Sebastien's kiss. Which was the only reason Sebastien had considered making him immortal at all.
He hadn't done it since, though he'd been tempted. One Epaphras Bull in the world was enough.
With feigned patience, Sebastien said, "You need my goodwill. And what else?"
When he glanced over, David's eyes were closed, his pale tongue darting between pale lips.
"David," Sebastien said. The new name was already becoming habit. "This is not a game that amuses me. And you must leave. The sun—"
David's face contorted, but he rose and began to sort himself. He rolled a cigarette and lit it in the lamp, then spoke without meeting Sebastien's gaze. "I had thought to ask you to share resources. Until I become established."
The forms, the ring. The Old World etiquette of courtesy and hospitality among the blood.
Courtesy. And hospitality. "I have nothing to offer," Sebastien said. "My court is in New Amsterdam; I am only beginning to build a network here."
"And you maintain your eccentricities with regard to your pets.
Moggy Molly."
"I do not keep pets. And this is not my house."
David snorted and shot his cuffs, the smoke curling from his cigarette. Sebastien found the scent revolting—but unlike food or drink, tobacco
was a human pleasure the dead could yet enjoy. "If you love them so, make them wampyr."
Sebastien opened the door. His hand trembled like any human's, with spent passion and frustration. "It will be light soon."
"Of course," David said. He let his jeweled hand trail across Sebastien's breast as he passed. "The question remains, if you made them wampyr, would you love them still?"
* * *
When Sebastien let himself into the house—a quarter-hour before sunrise—Phoebe was drinking tea in the parlor. He had expected her to be abed.
"Jack?" he asked.
She gestured up the stairs with the backs of two fingers. "Done enough with hating you to sleep a little."
Sebastien winced. "He should—"
Her glare was as effective as a blow to the throat. "No, he should not. And if you are tempted to abandon him for his own good, or out of some misguided assumption as to the nature of our affair—his and mine, I mean—you should consider the traditional outcome of attempts to mastermind the lives of others."
He sat down heavily in the first convenient chair. "Duly noted."
She sipped her tea, and forgave as swiftly as she'd condemned. "Who was that person?"
His turn to reply with an arch expression and a raised brow. He dearly wished he could stomach drink. He'd never tasted tea—or coffee, for that matter: they were both far younger in the Western world than he—but it would have been comforting to have a cup to hide behind, as Mrs. Smith was hiding behind hers.
It was her house, and he was a guest. He owed her an answer.
"My child," he said, and waited for her to ask more.
But she was a New Englander. She just patted his hand with her warm one and nodded, as if she understood him perfectly in all his implications. And then she sat back in the lamplight, let her shoulders relax against the chair in a most unladylike fashion, and silently finished her tea.
A rattle of paper through the mail slot heralded the sunrise. "First post," Sebastien said, more to break the silence than because it needed saying, and forestalled Phoebe when she began to rise. Her skirts swished around her ankles as she settled back in her chair.
He collected the letters and would have presented them to her without examination, but the scent and writing on the topmost caught his attention. It was addressed to Mr. Nast, care of Mrs. Phoebe Smith, and he knew the particular black script very well. He might have expected a telegram in return from Abby Irene so quickly, but a letter would not have arrived from New Amsterdam since the previous evening.
He handed the rest of the mail to Phoebe and slit the envelope with his thumbnail.
Detective Crown Investigator Abigail Irene Garrett was, as her title implied, a wizard sworn in service to the English King. Her conscience and her loyalties were often in conflict, but Sebastien had no lingering doubts about her faithfulness. Nor did he overvalue it.
Her oath was to her king.
He snapped the single folded page open and held it up. A few lines required just a moment's attention.
Her oath had been to her king.
"Well," he said. "This may simplify matters. Abby Irene has resigned her commission."
And the gossiping mouths of Miss de Courten's salon had had the story right, in essence if not in detail,