Page 82 of Vampire so Virtuous
“A lady, sir. She says her name is Cally Davis.”
He blinked in surprise. “She’s here?”
“Indeed, sir. At the front gate. She asked for you by name and refused to listen when I said you were not to be disturbed. She said, and I quote, ‘wake him up, then.’” Marcel kept his face neutral.
“Very well. Show her into the living room. And Marcel? Do ensure the blinds are closed.” Antoine didn’t want to be squinting at her.
“Of course, sir.” The old retainer bowed and closed the door behind him.
Antoine shook his head as he rose and pulled on his dressing gown, belting the sash around his waist. Never before had he known a chattel willingly seek out a vampire. Hell, he’d never met a chattel who had accepted the existence of vampires—not one that had been alive five minutes later. Yet with such a comment to Marcel, she was clearly signaling that she knew—or, at least, suspected—what he was.
She had seen him feed on Minh, and they had hardly been circumspect in their language. They’d mentioned vampires, thralls, even the Code. Perhaps she more than merely suspected.
What sort of foolish chattel would seek out such an encounter? Did she expect to walk away without consequence?
Antoine reapplied his glamour—it would not do to meet the woman with pale skin and inhuman red eyes—then made his way down the stairs.
He arrived in the living room as Marcel showed the woman in through the other door.
She was taller than he remembered, slender and beautiful, those grayeyes as striking as before. She wore simple clothing—a hoodie and jeans. He approved. Simple and functional, and they did little to hide her lithe form. One hand was in the hoodie’s kangaroo pocket, her other gripping the strap of her backpack tightly enough to whiten her knuckles. She held herself as though she feared nothing, but it was an illusion: he could smell her fear, like a tantalizing, delicate spice on the air. He had to resist the urge to extend his fangs.
She had come anyway, even though she was afraid. It raised many questions.
“Ms. Davis, I presume?”
She gave him a slow once-over, taking in his dressing gown. “It’s the middle of the afternoon. Did you have a late night?”
His lips twitched. “Yes, I did, actually.” He pulled one hand from the pocket of his robe and gestured toward a chair. “Would you care for a drink? Marcel?”
“Wouldyoucare for a drink?” she shot back. She pulled the collar of her hoodie away from her vulnerable throat, tilting her head to one side. For a fraction of a second, she hesitated—then, jaw tightening, lifted her chin in defiance. Her eyes remained locked on his, anger in their gray depths.
He could only stare in amazement. She held her position a few feet away, her neck extended most alluringly.
Did she know what she was doing, presenting herself in such a way? Surely, she must. Somehow, she had deduced that he had fed from her before—even though she couldn’t possibly have seen him that night.
She was rash. Foolish. Intriguing.
“Marcel,” he said, not taking his eyes off her. “Open some of the’76 Margaux for our guest, if you would be so kind.”
“Of course, sir.” The elderly retainer closed the door behind him.
Antoine moved toward his usual chair—the wing-backed antique beside the fireplace, which well suited the room’s décor. He seated himself, folding his dressing gown carefully across his bare legs before crossing one knee over the other. She had hardly moved, merely turning to keep her eyes on him, but she had released her collar and straightened her posture.
“Why don’t you sit down?” He waved toward the matching chair Marcel usually used.
Cally glared at him, lips tight, jaw clenched. Then she moved to the chair, letting her backpack fall from her shoulder to rest on the carpet beside her feet. She sat stiffly, her hand still within the kangaroo pocket, radiating disapproval.
Antoine fought to keep his face straight; she didn’t look like she’d appreciate him laughing, but she was so full of righteous indignation that it was tough.
He rested his elbows on the arms of the chair and steepled his fingers. “Why are you here?”
Her chin came up with a stubborn tilt. “I could just as easily ask you why you came to the police station and intervened.”
So, she had deduced that too. Interesting. “Would you have preferred I didn’t?”
“So you admit you did.”
“You’re welcome, since you mention it.”
