clutched her fingers before he remembered himself, but managed not to protest. It was too late, in any case. The invitation had been issued.
He allowed Phoebe to draw him aside, and David, swinging his amber-handled walking-stick, stepped inside. "More flies with honey, madam?" he inquired of Phoebe, his pale eyes narrowed in a most convincing smile.
She curtseyed; David surprised Sebastien with a brief but impeccable bow. "Your need must be great," he said. "Forgive me if I enjoy the reversal of power a little overmuch."
Sebastien shut the door behind him. "Must you be a prat?"
To his surprise, David looked up from his careful adjustments of the walking-stick in Phoebe's umbrella stand. "No," he said. "I don't suppose
I must. Very well, Sebastien—or, John, is it now?—how may I be of assistance to you? And if I do owe you fealty, as the summons would seem to suggest, does that mean you owe me in return the protection I asked of
you before?"
They stood just inside the door, the aura of tobacco surrounding David as present as his charisma, and his chilly smile. Sebastien stepped back, allowing Phoebe to usher them into the sitting room. So many of the small rituals of human grace and hospitality fell through when confronted with wampyr, and he watched her consider and discard the usual options—the offer of brandy, of tea, or what-have-you—and simply bring him a crystal scallop-shell ash tray and retire to a seat beside the fire where she could observe without intruding.
"I'd like to know what you're seeking my protection from," Sebastien said. He knew better than to suggest Phoebe leave the room, though David gave her a doubtful glance. Yes, by the standards of the blood, his associates were shockingly ill-behaved. As ill-behaved as the orange cat now contemplating David from the doorway.
Still, the silence stretched, so Sebastien added, "David, you must tell me why you fled Europe."
A soft laugh. "Is it not enough to say I missed you?"
"It would be. If it were true."
The rustle of paper bought time as David, without so much as a glance at Phoebe for permission, concentrated on rolling a cigarette. He produced a blue-headed match from the same chamois bag as paper and tobacco, and flicked his nail against the tip to spark it. "It was a foolish enough situation," David said, letting the match burn, the cigarette dangling from his lower lip. "Young Master White struck up a friendship with a certain Epaphras Bull, you see, and members of his family objected. The parents, coming to understand the intimacy of the acquaintanceship"—he held flame to paper, and breathed deeply, an action that seemed dramatic in one who so seldom could be seen to breathe—"and that Mr. White could not be dissuaded from its continuance, retained the services of a certain professional by which to remove me from the equation. This fellow prides himself on thoroughness. Europe simply became too unhealthy for my continued residence."
The last words issued with a coil of cooling smoke. Sebastien wrinkled his nose at the reek, and David smiled and dragged at the cigarette again.
"And you have reason to think this fellow followed you here?"
David shrugged and tapped ash into the tray. Despite himself, Sebastien was fascinated by the delicacy of the motion.
"He has a reputation to maintain," David said dismissively. "But the Atlantic is wide. And it isn't as if I advertised my destination—"
Of course, Sebastien thought, the penny dropping amid all David's evasions. He settled back in his chair. "Or did you think I was more likely to take you back if it seemed you needed me?"
David's faint superior smile slid off his face. "Don't flatter yourself," he said, but he was shaken enough that Sebastien could hear the lie as clearly as the rustling of Phoebe's skirts as she shifted uncomfortably and found—in tending the fire—an excuse to turn away.
"So it wasn't me?" Sebastien let his voice drift lower. "Then you were, what, seeking access to my court?"
"So now you admit you have a court?" But it came out weakly, and despite all their history, Sebastien pitied him.
"No, I don't believe that," he said, and saw David's face relax across the mouth and cheeks. "Do you have the courage to be honest with me?"
"I said I missed you," David answered, with painful dignity. "You called it a lie."
Sebastien licked his lips and sat forward in the chair. Pity, the ugliest emotion, and it snapped his unbeating heart as sharply as the crack of a broken bone.