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The one time I’d been here before, the maid had warned me that few who entered the building ever left. I had thought then I’d never come back, but here I was, staring up at the four-story white elephant, the gleaming white columns that marched along the front porch shimmering like marble pil ars of light. What would it be like to live in a house like this? Ful of artifacts and antiques, luxuriant to the point of excess, with a stable of bloodwhores on the premises? The house reeked of decadence, and yet it was not overripe.
I slid out of my car and slowly approached the front door.
A maid answered—not the same one as I’d met before, but a vampire nonetheless. I didn’t ask about the other woman. I didn’t want to know.
“Menol y D’Artigo, here to meet Roman. I have an appointment at eight thirty.” As she stepped back, motioning me in, I was unaccountably glad I’d worn jeans and a turtleneck and my bad-ass black leather jacket. My stiletto boots tapped on the tile floor, which gleamed—polished to such a sheen that I could see my reflection in it.
She silently led me into the parlor—the one room into which I’d ventured before. An oppressive sense of time rested in knickknacks, in opulent upholstered furniture, in hangings woven by hand from centuries past.
Roman was a very wealthy vampire, and though he had exquisite taste, I felt claustrophobic around him. There was just too much . . . too many vases, and too many roses scenting the air, too many paintings covering the wal s, too many throws covering the chairs and love seat and sofa.
“The Master wil be with you in time,” the doe-eyed young woman whispered. She was a young vampire, of that I was certain, but old enough to pause, give me a long look, and then smile suggestively before she slipped out of the room.
I knew the dril . Roman would let me wait a little past my comfort zone, then suddenly appear at my side. He was so old that he made no noise, moving faster than any vampire I’d ever met. He was older than Dracula, and older than Dredge had been.
“Thinking of anything in particular?” A soft voice echoed from the corner of the room, and I whirled to find myself staring at two gleaming eyes in the darkness. As he emerged from the shadows, I froze, once again feeling like a deer in the headlights.
Roman was as he’d been in my dream. I hadn’t forgotten his looks, apparently. He was around five eleven, trim but muscled, and he wore a black smoking jacket and what looked like designer trousers. His hair was slicked back in a ponytail, a rich chocolate brown, and his eyes were almost white—the longer a vampire lived, the more pale his or her eyes became. Mine were already turning gray. His were nearly opaque, but a sparkle delineated the iris, and a faint slit of black reminded me of a cat’s pupil.
Roman held out his hand. Sapphire cufflinks set in gold adorned the cuffs of his velvet jacket. A matching pendant hung from a ribbon of gold chain encircling his neck.
“Menol y, so good of you to come.” He motioned for me to sit and I did, choosing a chair where he could not sit directly beside me. I didn’t trust him. Any vampire that old had to have lost a good share of his humanity.
“You wanted my help, and yet I summon you here to assign you a task.” His voice was low, smooth, silken cream, and he smiled. “You wil assist me.”
His manner had roped me in, but it was common sense that made me nod. When a vampire this old invited you to his home and asked for a favor, you said yes. At least until you could get away and decide how to back out of the obligation.
“What do you want?”
Roman leaned back, pul ed out a miniature cigar, and lit it, not inhaling but gathering the smoke in his mouth and forming delicate, perfect rings with it, the tips of his fangs peeking out at me. I stared at his mouth, at the perfect O, and found myself licking my lips. Oh, he was honey and I felt like Winnie the Pooh. After a moment, he set his cigaril o in an ashtray.
“What do I want? I want you to stop a murder.”
“Who’s in danger?” I yanked my attention out of the gutter and tried to focus on what he was saying, praying it wasn’t my sisters or me at risk.
“Wade Stevens. Your friend.”
Wade! Wade, the vampire who had been instrumental in introducing me to the vampire scene in Seattle, then turned his back on me? My temper flared.
“Wade and I aren’t on speaking terms.” And then, because I couldn’t help it, I asked, “Who wants to murder him, anyway? Terrance?”
“No,” Roman said softly. “But if he doesn’t withdraw from the election, I wil stake him myself. Or send someone to do the job for me.”
What the fuck? I stared at him a minute, waiting for a crack of laughter or anything to indicate he was joking, but none came.
“You can’t kil Wade. He’s one of the good guys,” came racing out of my mouth before I could stop myself.
“I can, and I shal , if he doesn’t listen to reason and withdraw from the election. Make him see reason. That’s why I cal ed you over here, or at least, one of the reasons.” He leaned forward and gazed into my eyes, and I felt myself fal ing forward, fal ing into those ancient orbs of frost.
“Menol y, persuade Wade to withdraw without tel ing him why, or I wil kil him. It’s that simple.”
And then, before I could respond, he reached out and took my hand and a shiver raced up my back—and I, who could not feel cold, felt chil ed to the bone. Something inside—the part of me that remembered Dredge—screamed, No, don’t touch me, but another part begged to be set free.
I forced down my panic. “What happens if I can’t? What happens if he won’t listen to me?”
“That . . . is not my problem,” Roman said, his voice so low I could barely hear him. He drew me close, pul ed me out of my chair, and before I realized what was happening, I was sitting in his lap, staring into his eyes. He reached up and caressed my face gently, without any sense of force.
“I have my reasons, Menol y. I could have just ignored everything and ordered him kil ed. But I knew—even though you two are on the outs—that he was your friend, and so I give you this chance to save him. Wil you take it?”
