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I grinned.
I decided I liked Guy Number Two.
And then his paler friend was back, along with someone else.
“Lady Dorina! How wonderful to see you up and about! How are you feeling this fine morning?”
Burbles, living up to the name.
And looking it, too. I don’t know what I’d expected, but what I got was a jolly round dude with a jolly round face, a double chin, warm brown eyes, and cute little pink lips hiding the fangs that wouldn’t have gone well with that face at all. That, frankly, would have looked absurd. Burbles was a cross between a black Santa Claus and the Michelin Man, and I didn’t know what to do with him at all.
I went with: “Hello.”
“Hello!” He was almost overcome with joy. “You are looking very well, if I may say so.”
It was a lie, but said with such utter conviction that I almost believed it.
It also cleared up an old mystery for me. Mircea’s masters—which is what I guessed all these guys were, or else Marlowe would have been doing more than standing there vibrating at me—were renowned diplomats. Everybody knew it; everybody said it. Their master was the consul’s chief ambassador and resident miracle worker, so it made sense that the family would be, too.
Only I’d never believed a word of it.
Not th
at I’d met every one of Mircea’s vamps, or even his masters. Until recently, I’d spent most of my time avoiding Mircea, and that included the family. However, I’d met enough through the years to have a serious WTF reaction every time someone told me how charming they were.
They were not charming.
Unless you counted not beating me up and/or hissing at me, like half the vamps I met, so I guess that was something.
But still.
Yet, now I was getting the full treatment, and it was eye-opening. Burbles was sweet. Burbles was joyful. Burbles was thrilled to finally meet me, which was absurd. No vampire—except Louis-Cesare, who was mostly crazy anyway—was ever happy to see a dhampir.
So why was I smiling back at him?
I stopped myself.
It was actually hard.
“Would you like some breakfast? We have some glorious blueberry muffins or heavenly eggs Benedict or—my favorite—a simply divine bananas Foster that our chef makes with bourbon whipped cream. Oh!” He raised his eyes to the ceiling with a hand on his heart. “So good!”
“I’ll have that,” I found myself saying.
I had no idea why.
I don’t even like bananas.
“Excellent choice. I know you’ll be pleased! And perhaps you’d like to pick out an outfit for today?”
“Uh . . . I don’t have any clothes here.”
“But of course you do!” And then Burbles’ hand found his mouth, and his eyes widened in horror. “Oh! You haven’t seen your closet!”
I laughed. I don’t know why. Maybe because he’d intended me to, or because Burbles had just elbowed Marlowe out of the way without apparently noticing.
Or giving a damn.
“Please allow me,” he said, and I somehow found myself back inside what I was only now realizing was a very nice room. Very nice. I stood there in my blanket, taking in the elaborate crown moldings and the massive amount of space and the huge bed and the large, well-appointed sitting room and the closet I hadn’t opened yet because I’d assumed it would be empty. But which instead was big enough inside to count as another bedroom and was stocked full of stuff.
