“I like you best when you’re drunk on vodka,” he declared. His words invoking a memory that made my stomach pitch in a way that wasn’t sickening but it hurt all the same.
I didn’t know what came over me the night before.
That wasn’t entirely true. I did.
I was drunk and my inhibitions were swept away.
They said you act most honestly when you’re drunk which gave me something else to spend my day fretting and getting angry at myself about. And last night, for the first time, I enjoyed my time with him before the bloodletting not to mention the bloodletting itself, which was, I couldn’t deny it, unbelievable.
By the time I’d drunk my last martini, I’d listened to both Edwina and Stephanie talking about what a great man he was, how generous he was with his concubines when they were with him and after he released them. Apparently, he not only took care of them, he still saw most of them, even the ones who were now old and frail. It didn’t hurt that the evidence of his colossal generosity was scattered around me, the clothes, the house, the housekeeper.
Sometime during the fashion parade, I’d forgotten my Why I Hate Lucien Vault and instead only remembered the good parts about him. The way a smile tugged at his mouth. The way his eyes went hooded when he knew I was watching him and I liked what I saw. The way he thought my worst traits were amusing. The way he could sometimes be gentle and patient. The way he kissed.
Good parts he showed upon arriving home, cementing in my inebriated mind that I’d been wrong about him.
Until he proved me right, that was.
His face pulled away, wrenching me from my thoughts.
I watched him glance again to the bar and order, “Two martinis, vodka, olives.”
After this, Lucien was silent and motionless until our drinks arrived. Once they did he passed a bill to the bartender. I took my drink and he repositioned us. Lucien with mostly his side but also his back to the bar. Me turned to the room, my back still tight to his front, my body snugly, possessively, even protectively held in the curve of his arm.
His mouth came back to my ear and, apropos of nothing, he murmured, “Breed and Wats are hangers.”
I hadn’t asked but I was curious to know. I turned my head to face him and when I did I saw his expression was guarded and watchful.
Yes, I’d taken it too far.
Damn.
While doing my hair for the night (Edwina wanted to do it but I put my foot down this time), I’d come up with my plan.
He wanted to instruct me?
Well, I was going to teach him a few lessons too.
But I’d gotten carried away.
I determined to rectify that.
“Hangers?” I asked.
He nodded.
“What does that mean?” I went on.
He looked to the room. It was a gesture I was meant to follow which I did and when I was facing the room his mouth came back to my ear. “They want to be down here.”
I stayed facing forward, something I sensed he wanted me to do and asked, “Have they ever been down here?”
“Never, and they never will,” he answered. “But they don’t give up. Obsessed with vampires and our culture, especially The Feasts. Obsessed in an unhealthy way. They’ve made themselves servants, unpaid unless someone gives them a gratuity.”
I felt badly for Breed and Wats, to want something so badly, to be so close but never to have what you want.
“How do they know about vampires?” I queried since I thought no one but those in the life did.
“They sense us,” Lucien answered. “I’ve no idea how. Very few mortals do. And those who do always become hangers.”