by Cecily White
I loved that memory.
It was one of the last projects Mom and I had done together, and one I’d never been able to get myself to undo. Pepto-pink walls, rainbow stickers, Hello Kitty accessories. It didn’t matter that I’d long outgrown the pinkness. To me, it would always hold a piece of my mother.
This version at Luc’s, on the other hand, had been crafted in the faint hope that I might feel more comfortable here and maybe hate my life a little less. And it worked, I guess. Sort of. I don’t know, sometimes I wondered if there was anything that could make me hate it less.
I’d just stepped out of the shower when they started to arrive.
At least five cars, all European, and one grumbling thing I guessed to be an American muscle car. That’s another thing I noticed since I got the vamp hearing—cars sound as unique as they look. The hum of a Porsche, the growl of a Mercedes, the purr of a Jaguar.
Honestly, I missed the days of not knowing.
Somewhere in the driveway, Luc parked his Ferrari and ordered someone to fetch his mother’s bag out of the “boot.” Which I assumed was pretentious-speak for the trunk. I was still in the standing-around-in-undies-and-bra phase when a knock sounded at the door.
“I’m not decent,” I hollered. “Come back in a week.”
“Amelie, open the door.” Luc knocked harder as I scurried into the closet.
If I’d been more organized, I would have had an outfit planned. Heck, if I’d listened to any of the suggestions his stylist had given me, I might have had some clue what to wear. As it was, I just stood there, in my underpants, staring at the racks upon racks of ugly clothes.
“I don’t really think you want that.”
“I’m not in the mood for opinions. Door. Open.”
I grabbed a purple dress off a hanger, then promptly discarded it. What kind of color-blind lunatic thought a red-haired teenager could rock purple paisley? Annoyed, I grabbed another outfit off the rack. This one happened to be an electric blue pantsuit with a keyhole cutout at the neck. Seriously, the worst of the seventies and eighties blended with polyester.
“Roller derby,” I muttered, and chucked it to the corner.
“Amelie,” Luc called while I rejected two more outfits—a lemon poof skirt and a silver catsuit. I mean, really? A catsuit, maaaaybe. But silver?
“You do realize I have a key, yes? I could open the door myself.”
“I thought we weren’t speaking.”
“We’re not,” he assured me. “Not about certain topics, at any rate.”
“Great, then go practice your lame pickup lines on Annabelle. I’ll be down when I’m ready,” I said, as another garish dress came off the hanger and found its way to the floor. Fuchsia this time. Yeesh, what were these people smoking?
“For the record, my pickup lines are superb. Secondly, if I ever did practice them on Annabelle, she’d fall instantly in love with me and I’d have to fire her. And thirdly—” He stopped there for a full four seconds. “There is no thirdly. Make yourself decent, I’m coming in.”
It didn’t take him long to jimmy the lock—presumably with an actual key—but it gave me enough time to grab something sparkly off a hanger and slam the dressing room door.
“What do you want, Luc?”
“A world without drama. A steady economy. I want lots of things,” he said. “At the moment, I want to speak to you.”
Beyond the door, my bed gave a defiant squeak as he sank onto it, settling in.
It figured Luc would choose this moment to get all communicative. Seriously, three months of the cold shoulder, and now he wanted to chat?
Shoes on and dress half zipped, I slid into the chair behind the vanity. My face was vaguely fuzzed from the faded silver in the antique mirror, so my allergy-puffed nose didn’t stand out too badly. But nothing could soften the nightmare of my hair. Or my makeup.
At least the eyebrows looked okay.
Annabelle had managed to brush them vertical (despite much thrashing and moaning) then pluck everything that didn’t fit with my brow line. I still wasn’t sure what that meant, but I felt confident it had been invented by sadists.
The dress was a similar story.
On the hanger, it had looked okay—just your basic LBD. In reality, I felt like I’d stumbled into a glittery papier-mâché spiderweb. Black sequins skimmed up my torso in weird, intertwined lines, then connected at the shoulders a chaotic cluster of stiff white ribbons. On anyone else, it might have been decent. On me, it looked hilarious.
“Do I actually need to be at this dinner?” I asked.
“Unfortunately, yes.”
Maybe I could claim some tragic and vague illness for the evening—like consumption. Didn’t Emily Brontë die of consumption? Or one of the other Brontë sisters? Whatever, nobody really knew what that was, right? Or I could pull a Count of Monte Cristo and fake my own death.
“Don’t even think about faking your own death,” Luc called. “You’re Immortal.”
Instinctively, I glanced at my neck to see if I’d forgotten to take off the locket. Nope, it was still safely tucked in the pocket of Bertle’s dress, somewhere on the floor of my bedroom.
“Quit mind reading me, Luc.”
“I’m not. You’re just terribly predictable.”
“And you’re really irritating.”
“I don’t deny that.” He glanced up as I hoisted the closet door open. “Oh, joy. You’re done.”
Although I’d only had a few minutes, I’d managed to get my makeup done with powder-crusted precision, à la Veronica Manning. My eyes were darkened to the bruised yet smoldering shade of prizefighter perfection. The hair offered more potential complications, so I just brushed it out and stuck it in a vaguely moist twist.
“Well?” I asked, spinning in a quick circle.
“It’s very”—he paused—“art deco.”
“It’s one of the dresses your mother sent. Discuss your issues with her.” I feathered one last layer of pink blush onto my cheekbones until I looked almost human, then padded across the room to my dresser.
“The therapy bill resulting from my issues with her would likely bankrupt us,” he pointed out. “As for the dress, I’ve seen worse.”
The makeup brush landed with a clatter as I bent down to pull my satin heels on, one at a time. The straps made a soft shushing sound against my skin. “What did you want to talk about, anyway? Or were you just bored and looking for someone to annoy?”
“Mostly just bored. Always looking to annoy someone.”
Luc stared at me until my shoes were successfully fastened, then said, “Oh, yes. Seamus McRoy. He wants to meet you, so I need you to be on your best behavior. And stay close to me.”
“What about your girlfriend?”
He blinked a few times. “As you know, I try to avoid those.”
The sad thing was, Luc actually did look pretty stressed. Not that it made him less poised, or Calvin Klein modelesque. But it did make me willing to offer him an olive branch instead of mocking his remedial dating skills.
“Can I give you a piece of advice?”
“I’m all ears.”
“Don’t be nervous,” I said. “I know she’s pretty, but just remember that girls care more about who you are than what you can do for them. Any girl worth having, at least.” I held out a hand to pull him vertical. “Stand up. Your outfit’s all bunched.”
Luc groaned audibly as he let me tug him up, hands dropping lightly to his sides. I wondered if he was also busy ignoring the residual Crossworlds hum where our skin connected.
“You’ll be great tonight.” Carefully, I straightened his bow tie and fluffed out the edge. Whoever had put it on him clearly knew nothing about symmetry. “Seducing women is your specialty, right? So just be your usual, irritating self and try not to get too drunk. She’ll adore you. They all do.”
His mouth quirked at the edge. “Do they?”
“Absolutely.” I swiveled his tie until it settled into place, pe
rfectly symmetrical, then patted his shoulders. “And if you want some personal time with her, just ditch me. Jack can babysit. Then later you can fill me in on all the stuff I need to know but no one’s telling me, okay?”
There was a brief silence as his gaze met mine. “Amelie?”
“Yes?”
“I am capable of tying my own tie, you know,” he said.
I smiled. “I know. And you’re welcome.”
For a second, Luc looked at the ceiling like he might be praying. Or trying not to laugh. I honestly wasn’t sure. Finally, he extracted his fingers from my grip and stuck them in his pocket.
“I’ll see you downstairs.”
Chapter Eight:
Cocktails and Subterfuge
I remember a lecture Gunderman gave us once in Comparative Human Religions about Buddhist philosophy. Apparently, their whole way of thinking is centered around some idea that life is suffering, and the core of that suffering stems from attachment to expectations. So you’d think I’d know better than to get too attached to full disclosure from an Immortal—especially an Immortal who wore Armani socks.
“Amelie, stop scowling. These blokes are our most important allies in the southern district,” Luc noted, his own face lit up in a fake grin. It looked like something from a wax museum.
“I’m not scowling,” I said. “This is just my I-don’t-want-to-be-here face.”
“Lovely. Next time I’m at a political summit where your superiors are recommending execution, I’ll wear my I-don’t-care-what-you-bloody-do-so-long-as-it-doesn’t-inconvenience-me face.” He patted my hand as he tucked it through the curve of his elbow.
I tried to muster a smile while he led me toward a cluster of old dudes.
The men were, lamentably, not a flock of foot masseurs dedicated to my personal relaxation needs. In fact, they were a group of Ewan McGregor look-alikes gathered around Seamus McRoy, who was wearing—wait for it—a red and purple kilt. Tall wool socks shot up his calves to the knee, and a long gray braid hung down the center of his back, wrapped at the base with a purple leather cord.
The man bowed deeply and extended a hand to me. His voice was deep and scratchy, with a Scottish accent almost as affected as the outfit. “Highness. Pleasure t’meetcha.”
“The honor is mine.” I tried not to think about what might or might not be under the kilt as I took his hand.
Beside me, Luc bowed. “Thank you for coming.”
“Would’na miss it. Yer lassie’s makin’ a kerfuffle outland. Bit o’ dragh fer his Lordship, neh?”
They both laughed at that. No clue why.
In the interest of not causing trouble, I opted for silence over asking Luc to translate. Though it did make me wonder how Mom had ever conducted interviews with him for the Guardian Times. I understood more Elvish from the Hobbit movies.
As agreed, I stayed at Luc’s elbow while he made banal conversation with a few more friendly yet generic-looking men in suits. Granted, anyone would have seemed generic-looking compared to Seamus. Except maybe a sasquatch. Or the yeti.
When we finally got past all the pleasantries and made it to the bar, Luc’s pants started buzzing. No, that’s not a euphemism.
“Wait here.”
I watched as he hurried out of the room, extracting a cell phone as he went. Normally, I might have let that go without following him. But given everything that had gone down lately, and all the questions I still had, there was no way. I smiled my way around a few groups of people toward the exit, slipping off my shoes as I went. By the time I got the hallway door cracked, I could just see the shadow of Luc disappearing through an aperture in the central corridor.
So I followed him.
Down the hall and up the stairs. Through another hall and into the east wing, where the thermostat had been shut off. Most of the rooms I passed had been prepped for visitors, with torchieres lit and doors propped open invitingly. To me, they all looked like bear traps—huge yawning maws ready to snap my sanity in half.
When he finally slipped into an office and shut the door behind him, a wave of relief hit me. If he’d gone any farther, there was no way I’d be able to retrace my steps to the party. As soundlessly as possible, I twisted the knob of the door next to his and slid inside.
Red. Bookshelves. A couch.
So I was in the study. And, of course, the study was red.
Draperies, upholstery, lampshades. Everything in the room seemed to bleed crimson. Even the wooden furniture I wove around—a heavy, deep mahogany—held a reddish hue, like living fire had been trapped inside each grain. To make things more macabre, the walls and corners had been strewn with hunting trophies—bucks’ heads, giant cats, and some creature I couldn’t identify with two long points extended from its forehead. Even in death, they looked lethal.
The earthy smell of paper and toner cartridges filled my head, along with something dank and wet that made my throat clutch. Great, more mold. That figured. Because it wasn’t enough to be mentally miserable, I had to have an allergy attack, too.
Sigh.
As cautiously as possible, I made my way to the far wall and pressed my ear against it.
“That’s not what we agreed,” Luc was saying. “I can’t come tonight.”
He fell into silence as the person on the other end responded. Angrily, it seemed.
I found myself struggling to pick up the voice on the line. Definitely male. Medium baritone. But there was something familiar about the cadence of his speech. I’d heard it before, though I couldn’t place exactly where.
Finally, Luc sighed. “Don’t tell me it’s important. I’m aware of that. You tossers just start without me and I’ll get there when I can.”
I don’t know how long I stayed there after he hung up. Ten seconds. A minute. It was long enough to hear him grunt a few times and stomp out of the room. By the time I got back to the party, everything seemed louder. Even the light had changed to something harsher. Luc was standing by the bar where he’d left me, looking decidedly sullen.
“I thought I told you to stay put.” He tipped a glass of whiskey back until it had drained completely.
“You did,” I said. “But when nature calls, I answer.”
Luc tossed back a second shot of whiskey, then reached across the bar and poured himself another. Jack had said once that alcohol doesn’t affect Immortals the same as humans or Guardians, which I suppose makes sense. Still, logical or not, I swear Luc’s eyes looked glassy.
“You know if you keep going like this, you won’t even make it to the appetizers.”
“It takes the edge off.”
I stared at him as he grimly tossed back the third full tumbler of whiskey, then set down the bottle. “You know I’m not marrying you, right?”
“That’s fortunate,” he replied, “as I’m not marrying you, either. On that note, what are your thoughts on suicide?”
“Yours or mine?”
“Mine.”
“I’m feeling more open by the minute.”
“Cheers,” he said, and poured another glass of whiskey.
At the main archway, Annabelle appeared with a crystal bell in hand. “Dinner is served,” she called. “If you would all be so kind as to make your way to the dining hall.”
I kept my eyes downcast as I shuffled after Luc toward the dining room, only barely aware of the scrape of carved chair legs against cut stone. Seamus and his crew had been seated, as had Luc’s girlfriend from earlier that day, along with a twenty-something human who looked like he’d stepped off a romance book cover. In fact, apart from Luc’s and my chairs, only one empty space remained.
And one person. Dressed in a tux.
“Hey, guys. Sorry I’m late.”
Jack came around the table to shake Luc’s hand. Apart from a brief glance in my direction, he did a good job of ignoring me. I know this because I was doing a pitiful job of ignoring him.
“I need to talk to you,” I whispered, only vaguely aware of the uselessness of w
hispering around vampires. “It’s important.”
“Later.” Jack shot me a cautionary look, then turned to go back to his seat.
Unfortunately, he did this at the same time I inhaled a mold spore, and I managed to sneeze as his hand brushed my arm. Now, if he had been anyone else—or if I hadn’t been an allergy nightmare—it wouldn’t have been a big deal. Just a sneeze. Nothing special.
But he wasn’t just anyone. And I’d forgotten to take my allergy meds.
Immediately, my skin began to glow.
The atmosphere charged, and the air started to hum. A few feet away, panic flitted across Jack’s face. He probably knew before I did what would happen. No, he definitely did. By the time I got my chair pushed back, he’d already whipped out his short sword, poised for attack.
The attack didn’t come immediately. It took a few seconds.
“Sorry, folks, we have a situation. I’m going to need everyone to clear the room.” Jack gave the order in his authoritative voice. It was the kind of request that sounded polite coming out but left little ambiguity as to its intent. “Now, please,” he added, and people started moving.
Not a moment too soon.
Already, the space behind him had started to ripple. Air currents tightened around the fireplace, creating a narrow, shadow-pocked crease—like someone had taken a photo of the scene then stretched it until the print paper gave. Tiny, slitted distortions marred the room.
“I thought this place was warded,” I whispered to Luc as the dinner guests grabbed their drinks.
“It is,” he said.
Seamus made a few light wisecracks as he crossed to Luc’s girlfriend. If not for the slight tremble to his hands, I never would have thought him nervous. To his credit, he wasted no time getting her out of there. At the woman’s other side, the human underwear model stood, trailed by a crew of men in kilts and a half dozen well-dressed vampires.
