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"Anything," he said, scooping up caviar with his fingers and licking them. He filled a plate with food, then popped open the champagne bottle and poured two glasses. He handed her one with a smile.
"I'm serious... I don't want you to get offended."
"Me?" he said, balancing his breakfast on his lap as he took a seat on the couch and put his feet up on the coffee table.
"What do... what do Silver Bloods live on?" she asked. "I mean, other than caffeine and sugar and prawns the size of your fist," Mimi said, watching him eat. "I mean, do you still perform the Caerimonia? On humans, I mean?"
Kingsley shook his head. He looked mournful as he dipped his shrimp into the cocktail sauce. "No." He took a bite. "No, my dear, that is not an option any longer for those of us who have drunk from the undying blood. I'm afraid to the Croatan the only blood that matters is the blood that runs through your veins."
Mimi crossed her legs as she sat on the bed opposite him. She arched her neck.
'So, do you ever feel tempted?"
"All the time." He smiled lazily.
"so what do you do?"
What is there to do? I can't. I've pledged to honor the Code. I live in restraint. I can still eat food... and sometimes some of it even tastes good." He shrugged and wiped his fingers on the edge of his shirt. She wanted to tell him not to do that, but didn't want to sound like his mother. "You mean you can't taste any of that stuff "?
"I try."
"But all those doughnuts..." she said, suddenly feeling sorry for him. He was immortal in the truest sense of the word. He didn't need anything to survive. What a lonely and strange way to live.
"Yeah, I know." He laughed, but his eyes looked sad. "I eat a lot because I can taste only a fraction of what is in front of me. I have a bottomless appetite that can never be filled." He winked. "And that's why the Silver Bloods are cursed."
"You make light of serious matters, you said that to me once," she chastised.
"Well, yes. We are very much alike," Kingsley said. He put down his empty plate and glass and walked over to stand in front of her. "And we have fun together, don't we?" he asked. "Admit it, this is kind of fun... isn't it?" He licked her neck, then her ear, gently kissing her back and her shoulders. She could smell the champagne on his lips.
Mimi closed her eyes. A bit of fun, that was all. It meant nothing. Not to him, not to her. Hooking up. That's all they were doing. Purely physical and purely pleasurable. There were no feelings involved, no divine connection, no heavenly conscription... This was just fun. Pure and simple.
Kingsley was still kissing her neck when she felt his fangs come out, that slight prickling, tickling her skin.
"What do you think you're doing?" she asked, feeling afraid, but excited too. She had never known what it was like to be treated as a victim. As prey. He was dangerous. A reformed Silver Blood. You might as well call him a reformed Doberman.
"Shush... it won't hurt... I promise." And then he bit her neck, just a tiny bit, just so she could feel his fangs sink in and pierce the skin, and then she felt his tongue lick a drop of her blood. He licked his lips and smiled at her. "You try it."
Mimi was horrified. What had he just done? And now he wanted her to do it too? "No." But she had to admit, she was tempted. She had always wondered what it would be like.
Why the Croatan preferred it over the usual Caeremonia.
"Go on. You won't hurt me. I dare you."
Being with him made her feel alive and uninhibited. What could it hurt? Just a touch. Just a drop. Just a tease. She did not want to drink his blood, but she did, suddenly, very much want to taste it.
To play with a lit candle. To hold her finger to the flame, taking it away just before it burned. That knife edge that skirted between danger and fun. A roller coaster ride. The adrenaline rush was heady. She pushed out her fangs and buried her face into his neck.
The sun rose, filling the room with light. And Mimi Force was having the time of her life.
CHAPTER 50
Schuyler
She felt bad about leaving Bliss like that. But right then she was too wound up to even think about anything other than the fact that the person she had waited her entire life to talk to... was now awake. Alive. Allegra Van Alen was alive. She had opened her eyes a half hour ago, and she was asking for her daughter.
As she walked through the glass doors of New York Presbyterian Hospital, toward the back elevator that would take her to the permanent care unit, Schuyler wondered how many days, how many nights, how many birthdays, how many Thanksgivings and Christmases, she had spent walking down the same fluorescent-lit hallways, with the smell of antiseptic and formaldehyde, walking by the sympathetic smiles of the nurses, by the tearful groups huddled near the surgical waiting rooms, their faces drawn and anxious.
How many times?
