Page 27 of Vampire so Virtuous (Boston Vampires #1)

The bedroom door opened.

“I apologize for disturbing you, sir, but you have a guest.”

Antoine stretched, then checked the clock on the mantlepiece. A little after two— even earlier than yesterday —yet he felt rested enough.

Marcel was waiting for a response.

“Who is it?” Surely the Curia hadn’t come early, and started visiting during daylight?

“A lady, sir. She says her name is Cally Davis.”

He blinked in surprise. “She’s here?”

“Indeed, sir. At the front gate. She asked for you by name and refused to listen when I said you were not to be disturbed. She said, and I quote, ‘wake him up, then.’” Marcel kept his face neutral.

“Very well. Show her into the living room. And Marcel? Do ensure the blinds are closed.” Antoine didn’t want to be squinting at her.

“Of course, sir.” The old retainer bowed and closed the door behind him.

Antoine shook his head as he rose and pulled on his dressing gown, belting the sash around his waist. Never before had he known a chattel willingly seek out a vampire.

Hell, he’d never met a chattel who had accepted the existence of vampires—not one that had been alive five minutes later.

Yet with such a comment to Marcel, she was clearly signaling that she knew—or, at least, suspected—what he was.

She had seen him feed on Minh, and they had hardly been circumspect in their language. They’d mentioned vampires, thralls, even the Code. Perhaps she more than merely suspected.

What sort of foolish chattel would seek out such an encounter? Did she expect to walk away without consequence?

Antoine reapplied his glamour—it would not do to meet the woman with pale skin and inhuman red eyes—then made his way down the stairs.

He arrived in the living room as Marcel showed the woman in through the other door.

She was taller than he remembered, slender and beautiful, those gray eyes as striking as before.

She wore simple clothing—a hoodie and jeans.

He approved. Simple and functional, and they did little to hide her lithe form.

One hand was in the hoodie’s kangaroo pocket, her other gripping the strap of her backpack tightly enough to whiten her knuckles.

She held herself as though she feared nothing, but it was an illusion: he could smell her fear, like a tantalizing, delicate spice on the air.

He had to resist the urge to extend his fangs.

She had come anyway, even though she was afraid. It raised many questions.

“Ms. Davis, I presume?”

She gave him a slow once-over, taking in his dressing gown. “It’s the middle of the afternoon. Did you have a late night?”

His lips twitched. “Yes, I did, actually.” He pulled one hand from the pocket of his robe and gestured toward a chair. “Would you care for a drink? Marcel?”

“Would you care for a drink?” she shot back. She pulled the collar of her hoodie away from her vulnerable throat, tilting her head to one side. For a fraction of a second, she hesitated—then, jaw tightening, lifted her chin in defiance. Her eyes remained locked on his, anger in their gray depths.

He could only stare in amazement. She held her position a few feet away, her neck extended most alluringly.

Did she know what she was doing, presenting herself in such a way? Surely, she must. Somehow, she had deduced that he had fed from her before—even though she couldn’t possibly have seen him that night.

She was rash. Foolish. Intriguing.

“Marcel,” he said, not taking his eyes off her. “Open some of the ’ 76 Margaux for our guest, if you would be so kind.”

“Of course, sir.” The elderly retainer closed the door behind him.

Antoine moved toward his usual chair—the wing-backed antique beside the fireplace, which well suited the room’s décor.

He seated himself, folding his dressing gown carefully across his bare legs before crossing one knee over the other.

She had hardly moved, merely turning to keep her eyes on him, but she had released her collar and straightened her posture.

“Why don’t you sit down?” He waved toward the matching chair Marcel usually used.

Cally glared at him, lips tight, jaw clenched. Then she moved to the chair, letting her backpack fall from her shoulder to rest on the carpet beside her feet. She sat stiffly, her hand still within the kangaroo pocket, radiating disapproval .

Antoine fought to keep his face straight; she didn’t look like she’d appreciate him laughing, but she was so full of righteous indignation that it was tough.

He rested his elbows on the arms of the chair and steepled his fingers. “Why are you here?”

Her chin came up with a stubborn tilt. “I could just as easily ask you why you came to the police station and intervened.”

So, she had deduced that too. Interesting. “Would you have preferred I didn’t?”

“So you admit you did.”

“You’re welcome, since you mention it.”

“You want me to express my gratitude for bailing me out of a situation I was only in because of you?” She sniffed. “I hope you’re immortal, because you’ll be waiting a while.”

This time he did smile. The most entertaining visitor he’d had since… well, he didn’t get visitors.

“Something amusing to you, Vampire?”

Marcel chose then to return with a tray, bearing an open bottle of Margaux and a crystal glass.

Cally glared at Antoine in silence while Marcel crossed the room, until the old retainer drew near. She looked up at him. “Are you a vampire too?”

“No, madam, I am not,” Marcel set the tray on the table and poured her a glass. “Would you care for anything else?”

“No,” she replied tersely, then added more politely, “thank you.”

“Of course, madam.” Marcel bowed slightly and left, closing the door once more.

“My name is Antoine.”

“What?”

“Antoine. My name. Not ‘vampire.’”

“I know. I also know Anthony Du Pont is an alias, given your ‘dad’ and your ‘grandfather’ had the same name. Subtle,” she added scathingly. “How have you never been found out before now?”

“What makes you think I haven’t been? What do you think happens to young women who turn up at my house, unannounced?”

“We both know they never do.”

“One did today,” he said, pointedly.

“Yeah? Well, she’s here for a reason.” Her glare was back. “You’ve marked me. Whatever it is, I want it gone, and you’re going to do it.”

That was interesting. She shouldn’t have been able to tell .

He affected an expression of polite curiosity. “Why would I do that?”

“Because I want it gone! I can feel it inside me.”

She certainly shouldn’t have been able to feel anything. “Elaborate for me. What can you feel?”

“I can feel your fucking mark, okay? I get this… squirming in my stomach whenever I see you. Whenever I think of you, I feel a pull toward you. It’s like we’re connected, and it’s freaking me out.”

He tilted his head and regarded her. The pull was accurately described, so she could truly feel it. On the other hand, the stomach sensation had nothing to do with it, and was presumably her own physiological reaction to him.

Antoine wondered at its cause. It wasn’t fear; he’d smell it if it were. While there was a faint hint of that spicy scent, it wasn’t strong—like she knew he was dangerous, but didn’t think he’d hurt her. He couldn’t understand why she was so sure, even though she wasn’t wrong.

So, not fear. Loathing? That much was obvious, which he supposed was no great surprise. She’d said ‘squirming’, though, and that didn’t seem to fit. An intriguing mystery, but he was letting himself get distracted.

Far more important was the connection of which she spoke.

It shouldn’t have been possible; he’d never heard of such a thing.

The mark must be significantly more powerful than he’d intended if it was working bilaterally—but then, he’d marked her right after feeding from Minh, when he hadn’t fully grasped how much more powerful he’d become.

If that were the reason for it, then it was only by luck that he hadn’t done her some damage—somehow, the power of the mark had made it two-way, instead of frying her brain and turning her into a mindless, fixated zombie. Worse than a thrall.

She was waiting for his response, and her glare hadn’t lessened. It made her gray eyes even more beautiful.

He chose to play ignorant, buying himself time. “A pull, you say? Is that how you were able to find my house?”

“No, Vampire—”

“Antoine,” he interjected a polite reminder.

“No, Antoine .” He’d rarely heard so much venom in a single word. His lips twitched in response, and her glare only intensified. “It wasn’t hard to find you. I googled you, okay? Have you heard of the internet?”

“I once fed on a computer scientist,” he said airily. “Does that count?”

Her jaw clenched. “Is that your idea of humor?”

He shrugged. “Why have you come here, Cally? ”

“I told you. I want this mark gone.”

“It’s not something that can be removed.” Because I’m not going to remove it.

“Find a way,” she said through gritted teeth.

“There is no way,” he replied. She’d come here with demands; what would she do with a flat ‘no’?

She pulled her hand from her pocket, revealing a small, modern-looking torch—black, with a purple lens and matching switch. She pointed it at him, the device off but her finger hovering over the button. “That’s not acceptable.”

“It’s permanent.” Antoine watched her closely, intrigued to see what she’d do. “The only way to remove it is to kill me.” Probably. He didn’t actually know what happened to marked chattel when their vampires died. It had never come up.

“If that’s what it takes.” Her thumb rested on the purple switch.

She hadn’t yet pressed it. Was she reluctant to kill him, or simply hesitant to kill in general? She couldn’t harm him, of course, but it was entertaining watching her while she thought she could. When was the last time he had so much fun?

“Do you think your torch will hurt me?”

“You fed from me—don’t try to deny it. You fucking fed from me, and you called me ‘food.’ Didn’t you?”

“Yes, I fed from you. Though technically, it was Minh who called you ‘food.’”