DISCLAIMER: Once again, James P and Co have ownership, not I. Except for my characters.
CHAPTER 7
Esme turned in Nick's arms and glanced at the clock on the nightstand—9 am. She looked up at him and reached out to brush a stray blond lock from his face.
"She must have been extraordinary, non?"
"Who?" asked a rather drowsy Nick, fluffing up his pillows.
"Natalie, your doctor friend. I saw it in your blood, cher. It must have been difficult to leave her."
A sigh from Nick, who came to the realization that he sighed a lot.
"It was, but it had to be done. As you alluded to, Esme, mortals who love vampires usually wind up dead or a member of our club."
"Umm," agreed she. "One more factor, cher. The Enforcers—the Code will be obeyed. Do they know of your Natalie?"
Nick nodded. "They do. Nat made herself a friend to the Community during the fever scare we had. It killed off quite a few of our kind up there and she discovered the cause and the antidote. For that reason, she's given a pass."
"As I said, mignon," concurred Esme, "an extraordinary woman."
A thought came to Nick suddenly. "Speaking of Enforcers, Colin said something about rules and signing. Is this true?"
Laughter from Esme, who kissed his neck.
"Oui. A Cary Shelley Idea." This said with a bit of sarcasm. "There is this organization of vampires in New York, human for the most part. Anyway, Cary attended a coven house meeting there on one of his infamous whims. They had a list of rules they gave new members and this impressed him, so when he become leader here, he adopted them."
Nick took note of the fact that whenever Esme made a long speech, she lapsed into French. The sound of his native language sounded strangely soothing to his ears.
"So you actually have to do paperwork?" he prodded, remembering how much he disliked it.
She nodded. "A contract, if you will. They bring out that pen that pricks your finger; they draw blood into the cartridge, and you sign you name with that. According to Colin, and I have no cause to doubt him, this binds you to the Community and all the regulations therein."
"So you sign in actual blood?" asked an incredulous Nick, and she nodded once again. He shook his head, what had he walked into? "And if you don't sign?"
Esme opened her cerulean eyes very wide. "They kill you." She sighed and drew his head down to kiss him, as if to banish any bad thoughts. "And it is not a pleasant death, either. You are made an example to the Community of what happens to rogues. Trust me, mignon, it is better to sign, and it's not that terrible." She was silent a moment, then—"Nick?"
"Yes," he answered, playing with a strand of her pale hair.
She pulled away from him and sat straight up. He put his hand in back of his head and smiled at her, watching her long hair play around her face. She was alluring as only a vampire could be, but she was not smiling.
"This is very serious, mignon. Do not ever tell Cary about your love for a mortal. If you do relate the tale, do not let him know she lives. In Cary's eyes, that is a capital offense—it breaks the first rule of the Code. And do believe me when I tell you, friendship aside, he will let Colin know and then God help your Natalie."
"But—"
"Nick, the Enforcers in Toronto will confer with the Enforcers here in Nevada and they will not spare her—no matter what her relationship with the Community. Colin is very inflexible in this matter; he will give no quarter. Worse, Cary and he could decide to give the case to Alexi, in which case even LaCroix couldn't save her. So please, for your sake and hers, mon cour—never breathe a word that you and she were lovers. Friends, tolerable. Lovers, no."
Nick lay there quietly for a moment. His thoughts moved back on several remarks he heard Cary make in passing. If what Esme said was correct, he would need to tread lightly until he was sure of his footing.
All of a sudden, he needed a drink. Pushing aside the covers, he reached for his pajama bottoms and slid on his slippers. Esme watched him curiously as he put his robe on and tied it around him.
"Cher, are you alright?"
"I'm thirsty." To which she pulled her hair seductively away from her neck in offer. "No, I need something stronger, perhaps."
"Cary does have some curare down there."
Nick chuckled at that. "I'm not that thirsty." He leaned over the bed and kissed her lingeringly. She gave him an intense look when he pulled back. "I'll be right back, would you like anything?" he asked, solicitously. She shook her head and Nick walked out of the room and down the back stairs to the kitchen.
Cary's kitchen was a vampire's kitchen. It shone, as no cooking was ever done there. Glasses hung upside down above the center island, reminding Nick again of The Raven, but there was no food, no plates, no silverware, no pots and pans. A bombe desk stood where the stove should have been. There was a huge refrigerator, as well as an individual freezer. Past some glass shelving, which held a set of unused china, was the pantry. This was temperature sensitive and held nothing but bottles of blood, wine, liquor, liqueur and combinations of the four. From floor to 15 foot ceiling on two sides, it was stocked full. Nick opened the refrigerator door and took out one of his bottles, then went into said pantry and got a bottle of wine—regular red wine. He mixed the wine and the blood in a carafe he found in a cabinet and took a glass down from the overhead rack. He then went into the back parlor and stretched out on the Empire sofa.
It was then that he noticed the presence of another in the room. He turned and saw Jill standing at the piano, staring at him. She padded over to him and sat in the rocking chair in the corner of the parlor.
"Can't sleep?" she inquired.
"Just thinking. How about you?"
"I got hungry," she said, indicating her glass. "Cary literally sleeps like the dead during the day, almost totally immobile. So I usually eat something at this time of day."
Nick had to grin at that—fledglings. He decided to seek out her opinion on the living, and asked her straight out. Her answer surprised him.
"I love them. I love their strengths, their foibles. They are very ham-and-egger. I love to eavesdrop on them when they don't know and listen to their petty problems. In fact, I don't even kill them right away during the hunt. I stay and jaw with them awhile, asking all about them and their lives. But since I usually feed on the dregs, the stories sometimes make no sense."
"The hunt? I thought hunting was not allowed?"
Jill got a bit of a giggle out of that. "Technically, it's not. However, you can get a license to hunt. As long as you follow the rules and pay the fees, you can in a limited capacity."
Nick started at that. Licenses, fees, contracts—this was what modern vampirism had come to.
"More Cary ideas?" he asked, cautiously.
"You've been talking with Esme," she tittered. "Yes, I'm afraid my darling is a bit of a control freak." She took a sip of her drink. "So, how was the movie?"
"Fine."
"Where is Esme?" asked Jill, coyly.
"Sleeping, by now," he answered to Jill's delight.
"Good! Esme needs someone nice," she said, to Nick's surprise.
"I thought you didn't like Esme?"
"Gosh, no. Truthfully, she's a bit of a blue nose, but I still want to see her settled with some keen guy instead of the cake-eaters she usually goes with." She giggled. "And you seen nice enough, not really an egg."
Nick smiled at the compliment under the slang. Lucky for him he lived during this decade, and during Esme's, and during Cary's.
"So, does Cary consider you middle aisle material, or is it just for fun?"
That got a real chuckle out of her.
"I swear Nick, you just slay me! Just when I was thinking you were a real wet blanket, you come out with that!" She wiped the blood tears out of her eyes. "I wish. You know, Paul and Maria got married—in some sort of pagan ceremony. But they are legal man and wife! Cary's the Darb, but never in a kajillion years would he even consider a steady relationship."
Nick took a sip of his drink. It was almost gone now, and the wine was affecting him, which was what he wanted. Alcohol did that to vampires. They could not eat, but mixed in with the blood, they could take in liquor and wine without it—red only. White did not settle right.
"Why?" He asked. "Cary seems to be a settled sort of creature. As for marriage, I was married once," he thought of Alyssa. "Well, twice—sort of," he thought of Janette. It was sort of a marriage, that century together, wasn't it?
Jill sighed, a long resigned sort of sound. "Simple. Helena."
That name again. Esme had said she would not want to deal with Helena, but why? He thought back and could not think of anyone he had met last night by that name.
"Who's Helena? Is she out of town?"
A bitter laugh from the redheaded flapper. She rose from the rocker and crooked her finger at Nick, who followed her into the Keeping Room. The room was dark, naturally, and she turned on one of the lamps. She gestured to the pictures above the twin fireplaces. Oil paintings of the same women, in two scenes and poses, were above each. Nick noticed the flowers underneath them, fresh cut, in sort of a tribute. The woman was blonde with deep blue eyes that looked as if they could pierce your soul, if you had one. Her hair was up on her head, Gibson Girl style in one, and long Rita Hayworth in the other. She seemed a preternaturally beautiful—white skin, rosebud lips—Nick felt himself react just by looking at the portraits.
Jill looked at him sort of amused. She cocked her head to one side, as if used to seeing this sort of response. Then, it seemed to Nick later, she gave him kind of a warning.
"Don't let Cary see you act like that to her or he'll rip your head off. But, in any case, that's the infamous Helena."
CHAPTER 7
Esme turned in Nick's arms and glanced at the clock on the nightstand—9 am. She looked up at him and reached out to brush a stray blond lock from his face.
"She must have been extraordinary, non?"
"Who?" asked a rather drowsy Nick, fluffing up his pillows.
"Natalie, your doctor friend. I saw it in your blood, cher. It must have been difficult to leave her."
A sigh from Nick, who came to the realization that he sighed a lot.
"It was, but it had to be done. As you alluded to, Esme, mortals who love vampires usually wind up dead or a member of our club."
"Umm," agreed she. "One more factor, cher. The Enforcers—the Code will be obeyed. Do they know of your Natalie?"
Nick nodded. "They do. Nat made herself a friend to the Community during the fever scare we had. It killed off quite a few of our kind up there and she discovered the cause and the antidote. For that reason, she's given a pass."
"As I said, mignon," concurred Esme, "an extraordinary woman."
A thought came to Nick suddenly. "Speaking of Enforcers, Colin said something about rules and signing. Is this true?"
Laughter from Esme, who kissed his neck.
"Oui. A Cary Shelley Idea." This said with a bit of sarcasm. "There is this organization of vampires in New York, human for the most part. Anyway, Cary attended a coven house meeting there on one of his infamous whims. They had a list of rules they gave new members and this impressed him, so when he become leader here, he adopted them."
Nick took note of the fact that whenever Esme made a long speech, she lapsed into French. The sound of his native language sounded strangely soothing to his ears.
"So you actually have to do paperwork?" he prodded, remembering how much he disliked it.
She nodded. "A contract, if you will. They bring out that pen that pricks your finger; they draw blood into the cartridge, and you sign you name with that. According to Colin, and I have no cause to doubt him, this binds you to the Community and all the regulations therein."
"So you sign in actual blood?" asked an incredulous Nick, and she nodded once again. He shook his head, what had he walked into? "And if you don't sign?"
Esme opened her cerulean eyes very wide. "They kill you." She sighed and drew his head down to kiss him, as if to banish any bad thoughts. "And it is not a pleasant death, either. You are made an example to the Community of what happens to rogues. Trust me, mignon, it is better to sign, and it's not that terrible." She was silent a moment, then—"Nick?"
"Yes," he answered, playing with a strand of her pale hair.
She pulled away from him and sat straight up. He put his hand in back of his head and smiled at her, watching her long hair play around her face. She was alluring as only a vampire could be, but she was not smiling.
"This is very serious, mignon. Do not ever tell Cary about your love for a mortal. If you do relate the tale, do not let him know she lives. In Cary's eyes, that is a capital offense—it breaks the first rule of the Code. And do believe me when I tell you, friendship aside, he will let Colin know and then God help your Natalie."
"But—"
"Nick, the Enforcers in Toronto will confer with the Enforcers here in Nevada and they will not spare her—no matter what her relationship with the Community. Colin is very inflexible in this matter; he will give no quarter. Worse, Cary and he could decide to give the case to Alexi, in which case even LaCroix couldn't save her. So please, for your sake and hers, mon cour—never breathe a word that you and she were lovers. Friends, tolerable. Lovers, no."
Nick lay there quietly for a moment. His thoughts moved back on several remarks he heard Cary make in passing. If what Esme said was correct, he would need to tread lightly until he was sure of his footing.
All of a sudden, he needed a drink. Pushing aside the covers, he reached for his pajama bottoms and slid on his slippers. Esme watched him curiously as he put his robe on and tied it around him.
"Cher, are you alright?"
"I'm thirsty." To which she pulled her hair seductively away from her neck in offer. "No, I need something stronger, perhaps."
"Cary does have some curare down there."
Nick chuckled at that. "I'm not that thirsty." He leaned over the bed and kissed her lingeringly. She gave him an intense look when he pulled back. "I'll be right back, would you like anything?" he asked, solicitously. She shook her head and Nick walked out of the room and down the back stairs to the kitchen.
Cary's kitchen was a vampire's kitchen. It shone, as no cooking was ever done there. Glasses hung upside down above the center island, reminding Nick again of The Raven, but there was no food, no plates, no silverware, no pots and pans. A bombe desk stood where the stove should have been. There was a huge refrigerator, as well as an individual freezer. Past some glass shelving, which held a set of unused china, was the pantry. This was temperature sensitive and held nothing but bottles of blood, wine, liquor, liqueur and combinations of the four. From floor to 15 foot ceiling on two sides, it was stocked full. Nick opened the refrigerator door and took out one of his bottles, then went into said pantry and got a bottle of wine—regular red wine. He mixed the wine and the blood in a carafe he found in a cabinet and took a glass down from the overhead rack. He then went into the back parlor and stretched out on the Empire sofa.
It was then that he noticed the presence of another in the room. He turned and saw Jill standing at the piano, staring at him. She padded over to him and sat in the rocking chair in the corner of the parlor.
"Can't sleep?" she inquired.
"Just thinking. How about you?"
"I got hungry," she said, indicating her glass. "Cary literally sleeps like the dead during the day, almost totally immobile. So I usually eat something at this time of day."
Nick had to grin at that—fledglings. He decided to seek out her opinion on the living, and asked her straight out. Her answer surprised him.
"I love them. I love their strengths, their foibles. They are very ham-and-egger. I love to eavesdrop on them when they don't know and listen to their petty problems. In fact, I don't even kill them right away during the hunt. I stay and jaw with them awhile, asking all about them and their lives. But since I usually feed on the dregs, the stories sometimes make no sense."
"The hunt? I thought hunting was not allowed?"
Jill got a bit of a giggle out of that. "Technically, it's not. However, you can get a license to hunt. As long as you follow the rules and pay the fees, you can in a limited capacity."
Nick started at that. Licenses, fees, contracts—this was what modern vampirism had come to.
"More Cary ideas?" he asked, cautiously.
"You've been talking with Esme," she tittered. "Yes, I'm afraid my darling is a bit of a control freak." She took a sip of her drink. "So, how was the movie?"
"Fine."
"Where is Esme?" asked Jill, coyly.
"Sleeping, by now," he answered to Jill's delight.
"Good! Esme needs someone nice," she said, to Nick's surprise.
"I thought you didn't like Esme?"
"Gosh, no. Truthfully, she's a bit of a blue nose, but I still want to see her settled with some keen guy instead of the cake-eaters she usually goes with." She giggled. "And you seen nice enough, not really an egg."
Nick smiled at the compliment under the slang. Lucky for him he lived during this decade, and during Esme's, and during Cary's.
"So, does Cary consider you middle aisle material, or is it just for fun?"
That got a real chuckle out of her.
"I swear Nick, you just slay me! Just when I was thinking you were a real wet blanket, you come out with that!" She wiped the blood tears out of her eyes. "I wish. You know, Paul and Maria got married—in some sort of pagan ceremony. But they are legal man and wife! Cary's the Darb, but never in a kajillion years would he even consider a steady relationship."
Nick took a sip of his drink. It was almost gone now, and the wine was affecting him, which was what he wanted. Alcohol did that to vampires. They could not eat, but mixed in with the blood, they could take in liquor and wine without it—red only. White did not settle right.
"Why?" He asked. "Cary seems to be a settled sort of creature. As for marriage, I was married once," he thought of Alyssa. "Well, twice—sort of," he thought of Janette. It was sort of a marriage, that century together, wasn't it?
Jill sighed, a long resigned sort of sound. "Simple. Helena."
That name again. Esme had said she would not want to deal with Helena, but why? He thought back and could not think of anyone he had met last night by that name.
"Who's Helena? Is she out of town?"
A bitter laugh from the redheaded flapper. She rose from the rocker and crooked her finger at Nick, who followed her into the Keeping Room. The room was dark, naturally, and she turned on one of the lamps. She gestured to the pictures above the twin fireplaces. Oil paintings of the same women, in two scenes and poses, were above each. Nick noticed the flowers underneath them, fresh cut, in sort of a tribute. The woman was blonde with deep blue eyes that looked as if they could pierce your soul, if you had one. Her hair was up on her head, Gibson Girl style in one, and long Rita Hayworth in the other. She seemed a preternaturally beautiful—white skin, rosebud lips—Nick felt himself react just by looking at the portraits.
Jill looked at him sort of amused. She cocked her head to one side, as if used to seeing this sort of response. Then, it seemed to Nick later, she gave him kind of a warning.
"Don't let Cary see you act like that to her or he'll rip your head off. But, in any case, that's the infamous Helena."