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“They call it the artistic temperament,” Rico said, sounding amused.
“Well, I call it being a dick,” Fred said sourly. “But if he has to get out of bed, and come all the way up here, and reverse his hex or whatever, and then he sees the mess you guys left in the workroom—”
“You left a mess?” I asked Rico, squirming back to face him.
“You were in a hurry.”
“I was—I didn’t ask you to do a damned thing!”
“They’re always telling us to be proactive,” Jules said, sounding aggravated. “Back home, that is. A good servant knows what his master wants before his master does—”
“I’m not your master!” I told him, finally managing to duck under those encircling arms.
“Well, you’re the closest thing I’ve got right now!” Jules said, using his wrists to shove a swath of wet blond hair out of his face. “And I went down there to take care of you. Now take care of me!”
I stared at him, feeling angry and waterlogged and pissed. But also strangely understanding. Because in two sentences, he’d just perfectly articulated the vampire code.
Real vampires were not the lone wolves of the movies, living out a solitary but sexy existence in a castle somewhere, pining for the love of a good woman. In fact, pretty much the opposite was true. If anything, they reminded me of ants, living in sprawling, social families, sometimes hundreds or even thousands strong, with each member slotted into a complex hierarchy that would have made most people’s heads explode trying to comprehend it.
And all of those members—save one—were servants of varying ranks. Who were ordered around, controlled, and dictated to by those further up the ladder in ways that would have appalled most humans. But along with the restrictions came a strange sort of freedom most of those same humans would never know.
You might not make the rules, but you didn’t have to deal with the fallout. You might not have the power, but you also didn’t have the responsibility. Unless you were the head of your own household, everything was always somebody else’s problem, somebody else’s burden, whether said somebody had had anything to do with whatever mess you’d created or not. You might be disciplined, if you screwed up enough, but you’d never know the stress of having to deal with things all by yourself.
Because you would never be all by yourself.
And because the buck never stopped with you.
And right now that was sounding really attractive.
“It’s all right,” Fred said, after a minute. “He can wait.”
Jules looked at him incredulously. And then at me. He didn’t look like a guy who could wait.
“No!” he said, voice rising in alarm. “Fix it! Fix it now!”
And yeah. That’s probably how I’d feel in his place. Like I wanted to rip my hands apart, or tear them off my body like the alien things they’d become. The only difference was Jules had vampire strength. He could do it. And sure, they’d eventually grow back, but not all scars heal. Like the memory of clawing off your own flesh, for instance.
“Okay,” I told him, trapping his hands in mine. “Okay. Just . . . give me a second.”
I closed my eyes again, not so much to think, because there was nothing to think about. But to avoid having to meet his. But it didn’t help much since I could still see the afterimages of the hands I’d been staring at so intently.
And in the afterimage, they looked normal, handsome even, with fine bones and elegant lines. They were an artist’s hands, an actor’s hands. Not surprisingly, I guess, since that’s what Jules had been once.
He’d been an aspiring Hollywood up-and-comer sometime in the early days of movies, when Mircea had met him and offered him a different kind of deal. Only it hadn’t turned out as well as Jules had hoped. Maybe because, while he had talent, intellect, and drive, he was also hotheaded, blunt, and had a bad tendency to leap before he looked.
Like Rico had said, he was a terrible diplomat.
Which wouldn’t have been so bad, but Mircea’s family was all about diplomacy. So yeah, for a guy who didn’t have much but his looks left, something like this would hurt. Which probably explained why his hands were suddenly trembling in mine.
Damn it! Pritkin could have handled this in a heartbeat, probably without even breaking a sweat. But thanks to Rosier, he wasn’t here. And I couldn’t very well call Jonas, who would find a bunch of coven witches in my living room and probably burst a gasket. Which would equally probably spark a retaliation, since the coven’s leadership hadn’t exactly impressed me with their restraint so far. And then both sides would call for help and then—
And then we’d all end the night clucking.
“Cassie?” Jules’ voice came again, more timid this time. Like maybe the amount of time my examination was taking had started to worry him.
It had started to worry me, too, because I wasn’t coming up with anything. Well, other than Roger’s old mantra of fake it till you make it. Which might not help matters, but might keep Jules from running amok until I could find something that would.
“Yeah,” I said thoughtfully, stroking the backs of his hands, and trying to channel every doctor I’d ever heard. “Yeah. I thought so.”
