I looked around for his shadow, but there was no Warren in sight.
For the first time, I wished I knew what Mustapha was thinking—but his thoughts were as opaque as those of any Were I’d ever encountered.
My skin crawled, but I didn’t know why.
“How’s it going out there?” I asked, keeping my voice quiet.
After a pause he answered me, his own voice just as hushed. “Maybe I shoulda gotten a job with some freakin’ goblins. Or joined the pack and let Alcide boss me around. That would have been better than this. If I was you, I’d get my ass back in the car and go home. If Eric wasn’t paying me so good, that’s what I’d do.”
This was beginning to sound more and more like the beginning of a fairy tale:
FIRST MAN: Don’t cross the bridge; it’s perilous.
HEROINE: But I must cross the bridge.
SECOND MAN: Upon your life, don’t cross the bridge!
HEROINE: But I have to cross the bridge.
In a fairy tale, there’d be a third encounter; there are always three. And maybe I would have another one, yet. But I’d gotten the idea.
Anxiety trickled down my spine like sweat. I sure didn’t want to cross that bridge. Maybe I should just ease on down the road?
But Pam entered the kitchen, and my opportunity was gone. “Thank God you’re here,” she said, her faint British accent more apparent than usual.
“I was afraid you weren’t going to come. Felipe has noticed you haven’t put in an appearance.”
“But you changed the time,” I replied, puzzled. “Mustapha told me to be here …” I glanced at the clock on the microwave. “Just now.”
Pam shook her head, then gave Mustapha a look that seemed more puzzled than irritated. “We’l talk later,” she told him. She made an impatient beckoning gesture to me.
I took a second to stow my purse in one of the kitchen cabinets, simply because a kitchen is the safest storage place in a vampire house. Before I fol owed Pam into the large open living room/dining room area, I fixed a smile on my face. I couldn’t help casting a glance over my shoulder at Mustapha, but al I saw was the blankness of the lenses of his dark glasses.
I looked ahead of me, after that. When you’re around vampires, it’s always better to have your eye on what’s coming.
Though Eric’s bold decorating had been featured in Louisiana Interiors, the photographer would hardly have recognized the room tonight. The striped drapes across the front windows were firmly drawn. There were no fresh flowers. A mixed group of humans and vampires were strewn around the large space.
A hugely muscular man with dyed blond hair was dancing with a young woman to my far left, close to the dining table, which Eric used for business conferences. As I approached, they stopped dancing and started kissing, noisily and with much tongue. A square-jawed male vampire was taking blood from a wel -endowed human female on the loveseat, and he was making a messy job of it. There were blood drips on the upholstery.
Right then, I was pissed off. It added fuel to the flame when I absorbed the fact that a red-haired vamp I didn’t know was standing on Eric’s coffee table (in high heels!) dancing to an old Rol ing Stones CD. Another vampire with thick black hair was watching her with casual appreciation, as if he’d seen her do the same thing many times but stil enjoyed the sight. Her stiletto heels were digging, digging into the wood of the table, one of Eric’s favorite acquisitions.
I could feel my lips draw in like purse strings. A sideways glance at Pam showed me she was keeping her face as smooth and empty as a pretty bowl. With a huge effort, I wiped my own expression clean. Dammit, we’d just replaced al the carpeting and had the wal s repainted after the Alexei Romanov debacle! Now the upholstery would need to be cleaned again, and I’d have to find someone to refinish the table.
I reminded myself I had bigger problems than a few stains and gouges.
Bil had been right. Mustapha had been right. This was not a place I should be. Despite what Pam had said, I couldn’t believe any of the vampires would have missed me. They were al too busy.
But then the man watching the dancer turned his head to look at me. I realized that he was a ful y clothed (thank you, God) Felipe de Castro. He smiled at me, his sharp white fangs glistening in the overhead light. Yes, he’d been enjoying the dancing.
“Miss Stackhouse!” he said lazily. “I’d been afraid you wouldn’t come tonight. It’s been too long since I’ve had the pleasure of seeing you.” Since Felipe had a thick accent, my name sounded more like “Meees Stekhuss!” The first time I’d met him, the king had been wearing an honest-to-God cape. Tonight he’d dressed conservatively in a gray shirt, silver vest, and black pants.
“It’s been a while, Your Majesty,” I said, which was simply al I could think of to say. “I’m so sorry I’m a bit late to greet you. Where is Eric?”
“He’s in one of the bedrooms,” Felipe said, stil smiling. His mustache and chin strip were perfectly black and perfectly groomed. The King of Nevada, Arkansas, and Louisiana was not a tal man. He was strikingly handsome. He possessed a vitality that was hugely attractive—though not to me, and not tonight. Felipe was also quite the politician, I’d heard, and he was certainly a businessman. No tel ing how much money he’d amassed in his long life.
I smiled back at the king in a frozen way. I was mighty put out. The Nevada visitors weren’t acting any better than, say, smal -town firemen attending a convention in New Orleans. That these visitors were from Las Vegas and yet felt it necessary to misbehave in Shreveport … wel , it didn’t speak wel for them.
“In one of the bedrooms” didn’t sound good, but of course that was what Felipe had intended. “I’d better tel him I’m here,” I said, and turned to Pam. “Let’s go, girlfriend.”
Pam took my hand, and it was a measure of the evening that I actual y found that comforting. Her face was stil as wax.
As we navigated through the room (the muscular man wasn’t actual y having sex with his companion, but it wasn’t far in the future), Pam hissed,
“Did you see that? The blood wil never come out of the upholstery.”
“It won’t be as hard to clean up as the night Alexei went nuts here,” I said, trying to get perspective. “Or the club, after we did—that thing.” I didn’t want to say “kil ed Victor” out loud.
“But that was fun.” Pam was practical y pouting.
“This isn’t, for you?”
“No, I like my pleasures more personal and private.”
“Oh, me, too,” I said. “Why is Eric back here instead of out there?”
“I don’t know. I just came back from a liquor run,” she said briefly. “Mustapha insisted we needed some more rum.”
She was doing Mustapha’s bidding now? But I pressed my lips shut. It was no business of mine.
By that time we’d reached the door of the bedroom I used at Eric’s, since I didn’t want to be shut downstairs with him al day in his light-tight sleeping room. Pam, a step ahead of me, pushed open the door and stiffened. Eric was there, and he was sitting on the bed, but he was feeding off someone—a dark-haired woman. She was sprawled across his lap, her bright summer dress twisted around her body, one hand gripping his shoulder and kneading it while he sucked from her neck. Her other hand was … she was pleasuring herself.
“You asshole,” I said, and I reversed on the spot. Getting the hel out of there was my al -consuming desire. Eric raised his head, his mouth bloody, and his eyes met mine. He was … drunk.