by V M Black
“They were congratulatory presents,” Worth said. “Sent by other cognates and by agnates who had no cognates. You’ll get more, after the introduction, of course, but these were all unofficial, sent by Mr. Thorne’s very closest allies.”
Allies, I noticed. Not friends. Did vampires have friends?
“And I was supposed to be a secret?” I said aloud. “There must have been a dozen of them!”
“Thereabouts,” she agreed. “But they’d never say a word about it. They wouldn’t even let their staff know. Most of our own staff didn’t know. Most were sent away as soon as it became clear that your conversion would work. In fact, today is the first day everyone’s back at work.”
“Oh,” I said, still thinking that telling a dozen people was a pretty sorry way of keeping a secret.
Jane just smiled before disappearing into the dressing room with the velvet box. She reappeared holding my laptop, my graduation photo, and Nibbler.
“Where do you want these, Cora?” For the first time, my name didn’t have a bite in it.
I cast around. “The desk for the laptop, if there’s a wall socket nearby, and the bedside table for the rest.”
I had to suppress a giggle at the solemn way in which Worth arranged the tiny stuffed rabbit in front of the framed picture, as if she were trying to find the angle at which it looked the most appealing among the elegant décor of the room.
They were such little things—the picture in its plastic frame and the stupid little toy. But seeing them there made me smile, and for the first time, I felt like there was a place for me in the room.
Almost like I belonged.
And that thought made me shiver all over again.
Chapter Twelve
After breakfast the next morning, I curled up in a chair with my laptop, nursing the headache I’d had since the evening before. Jane had suggested that I look around the house and grounds.
“You are its mistress, after all,” she had said, managing, as usual, to find just the wrong words to make me feel at ease.
But I’d begun to feel at least somewhat at home in my corner of the vast house, so I’d declined. The bedroom that Dorian had selected for his cognate was as big as my entire campus apartment—bigger, even, if you included the bathroom and dressing room—so I hardly felt cooped up.
A dining area took up one section of the room, complete with a circular table with four chairs around it and a sideboard against the wall, and a corner by the windows boasted a sitting area with small sofa—a settee, really—and an overstuffed chair that was perfect for curling up with one of the throws that were scattered about. Of course, when I’d done that, contently ensconced with the blanket around my shoulders, Jane had come fluttering in, asking, “Are you sure you’re not cold?”
There was even a small work area with a desk and a bookcase. I imagined that it had been intended for the lady of the house to spend hours every day going over her longhand correspondence or something equally refined and outdated.
In truth, I didn’t want to wander around the house by myself. It wasn’t that I didn’t feel curious. The idea just made me feel like an intruder—whatever Jane said, I was certain in my mind that I wasn’t anyone’s or anything’s mistress. And I was still more than a little wary of what else might be in the house, besides overly eager staff members whom I accidentally offended at every turn.
So I sent Jane away as politely as possible and hid out in my room, surfing the internet, reading the newest bestseller Hannah had told me I just had to try, and messaging my friends on Facebook.
Until Geoff’s name lit with a green dot, and a moment later, a message popped up.
You said it went well. Good to hear.
I blinked. Oh, God, Geoff. What on earth was I supposed to say to Geoff?
Yeah. I’m feeling pretty great, I typed back.
That was safe.
The typing message flashed—for far longer than it should. He was writing, then erasing, then writing again.
Finally, the message arrived. Wonderful. Can’t wait to see you next semester.
I let out a breath of air. Next semester. Geoff and I had gone out on one date—right before I’d gotten my cancer diagnosis. It had been nice. Well, it had been more than nice, and I’d been looking forward to that date turning into something steadier.
But once I found out about my cancer, everything had changed. Sure, we’d had an on-again, off-again mutual crush for a couple of years, but there didn’t seem to be a good opening for saying, “Hey, yeah, being your girlfriend would be great, and by the way, I’m probably going to die. Hope that’s okay!”
Eventually, my roommate Lisette had told him about my cancer, and he’d made it clear that he was still interested in me. By that point, I’d decided to take the treatment that Dorian had offered, knowing only that it would either cure me or kill me.
So I had told Geoff that if I was feeling better after the Winter Break, we’d give a relationship a real shot.
Of course, I hadn’t counted on being bonded for life to an ageless vampire, much less ending up in his bed.
Yeah. Complications.
But Geoff was...still Geoff. And I realized that whatever I felt for Dorian, if it could even be named, existed separately from what I felt for Geoff. My feelings for Geoff were familiar, comforting—and altogether human. He was a reminder of what my dreams had always been, the boyfriend, the degree, the career, the house, and eventually, the kids. The picture-perfect life that would show my Gramma that everything she’d done for me was worth it.
Plus, I wouldn’t say that his touch wasn’t quite pleasant in its way—hell, sometimes way more than pleasant—but it couldn’t drive me to insanity. I never imagined that I wanted him to hurt me. And that was always a bonus.
I’m looking forward to it, too, I typed.
Eh. Stiff and awkward enough, Cora? But it got the point across.
The message alert sounded. Cool.
Just then, the door opened, and Jane entered, carrying another tray overloaded with food.
Quickly, I wrote, GTG, and I closed the lid of the laptop.
“I’ve got lunch,” Jane announced with a smile, setting the tray on the center of the table.
I suppressed a groan as I stood up. I thought I’d eaten enough for three meals at breakfast.
“And after that, it will be time to get ready for the introduction,” she added.
“What’s it like?” I asked.
“Oh, we’ve never had one before, so I don’t truly know. But the butler and the housekeeper and the event planner have been having fits for days, so it’s got to be impressive,” she said with barely contained excitement.
Ah, Jane. So skilled at saying the exact thing I didn’t want to hear.
I tucked into my food obediently, my reluctance evaporating with the first taste. As soon as I set my spoon and fork down with a sigh—would I ever be happy with mac and cheese again?—Jane herded me into the dressing room to start the process of transforming me into an image fit to be Dorian’s cognate.
It was four hours before the beginning of the gala. I wondered if she’d have enough time.
“The gown!” Jane announced with a dramatic wave of her hand.
It hung from a hook in front of the closet, turned outward so that it could be seen in its full glory. The dress was, without question, gorgeous. A shimmery, ethereal green, it was strapless, with a sweetheart neckline made of many-pleated wrapped layers in a figure-hugging bodice that went down to the hips and met a tight skirt that flared out in a mermaid’s tail at the knees. It was covered in intricate beadwork that was as subtle as it was extravagant.
“It’s stunning,” I said, feeling a little dismayed. “And it’s built for curves that, at the moment, I don’t have.” The cancer had not been kind to my body, and though I no longer looked like the survivor of a death camp, I had at least five pounds to go before I moved from looking half-starved to merely too thin.
Jane smiled and pul
led out a foundation garment that looked like something out of the Gilded Age. “And that, madam, is why we cheat.”
I was clearly outmatched, and I submitted myself to her with good grace. I couldn’t see how corsetry could possibly make me look less thin—until the garment was on and cinched tightly enough that I considered cracking a Gone with the Wind joke.
But then I looked in the mirror, and I understood. My waist was not merely smaller—the corset had a generous amount of padding that reshaped the lines of my hips and breasts.
“I think this is called false advertising,” I said, looking at the artificial curves in bemusement.
“It is called enhancement,” Jane corrected. Her tone was prim, but her eyes danced with pleasure.
She helped me wrestle the dress over my head, tugging and pulling it into place. The effect was gorgeous. There was really no other word for it. My arms still looked a little too thin, my collarbones a trifle too prominent, but it was otherwise perfect.
“Excellent. Just a little here, and it will be perfect.” Jane pronounced her professional judgment as she quickly used a few pins to change a seam that was puckering slightly. “Of course, only if you agree, madam,” she added with perfunctory subservience.
“I think I have to,” I said, staring at myself.
“Very good.” She eyed my nails. “Dress and foundation garments off again, then manicure, hair, and cosmetics.”
I obeyed and found myself wrapped in a fluffy white robe and hustled over to the dressing table chair, where she trimmed and shaped my short nails and covered them with a pale, glossy pink polish. As they dried, my hair was curled and teased and smoothed again, then pinned and sprayed until it had the careless perfection that could only be achieved with enormous amounts of effort, tumbling from a mass at the top of my head to brush the nape of my neck. Then she attacked my nails again, spreading some kind of cream on them as she buffed each one carefully to a high shine.
Jane nodded in satisfaction, then attacked my face with equal enthusiasm. I winced as she shaped my eyebrows, something I hadn’t gotten around to in months. Then came a battery of cosmetic products—concealer, foundation, highlight and lowlight contours, powder, then brow pencil, eye shadow, eyeliner on the waterline and lashline, mascara, individual false eyelashes, blush, lip conditioner, lip liner, lipstick, and gloss.
When she finally allowed me to look at myself, I braced for all the horrors of a drag queen. But the reality was startling. After half an hour of fussing and painting, I looked like...myself. Only better. Peculiarly, I looked like I was wearing less makeup than I did when I applied my own.
“That shouldn’t actually be possible,” I said, peering at my reflection.
“Clever little pots of paint, aren’t they, Cora?” Jane beamed over my shoulder.
“I think it has more to do with the hand holding the brush than the makeup itself,” I said, thinking of the mess I’d make of it if I tried to apply all those products to myself.
“Mmmm,” was all Jane said, but I could tell she liked the compliment. “Jewelry,” she said. “And scent. Though neither need be applied until just before the event.”
She brought out a parade of perfumes. I recognized Chanel No. 5, but the others I had never heard of—Ralph Lauren’s Notorious, Shalimar, Caron’s Poivre, Joy by Jean Patou, and more that I could not even remember the names of. After smelling half a dozen on tester strips, I gave up and waved them away.
“I can’t smell anything straight anymore,” I said. “You pick one. You were right on the hair, dress, and makeup. You’ll probably do a better job of selecting a perfume, too.”
“Very good, Cora,” she said, practically preening with smugness as she slid the tray away. “And now for jewelry.”
From a black velvet box came a necklace just a little longer than a choker made of oval-cut emeralds placed end to end in a gold setting, along with a matching bracelet and a set of earrings. The ruby pendant had been taken from the necklace that Dorian had given me to be worked into the center of the emeralds.
“You approve?” Jane asked.
“Of course,” I said, not even attempting to calculate its value.
“Mr. Thorne would like to speak to you before the party,” Jane said, offering me a pair of slippers. “He will be having a light tea in his study.”
I put the slippers on. Always, there was someone waiting for me now. It was a strange sensation—I was much more used to waiting than being waited on, in any sense of the word.
“Well, then,” I said. “I suppose I should go and see him.”
And once again, I was led to Dorian.
Chapter Thirteen
When Jane opened the door to the mezzanine, a cacophony of voices and banging almost drove me back inside. I hesitated in the doorway before carefully stepping out to look over the railing into the salon below.
And then I really did have to stop myself from running back into my bedroom.
The salon teemed. Dozens of people crisscrossed the room, men in sharp black suits threading their way among various tradesmen. Some were carting in great armloads of flowers. Others carried screens, urns, and statues, even rolling in ice sculptures and fountains. Pacing around the chaos, a woman with a tablet and a notebook snapped orders as she orchestrated the groupings of furniture into a different configuration. At her direction, two men rolled out a long red carpet from the foot of one leg of the stairs all the way to the center of the room in front of a massive object that reached halfway to the ceiling, hidden under a black drape.
My heart beat a little faster. The introduction had not seemed quite real before—it was hard to imagine the echoing mausoleum of a mansion filled with light and noise and people. Now the immediacy of it settled over me, and I realized that the scale of it was beyond anything I’d imagined. I would be standing with Dorian in that room soon, facing how many agnates I couldn’t even guess, including, quite possibly, more than one who wanted me dead.
What had I gotten myself into?
Clarissa and another agnate stood on either side of my door—more guards, I realized, just to make sure that I was safe amid the bustle of preparations. Clarissa shot me a grin.
“Just keeping you in one piece until the party,” she said brightly. “But there’s nothing to worry about. More of Dorian’s paranoia.”
Right.
The other agnate didn’t even acknowledge me, but they both fell in behind me as Worth led the way downstairs, stepping carefully around the runner to the colonnade passageway. I padded behind her in my robe with the guards following. No one seemed to notice me. It seemed strange to be so invisible since the introduction was, at least supposedly, all about me.
I guessed that I would only matter once I came out to play my part, an actor in a set piece.
“The mistress, Mr. Thorne,” Worth announced sententiously as she opened the door to the study that Dorian had interviewed her in two nights before.
“I’m nobody’s mistress,” I said automatically as I stepped inside.
At my entrance, Dorian stood and crossed the room to meet me, his hair perfectly combed as always, a smile of greeting on his inhumanly handsome face. My breath felt squeezed in my chest. He was wearing suit pants and a matching vest with a real-life smoking jacket over it. It had a deep cowl collar, silk tassels, and everything.
The sight of him brought back a too-vivid flood of memories—his mouth on mine, his hands moving across my naked body, me writhing beneath him as he filled me—
His expression left no shadow of doubt that his mind was in the same place when he looked at me.
I shook my head to clear it and then said, lightly, “Channeling Hugh Hefner?”
“What?” He followed my gaze downward, then scowled. “I’ll have you know that the smoking jacket was the preferred loungewear of gentlemen long before that panderer corrupted it.”
A tiny giggle escaped me, and he looked up sharply. His eyes narrowed with the realization that I was teasing. I got
the sense that he wasn’t used to anyone joking with him in that way.
He put on an expression of mock sternness. “And what does the wardrobe of a woman of your elevated sartorial sense look like?”
“You’ve pretty much seen it. Mostly jeans and yoga pants and t-shirts,” I admitted. “Some sweaters and sweatshirts, too, for variety.”
Dorian hooked his arm in mine in the easy, old-fashioned mannerism that he had, and a shiver went through me. It was so peculiar, like something out of a movie, that it should have felt awkward. But it didn’t. I was with him again, breathing the air of the same room, touching him, if only through our clothing. My body prickled with a glad awareness, my breath coming quicker despite my attempt at self-control.
He led me to the leather sofa, positioned between the two club chairs that Jane and I had occupied two nights before. I sat at one end, cautiously. He took a seat diagonally against the wide arm, hooking a leg up onto the cushion between us with careless grace.
“You must keep the tabloids busy,” he said.
I shook my head ruefully at the memory of the djinn Finnegan and his camera. “I guess I do, if Finnegan’s got any company. Are there such things as vampire tabloids?”
“There are underground presses of various sorts,” Dorian admitted. “But you don’t go to the papers for the truth. If you want to know the real news, you have to be among the people who create it.”
“And you’re one of those.” It wasn’t a question.
“Of course.”
“Today—this introduction is going to be news, too,” I said. “Because of your research.”
“Yes. There will be much gnashing of teeth among my enemies.”
My smile was tight. I knew that Dorian had meant that as a light sort of joke, but given that we were talking about vampires, the figure of speech made me just a little queasy.
“Do you approve of Worth’s efforts?” he asked after a moment, his wave encompassing my hair and makeup.
