning away. “She doesn’t care.”
It was a strange response, and Cally looked at the figure more closely. “Why? Because she’s not dancing?”
“No. Because she’s only there for pleasure.”
“Is that not reason enough to dance?”
He gave a slight shake of his head. “Come, we will go to the next floor. It is your turn to choose.”
“I liked the ballerina,” Cally mused as she took the stairs ahead of him. “There’s something satisfying in devoting yourself to a skill or an art form, and doing it as well as you can.”
“I wouldn’t know.”
“You’re three hundred years old,” she said playfully, reaching the next room and walking backwards as she watched him. “Have you never pursued an interest?”
