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Here she takes us, in company with the powerful vampire Dahlia LynleyChivers, to a lavish party for various creatures of the night, where the festivities get a bit rougher and more deadly than even Dahlia might have anticipated.
DAHLIA LYNLEY-CHIVERS HAD BEEN A WOMAN OF AVERAGE HEIGHT in her day. Her day had been over for centuries, and in modern America she was considered a very short woman indeed. Since Dahlia was a vampire and was reputed to be a vicious fighter even among her own kind, she was usually treated with respect despite her lack of inches and her dainty build.
“You got a face like a rose,” said her prospective blood donor, a handsome, husky human in his twenties. “Here, little lady, let me squat down so you can reach me! You want me to get you a stool to stand on?” He laughed, definitely in hardy-har-har mode.
If he hadn’t preceded his “amusing” comment on Dahlia’s height with a compliment, she would have broken his ribs and drained him dry; but Dahlia was fond of compliments. He did have to bear some consequence for the condescension, though.
Dahlia gave the young man a look of such ferocity that he blanched almost as white as Dahlia herself. Then she stepped pointedly to her left to approach the next unoccupied donor, a blond suburbanite not too much taller than Dahlia. The woman opened her arms to embrace the vampire, as if this were an assignation rather than a feeding. Dahlia would have sighed if she’d been a breather.
However, Dahlia was hungry, and she’d already been picky enough. This woman’s neck was at the right height, and she was absolutely willing, since she’d registered with the donor agency. Dahlia bit. The woman jerked as Dahlia’s fangs went in, so Dahlia considerately licked a little on the wound to anesthetize the area. She sucked hard, and the woman jerked in an entirely different way. Dahlia was a polite feeder, for the most part.
The blonde’s arms squeezed Dahlia with surprising force, and she gripped a handful of Dahlia’s thick, wavy, dark hair, which fell in a cascade reaching almost to Dahlia’s waist. The blonde pulled Dahlia’s hair a little, but she wasn’t trying to pull Dahlia off . . . not at all.
At Dahlia’s age, she didn’t need to drink much at a sitting (or perhaps at a biting would be a more appropriate phrase). After a few pleasurable gulps, the vampire had had enough. Dahlia didn’t want to be greedy, and she’d taken such a small amount that it would be safe for the woman to donate again on the spot.
Dahlia gave a final lick, and when the air hit the licked puncture marks, her natural coagulant set to work almost instantly. The blond woman seemed disappointed that the encounter was over and actually tried to hold on to Dahl
ia. With a stiff smile, Dahlia removed herself with a little more decision. The donor turned to the next vampire in line, who was Cedric. She would have to be stopped after that; most people who enjoyed being bitten enough to be listed with the donor agency simply weren’t smart about when to stop.
“You could be a little nicer,” Dahlia’s best friend Taffy said reprovingly. “Would it have hurt to you tell the breather how good she was?” Dahlia would have ignored anyone else who ventured to give her advice on her manners, but Taffy was within two hundred years of being as old as Dahlia. They were the oldest vampires in the nest, and their friendship had survived many trials.
Taffy had been practically Amazonian during her lifetime, and she remained an impressive woman even now. She was five foot seven and busty; her light hair exploded in a tangled halo around her head and fell past her shoulders. Taffy’s husband Don was one of the trials they’d survived, and it was because of Don’s preference that Taffy went heavy on the makeup and tight on the clothes. Don thought that was a mighty fine look on Taffy.
Of course, Don was a werewolf. His taste was dubious, at best.
Taffy waved at Don, who was over by the food table. Werewolves were always hungry, and they could drink alcohol until the cows came home—and then the Weres would eat them. A party with an open bar and a buffet was like heaven to Don and his new enforcer, Bernie. The two Weres were making the most of the opportunity, since politics demanded they be in the vampire nest for Joaquin’s ascension celebration.
Dahlia noticed Don and Bernie casting contemptuous glances at the group of blood donors. Werewolves thought humans who were willing to give blood to vampires were from the bottom of the barrel. Any selfrespecting Were would rather have his fur shaved off. Dahlia was sure Don didn’t mind giving Taffy a sip in private . . . at least she hoped that was the case. During Dahlia’s own brief marriage to the previous enforcer, her husband had not been averse to a little nip.
The demons and half-demons huddled together in a corner, and just after a very skinny female said something, they all burst into laughter. Dahlia looked for one half-demon computer geek she knew better than the others. With a frisson of pleasure, she spotted Melponeus’s reddish skin and chestnut curls in the cluster. Their eyes met. The half-demon and Dahlia exchanged personal smiles. They had had some memorable evenings together in Dahlia’s bedroom on the lower level of the mansion. The glitter in Melponeus’s pale eyes told Dahlia that the demon wouldn’t mind a replay.
She might retrieve some pleasure from this dismal evening, after all.
A few creatures Dahlia didn’t recognize were scattered through the crowd. No fairies, of course; vampires loved fairies to death, literally. But there were other creatures of the fae present, and a witch. Joaquin had a reputation as a liberal, and he’d made up the party list and presented it to Lakeisha, who’d retained her post as the executive assistant to the sheriff despite the change in regimes. Lakeisha had sniffed at some of the inclusions, but she had obeyed without a verbal comment. All the vampires were walking softly and carefully until they learned their new leader’s character. Since he’d lived on his own, not in the nest, until his appointment as sheriff, Joaquin was a largely unknown element.
As Taffy took Dahlia’s arm to steer her over to the buffet to join Don, Dahlia said, “I’m not enjoying myself, though I ought to be.”
“Why not?” Taffy asked. “The humans will be gone soon, and we can be ourselves. It’s not like we haven’t seen this coming. Cedric has been getting more and more set in his ways. He’s lazy. He’s sloppy. A waistcoat every day. So dated! He can’t even pretend to belong to this century.”
Like all successful vampires, Dahlia knew that the key to surviving for centuries was adaptation. And the most conspicuous adaptation was following the trend in clothes and language. This had been essential when vampires existed in secret, so they could blend in with a crowd long enough to cut out their prey. Vampires were an increasingly familiar presence in business and politics, but they found that society still accepted them more easily if they mimicked modern Americans. It was true, too, that old habits died hard. It had been only six years since the undead had “come out,” and to vampires that was less than the blink of an eye.
“I did see that Cedric would have to be replaced,” Dahlia said. “I don’t know Joaquin well, and maybe I’m worried about how he will rule, and how living in the nest will be with him in residence. At least he had a very conventional ascension.”
“It couldn’t have been more standard,” Taffy agreed. “And soon the guests will be gone and we can amuse ourselves. I’m pleased with Joaquin’s first steps. The mansion is looking beautiful, more beautiful than it did for my wedding.” Taffy tapped the newly polished wooden floor with the toe of her boot. The reception room, which was large and full of dark leather furniture and scattered rugs, was at the back of the mansion and looked out onto the garden. Taffy had gotten married in that garden one memorable night. Though the night was chilly the fountain was splashing away in the dimly lit courtyard outside the French doors. The lights didn’t need to be bright; vampires have excellent night vision.
Dahlia was proud that the mansion, which housed the vampire nest of Rhodes and was the area headquarters for all vampires, was polished and sparkling, clean and newly redecorated. However, Dahlia’s pride had a certain nostalgic tinge. Though for decades they’d all tried to prod the old sheriff, Cedric, into installing new carpet and modernizing the bathrooms, she found that she missed the old fixtures. And she missed the former sheriff, too. Maybe he counted as an old fixture.
“I’m going to talk to Cedric,” she said.
“Not the smartest move, homes,” Taffy cautioned. Taffy always tried to use current slang, though sometimes she got it wrong or was off by five years . . . or ten.
“I know,” Dahlia said. The new sheriff, Joaquin, was certainly keeping an eye open to see who approached Cedric; but Dahlia was not afraid of Joaquin, though she did regard him with a certain respect for his devious ways. The ousting of Cedric had been handled with a sort of ruthless finesse. Cedric, sunk into what he thought would always be his cushy job, had been foolishly complacent and unaware. “I’ll join you later,” she told Taffy. “Though I may stop to have a word with Melponeus, too.”
“Playing with fire,” Taffy said, grinning broadly.
“Yes, we did that last time.” Even half-demons could produce fireballs. The memory caused Dahlia to have her own tight smile on her lips as she approached the former sheriff.
“Cedric,” she said, inclining her head very slightly. Even Dahlia didn’t care to provoke Joaquin by appearing to offer Cedric obeisance.
