was Epaphras then—was what they called then a Ganymede. A lover of men."
"A sodomite, you mean."
Sebastian nodded. Abby Irene leaned her hair against his cheek to feel the movement. "He was dying. Syphilis. And he was more afraid of Hell than of living. . .unliving. . .a sinner. Or, as he said to me then, it is not as if God could damn him twice."
"You still care for him."
Sebastien's hand paused on her hair, and he didn't notice it until she rubbed into his palm to encourage him to continue. "I still covet him," he said. "I would consider that somewhat different."
"You tried to save him."
He shook his head. It took some care to stay gentle. "I was already old enough to understand the futility of that. I tried to. . .give him a chance to save himself. But he. . .."
How could you explain it?
Abby Irene said, slowly, "If God wouldn't make your David pay for his sins, then David would have to see to it himself?"
"He was just as unforgiving of others. He has no more care for his courtesans than for himself. And yet he had the gall to ask me for an introduction to my court."
"You said no?"
"Of course I did," Sebastien answered. "He'll manage. You know he's still whoring? He never stopped."
"But how can a wampyr—"
"Easily enough," Sebastien said. "He doesn't sell sex, Abby Irene. He sells his kiss, the pleasure of it, to mortals who have grown fond of a wampyr's embrace."
* * *
Three days later, Sebastien handed the morning paper unread across the breakfast table to Jack before slitting open a letter from Abby Irene which had arrived in the same post.
Whatever Jack read displeased him. He folded the paper with a snap and dropped it beside his chair, mindful of Phoebe's tablecloth. Phoebe herself entered from the kitchen with a plate of biscuits and eggs balanced atop a pot of tea. She distributed her burden as Jack jumped up to seat her.
Sebastien, engrossed in the letter, pretending oblivion to the little drama until Jack—reseated—served himself breakfast. Phoebe poured the tea. "I hope I didn't end a conversation."
"Not at all," Sebastien said, without looking up. There was no plate or cup before him, of course. He rested the letter in the clear space. "Jack was just trying to prevent me finding out about the second murder."
Phoebe widened her eyes at Jack over the rim of her cup. Jack's fork rattled the plate. "Sebastien—"
Sebastien flicked the ivory laid with a fingernail. "Abby Irene sends rather more details than that yellowing rag has been entrusted with," he said.
"How does she know?"
Sebastien permitted himself a rather less pleasant smile than was his wont, and immediately regretted it. David did not bring out the better side of his personality, the humane mask he aspired to. "She's consulting on the investigation. Commencing last night."
"Sebastien—"
"I know I can't." He was in comfortless hiding in Boston because Duke Richard had attempted to use him to extort cooperation from her. While recent events made his position less precarious, he had no doubt that Richard would find a way to threaten him if it became convenient again. "You are aware, young man, that I have managed to keep successfully ahead of the axe-
man for several centuries without your assistance?"
It might have been unnecessarily sharp. Jack set great store by Sebastien's presumed need for him, and Sebastien normally permitted the illusion.
Silently, Jack picked up his fork again and began pushing eggs around the plate. Sebastien poked the letter with a forefinger. "That doesn't stop
me from helping Abby Irene, however. And I am troubled by a second death so soon."
Jack sipped tea and relented, a flirty glance upwards: just the sort of thing that got them dubious looks in public. "And you're bored."
"Undeath is long," Sebastien said, with a shrug.
Jack steepled his delicate hands. "I know some who could put you to work."
"I wish you wouldn't play at politics," Sebastien answered. He wouldn't stop Jack if he wanted to run with Free Irish agitators or Home Rule terrorists. But he hated that his friend took risks over something as ephemeral as a border or a King when they would all change eventually.
However, Sebastien was honest enough to admit that when one had a bare seventy years in which to seek results, such things no doubt took on a greater urgency.
"Phoebe, would you object to Abby Irene coming here?"
"One of your paramours?" Jack might have forgiven him, then, but she hadn't quite, not yet.