In the Garden of Sin (28 page)

“Are all the guests couples?” Doug asked.

“Oh, no,” Lili said. “In fact, most are individuals, subs or doms from all over the world. Some of them come every year, others will be newbies, like you guys. We try to choose people who seem like they’ll really get into the spirit of the thing.”

“It’s not just enthusiasm, though,” Elic said. “The subs are chosen in large part on the basis of looks. We like them to be real knockouts, like Nicky here.”

Nicky ducked her head bashfully, smiling up at the preternaturally handsome Elic, who had done things to her that night that had her screaming in transports of pleasure, pain, and delicious humiliation. While she was bent over the library steps, he came not once but twice, without pulling out in between, and over the course of the next few hours, he had, by Turek’s count, another eight orgasms—but always in Nicky. He brought Lili off by hand a couple of times and with his mouth once—while Turek masturbated again, imagining himself in Elic’s place—but Elic never had sex with her, not regular intercourse. Was it possible Elic was that rare type of Follet who could mate only with humans?

“It’s not just the serving wenches who have to be beautiful,” Lili said. “Back when aristocratic households employed fleets of footmen, they were almost always very tall and very handsome. It was a kind of status symbol.”

And why not?
thought Turek, who had never met a status symbol he didn’t like.

“Just so I know what we’re getting into,” Doug said, “are we talking a strictly hetero kind of a deal here, or…?”

Elic shook his head. “Anything goes, but the subs get a say in who gets access to them. They let us know when they arrive what kind of livery or uniform they want. Green means they’re only available to a dom of the opposite sex, gold means same sex, and a combination of the two colors means it’s all good. That’s the only choice they’re given in what happens to them during the festival. After that, they’re at the mercy of their superiors. If they’re pleasing and accommodating, they might be rewarded with extra rations of food or some other little gratuity. If they misbehave, however, we’ve got all kinds of spanking benches and whipping stools and the like. They usually set those up in the courtyard. And we’ve got a bona fide torture chamber stocked with some very interesting instruments of punishment.”

“Seriously?” asked Nicky, wide-eyed.

Oblivious to the fact that his “slave” had spoken out of turn, Doug said, “Holy fuck, a torture chamber. Now,
that’s
what I’m talking about.”

“Only one dom at a time gets to use it,” Elic said, “so it has to be reserved in advance, but it’s a very popular feature.”

Lili reminded Elic to give the other couple their “cards of entrée,” whereupon he produced two thin, flat little metallic devices from the pocket of his robe. “I’ll give each of you one in case you end up traveling separately,” he said. “These will serve as your proof of invitation, and they’re also your only means of finding Château de la Grotte Cachée, so don’t lose them. They’re custom-designed, dedicated GPS units loaded with one set of directions only, from Aulnat Airport in the
Auvergne region of France to the château. The program is such that you can’t even view the directions until the satellites have detected that you’re at the airport. Once you’re there next Friday, rent a car, turn this puppy on, and let it guide you to our front door—at which point you will be obliged to surrender it to the gentleman guarding the gatehouse. Not that it would do you much good to hang on to it. The directions are programmed to self-destruct after a certain amount of time.”

“Why all the double-oh-seven, cloak-and-dagger bullshit?” Doug asked.

Elic smiled evenly. “Like I said, we value our privacy.”

When Nicky and Doug finally took their leave, Turek waited until they were half a block away, with Lili and Elic safely ensconced in their house, to climb down the fire escape and tail them. They fiddled with the GPS “cards” as they headed east on St. Mark’s, Doug telling Nicky—Turek could just make out their conversation—that she should give him her card to hold on to.

“Nuh-uh,” she said, tucking it in a pocket of her blazer. “He gave it to
me.”

“Yeah, but everything that’s given to you is automatically mine. And if you back-talk me one more time tonight, or fail to address me as ‘master,’ I’m gonna—”

“Can we give it a rest, Doug?” She unbuckled the pink collar and thrust it at him. “Just till tomorrow morning? It’s been a long night, my contacts are extra crispy, and my pussy feels like it’s been Roto-Rootered.”

Wrapping the leash around the collar, Doug shoved it inside his suit coat, along with the card. “I didn’t notice you complaining when ol’ Elic was snaking you out.”

“You had to go there,” she groaned, scrubbing her hands over her temples. “I fucking knew you’d go there. May I remind you that letting them take us back to their place was
your
idea…
master?”
With an amused little snort, she added, “Probably the best idea you ever had, though.”

“How come you never scream like that when I—”

“Trust me, Doug, you don’t want me to answer that.”

“What the fuck does that mean?”

“Think about it—with the
big
head this time.”

They kept on in that tedious vein for a couple more blocks, until Doug paused to peer up and down the street, scowling; Turek crouched behind the front stoop of a brownstone.

“We’re never gonna get a cab at this hour,” Doug said as they continued on. “I haven’t seen a single one pass by.”

Pointing, Nicky said, “That’s Tompkins Square Park up ahead. We can catch the Fourteen-A, and that’ll take us—”

“The
what?”

“The Fourteen-A. It’s a bus that runs along—”

“I know what it is. I’m not taking any fucking bus.”

“Oh, for Christ’s sake. What—you’re worried you’ll get cooties all over your precious new Brioni Big Boy suit?

Brioni
, Turek thought.
I knew it
.

“You think a bus is gonna come at this hour?” Doug asked.

“Some of them run all night, and most of the others start up at five a.m.”

“Yeah, and you know who rides them in the middle of the fucking night? Fucking muggers and rapists, that’s who.”

Doug continued protesting the idea as they crossed Avenue A and headed north along the sidewalk abutting the park, a heavily treed oasis bordered by a wrought-iron fence. Turek scanned the street in all directions as he darted across it, careful to stay out of their line of sight. There wasn’t a soul to be seen, aside from Nicky and Doug, either on the street or in the park, and almost no traffic.

Their bickering escalated as they drew up to an L-shaped, glass-walled bus shelter, with Nicky suggesting they wait for
the 14-A and Doug insisting they keep walking uptown in the hope of catching a cab. A streetlamp stood nearby, worse luck, but trees shadowed the shelter itself.

“I’m not getting on any grimy, third-world, fast-food-smelling, diesel-farting public bus, you stupid fucking cunt,” Doug growled as Turek, sidling up along the wrought-iron fence, wrapped his scarf around his nose and mouth. For good measure, he put on his glasses, which had big, thick tortoise-shell frames that would help to hide his face. Were he not desperate for a second chance with Lili, he wouldn’t dream of pulling a stunt like this. Galiana would go ballistic if she knew what he was up to.

He slid his switchblade out of his pocket and thumbed the button. The blade popped out like a fang.

“Don’t call me a cunt, you fucking asshole,” snapped Nicky, fists propped on her hips as she faced Doug down beneath the shelter.

“Don’t call me an asshole, you fucking cunt.”

“Go fuck yourself!” she screeched, drowning out Turek’s “Get your hands up, motherfuckers” as he strode toward them, the knife gleaming in his outstretched hand.

“No,
you
fuck yourself, Nicky!” Doug bellowed, prodding her chest with his finger. “Some fucking slave, telling her master to—”

“Some fucking master, whining like a little bitch ’cause he’s scared to get on the bus with all the boogiemen and—”

“Will you both just shut the fuck up and put your fucking hands in the air?”
Turek yelled.
“Do it!”

They looked him up and down as they slowly raised their arms, taking in the switchblade, the metrosexual finery, the funky glasses and silken bandito scarf. And then there was his to-the-manner-born British accent. Not your basic
Law & Order
breed of mugger.

“Give me the cards,” Turek demanded, holding out his hand as he gestured with the knife.

“Cards?” Doug said.

“The cards of entrée, those GPS things. Give them to me. And your belt,” he told Doug. “The king cobra belt. I want that, too.”

Doug and Nicky exchanged a
What-the-fuck?
look.

“Now!” Turek pointed the knife toward Doug. “Yours first.”

“You’ve got to be shitting me.” Doug, seemingly uncowed by the knife, made no move to comply.

“You think I won’t cut you?” Turek snarled. “You really don’t want to be playing that hand, mate.”

Doug said, “I get it. You’re some pissant Limey actor who thinks he’s Olivier reincarnated, but the casting agents aren’t seeing it that way, and now you’re two months behind on your big, fat New York City rent, and you’d rather mug honest American citizens than wait tables or tend bar. Sorry,
mate
, but I’m really not buying what you’re selling, so why don’t you take your little stage knife and—”

“Stage knife?” Turek leapt forward and slashed the knife across Doug’s throat, incising a thin red line that flung crimson spatters onto the glass wall of the shelter. “What’s that, then?
Stage blood?”

Nicky shrieked. Doug grabbed his throat and slumped to the ground. From his gurgling wheezes, it would seem that Turek had succeeded in lacerating his larynx and thus silencing the
dummes arschloch
at least temporarily, and quite possibly for good; what became of him was of zero interest to Turek. None of the major arteries appeared to have been severed, though; if they had, the blood would have been pump-pump-pumping from him, not just seeping between his fingers in puny little trickles.

Puny they may have been, but the sight of that blood, and
its warm, sticky-metallic aroma, caused Turek’s mouth to water, his gums to throb. Were he not in such a godawful hurry to get those damn cards and split before some early riser glanced out his window and called the cops, he might have wrested the felled man’s hands from his throat and lapped at the oozing wound with beastlike relish.

“Oh, my God!” Nicky wailed as Turek knelt to flip open Doug’s suit coat. “You killed him! Oh, my God!”

From the inside coat pocket, he pulled a kidskin wallet and the card of entrée. He tossed the former aside and tucked the latter into his own back jeans pocket. He unbuckled the cobra belt and yanked it free, then stood and flashed the bloody switchblade at Nicky, cowering in the corner of the shelter.

“Give me your card,” he ordered.
“Now.”
Best to take both cards, even though he would only need one; God forbid this little nit should show up at the château while he was there. Even if he dyed his hair darker, she would recognize him sooner or later, if only by his voice. Actually, now that he thought about it, leaving her alive would be a pretty dumb move. He could easily run into her again at Tethers or one of the other clubs. A quick jab to the jugular as he took the card from her, and then he should finish Doug off, as well.

Raising one trembling hand as if to ward him off, Nicky slipped a hand inside her blazer and withdrew a small black canister attached to a key ring.

“Sheisse!”
Turek spun around fast enough to avoid a direct blast to the face, but he still found himself enveloped by a scorching haze of pepper spray. Despite the glasses and scarf, his eyes snapped shut and his lungs seized up. He yanked the scarf off his mouth and ran blindly, only to slam into the streetlamp, the switchblade and belt hitting the sidewalk. He fumbled around for them, his eyes tearing, his skin scalded, snot and saliva dripping down his face.

From behind him, he heard Nicky’s quavering voice. “Yeah, I’m at a bus shelter on Avenue A between St. Mark’s and East Ninth. Me and my boyfriend just got mugged, and he cut my boyfriend’s throat, and—”

“Gottverdammt,”
Turek hissed as he shoved the knife into his jeans pocket and started running, hating that he had to leave that kick-ass belt, his eyes slitted open, hacking like a consumptive. She’d called 911. Fucking cell phones. Fucking pepper spray. Used to be, human women were easy pickings. What was
happening
to the world?

Turek may not have had Galiana’s physical prowess, but he was still a vampire with six hundred eighty years under his belt. When he needed to, as he did now, he could run as fast as an Olympic sprinter, and then some. He could leap fences, scuttle up brick walls… He could, and did, disappear into the vast, urban night as sirens howled in the increasingly remote distance. Along the way, he stripped off the all-too-identifiable scarf, glasses, and jacket, tossing each into a different Dumpster. He tossed his contacts, as well, which helped a little with the eye irritation.

Thanks to his speedy vampiric healing processes, by the time he made it to the Upper East Side penthouse he shared with Galiana, the skin inflammation had settled down considerably. He was hardly coughing at all, and although his eyes still felt as if someone had rubbed ground glass in them, they were no longer threatening to swell shut.

Turek unlocked the apartment door, thinking they really should get state-of-the-art locks like at Penumbra Court, and opened it as slowly and silently as he could. He took off his shoes, wanting to avoid waking Galiana—thereby bypassing her inevitable interrogation—if she was already asleep, but she wasn’t. He had a good view of the living room as he stepped into the foyer. She was lounging at the far end of the
sprawling room on her black leather Barcelona chair, one of Mies van der Rohe’s 1929 originals, valued at six figures if she were to sell it to a museum, which would happen when they were snowboarding in Hell.