Haunted Honeymoon (10 page)

Wil stopped walking and turned to me. A lamp overhead illuminated his sexy, kohl-lined eyes. “Milagro, I don’t think you’re a screwup. What Graham said is true—we’ve all heard the stories, and I think you’re unbelievable.”

It was like a first date before I changed. One of those dates where there’s a lot of sexual tension and deliberately accidental touching and I was with some really hot guy, and my engine was revving, and the night was ours and we hadn’t fought over something stupid yet.

Wil wasn’t some depraved aristovamp and he wasn’t a workaholic whose parents hated me. He was just a lovely, lovely boy.

Putting his arms around me, Wil drew me to him. “Am I risking my life by doing this?”

“You haven’t done anything yet,” I said, teasing, but I was thinking,
Goddamn Ian Ducharme can go to hell.

Wil’s kiss was firm and hungry. His touch was exciting because it was new. I kissed him back, but when his hand went under my sweater, I pushed it away and said, “You’re not going to bang me against the wall in an alley, Wilcox Spiggott.”

He grinned and said, “Bummer. That’s one of my specialities. Let’s go dancing.” He took my hand and pulled me forward until we reached the rear entrance of a building. Wil looked up and gave a wave. I followed his gaze to see a security camera directed toward us.

There was a loud
click-click
sound and then the huge steel door edged open. A massive bald man dressed in a dark suit said, “Evening, Mr. Spiggott. Who’s your friend?”

“Milagro from California and the Grant family. I vouch for her.”

The man nodded, opened the door for us, and said, “Good evening.”

“Hi,” I said.

Wil and I walked into a dingy hall.

“You don’t have to tell everyone who I am,” I whispered.

“But you’re a celebrity.”

“Only by virtue of not dying. That’s not much of an accomplishment.”

Wil led me through carved wooden doors to a luxurious lounge with a vast Oriental carpet, furniture covered in watered yellow silk, and dark green leather armchairs. Pale, elegant people were chatting over glasses of red drinks.

This civilized scene made me deeply regret rejecting a hookup in the alley. “There’s dancing here?”

“Downstairs.”

We walked through a busy dining room, past the clanging noises of a kitchen, and down narrow stone stairs that were so old the steps were worn concave. When we reached a long, dark corridor, Wil took my arm.

“I can see in almost total darkness,” I said.

“Then you can lead me,” he said, and pulled my arm closer.

“How old are you?” I asked.

“Twenty-six, though I look twelve.”

“You don’t look twelve. You look like a really mature eighteen-year-old.” I liked that Wil was close to my age.

We reached the end of the hall and I heard the thumping of music. There was the soft whirr of security cameras above the stainless steel double doors. When the door opened, music and heat hit me in a blast. A hulking wrestler of a man in a skintight black T-shirt and black jeans stood in front of us. “Wil!” he shouted above the din.

“Jonesy,” Wil said, then tipped his head toward me. “This is Mil, my friend.”

The doorman waved us into the crowded club. Silver foil wallpaper reflected light from ornate red chandeliers. The band onstage squalled an unholy Euro-emo-electronic pop mix that actually kind of worked. Wil led me through the mass of bodies, yelling out to pals, grabbing a spliff from a girl and inhaling deeply. He tried to pass it to me.

“Don’t waste it on me,” I yelled into his ear. “I’m immune to altering substances.” I was so fascinated by a man sitting on a red velvet throne set on a raised dais that I almost tripped. I was even more fascinated with an eight-foot-wide box half filled with thick, dark red liquid and set atop a tall platform.

We made our way to the other side of the room, where tables lined the wall, and sat with a group of Wil’s friends.

“This is Mil,” he said.

“Wil and Mil,” one said, and waved to the waiter.

“Who’s that?” I asked Wil as I looked toward the man on the throne. The man had straight black hair and a look of satisfaction.

“The king.” To one of his friends, Wil said, “How’d that wanker get to be king?”

“You have a king?” I asked Wil. “No wonder you’re working toward a more egalitarian society. Royalty is so Dark Ages.”

Everyone at the table started laughing.

“Excuse me for having a more enlightened view of the class system,” I said.

“He’s
not
the king of the vampires,” Wil said, grinning. “We’ve got a running lottery and the winner gets to be king or queen for a night and choose the DJ and such. The money goes to a charity of your choice, and that arse is always sending it to the damned Windmills Trust.”

“I love windmills. Save the windmills!” a sexy girl with long red curls said. Her name was Nettie, and after we shouted at each other over the music about shops I should visit, she looked at me, winked an eye with silver shadow and glitter mascara, and said, “Would you fancy a blood wrestle?”

Which is how I found myself wearing a too-small flesh-colored bikini in a Plexiglas cube filled with strawberry-flavored fake blood. Grappling with a slick, laughing girl while a club full of vampires and their friends shouted was even more fun than I thought it would be.

And if we yanked each other’s tops off, and squished our breasts against the Plexi walls and then seductively licked fake blood off each other, it was because we were, at heart, people-pleasers.

And if the gossipy vampires got word back to Ian that I was having a wild time without him, then all the better. I’d made the mistake of caring for him, but he’d made the mistake of thinking that I would be laissez-faire about his philandering.

After our show, Nettie took me to a gym-sized shower room adjacent to the main club.

“This is a huge shower room for a nightclub,” I said.

“We use it for the
Blade
party the first Saturday of every month,” she said. “We pass out the X, put mixes of New Order’s ‘Confusion’ on a loop, and dance. The lads in their Speedos are a glorious sight when blood rains down. We got the idea from the movie. You must come.”

“I have to get back before that. I’ve got writing projects and deadlines. But next time I visit, I’ll come.”

“Cool,” Nettie said. “May I ask something?”

“Sure.”

“What
are
you? You drank a blood cocktail, but your tan looks as real as those lovelies.”

“Oh, I’ve just got a few quirks,” I said. “What about you?”

“My family’s been in service to the Family for generations,” she said. “My parents are rather stodgy, but there’s a lot of fun to be had with the vamps.”

“There can be.”

“So you and Wil?” Nettie asked, but it wasn’t really a question. “I went out with him. Girl of the Month and the occasional boy. Well, that’s our Wil. So irresistible.”

“I’m impressed by his activism,” I said, “but I just met him. He’s only showing me the town.”

“Well, if anything else should happen, he loves a firm-minded girl who can take charge, if you catch my meaning.”

“Sure.” I liked Nettie even though she didn’t seem to have a grasp of anything more serious than the next party. I knew this
because she invited us to hang out with her friends on a houseboat the following night.

She said, “It’s my going-away party. I plan to get completely mental. Then I’m off to Canada for an assignment.”

My rule was: Always participate in cultural experiences when invited by fun chicks. “Fabulous. I’ll tell Wil.”

In the club, Wil was on the burnt side of toasted and berating the King of Vampires by the bar.

“Windmills, windmills, fucking, windmills again!”

The king grabbed me, saying, “It’s good to be king!”

I pushed him away and Wil said to him, “Shove off. She’s Ian Ducharme’s.”

The king-for-a-night looked as if he’d reached into a mailbox and found a rattlesnake. “Shit! Sorry!”

“Wil doesn’t know what he’s talking about,” I said. “Wil, you’re hammered. Time to call it a night.”

I dragged my escort up to the main club. A porter asked if we’d like a car to take us home. Wil leaned on me heavily as I helped him down the alley.

It had rained while we were inside, and the air smelled of possibility. But no possibilities with Wil in this condition. An inconspicuous gray Vauxhall arrived at the end of the alley just as we did.

The driver got out and opened the back door. “Where to, miss? Oh, you’ve got Mr. Spiggott there. Let’s get him home.”

I folded Wil into the car and got in. I said, “Would you mind dropping me off at my hotel first, or do you think I should go with him and get him inside his place?”

“No worries, miss. It’s my pleasure to see that he’s taken care of,” the man said, making me remember the way that Ian’s thrall, Mrs. K, had spoken. “I’ll deliver him to his houseman safely.”

I wondered if a houseman was the same as a doorman. I gave
the driver my hotel address and gazed out the window at the beautiful old buildings. The shining black streets reflected blue, red, and yellow neon lights.

When the car pulled up to the hotel, I thanked the driver and gave a last look at Wil, who was snoring as he slumped against the door. He was sweet to take me out, but I’d have to tell him that I didn’t need babysitting.

I went to my room and stared out the window at the thousands of city lights. Here, across the ocean and a continent, I felt safe from my feelings for one man who had promised to love me forever and another who had offered me only pleasure, never love.

six
Bite Me, Spank Me,
Make Me Bite Your Neck

I awoke to the ringing of my phone. I was still on West Coast time and mumbled a sleepy hello.

“Wil here. I’m in the lobby.”

“I’ll be down in twenty minutes.”

A hot shower revived me. I put on a mulberry cotton tunic with a ruffled neckline, black leggings, garnet suede ankle boots, and a clatter of black Bakelite bracelets. I wore my hair loose and finished my makeup with dramatic ruby lipstick.

I took my pink trench coat and handbag in case Wil wanted to go for coffee.

My new friend was standing by the staircase, wearing slim jeans, a gray T-shirt, and a black wool reefer jacket. His hands were in his pockets, and his long streaked hair was wet and brushed straight back. He grinned when he saw me.

“You do realize that it’s the middle of the night for me,” I said. “You look as fresh as a daisy.”

“I’ve come to take you to breakfast.”

“Don’t you have to work?”

“I took the day off,” he said as we went outside. “I was worried that you might get trapped in one of those dull bus tours. ‘Here is where prisoners were hung from the infamous Tyburn Tree! To your left you will see a statue of beloved Peter Pan!’”

Laughing, I said, “But I
want
to see the sights.”

“I’ll give you a proper tour,” he promised. “Do you mind walking?”

“It’s one of my favorite things.”

Wil did give me a proper tour, pointing out historical and architectural sites. We had breakfast at a bright, light-filled restaurant on the edge of an ancient market by the Thames. The waiter recognized Wil, who didn’t look at the menu. “Give us the special and something to take the edge off, would you?”

“I’ll expedite your order, sir,” the waiter said.

Looking around at the hip clientele, I said, “I thought you were going to drag me to another basement.”

Smiling, he said, “Our people could survive underground for years if things go all to shit. One hopes they won’t. We’ve adapted very well within this city, which is why so many of us live here.” He tipped his chin toward the glass wall. “These windowpanes filter out UV rays.”

“Now you sound like the somber person I expected to meet,” I said. “Wil, it was so sweet of you to take me out last night, but I hate to drag you away from your important obligations.”

He reached out and twined his slim fingers between mine. I didn’t pull away until the waiter returned with tall red drinks.

“
Bloody
Marys,” the waiter said, and in a lower voice, he added, “Brown Cow organic beef.”

When he’d left, Wil lifted his drink to me and said, “To our friendship, Mil.”

“May it last long,” I said, and we both sipped our spicy, salty drinks.

His hand went to mine again. “I’ve wanted to meet you ever since I heard about you. Bonus that you’re an exhibitionist.”

“I’m not!” I said, and then remembered incidents that might be seen as exhibitionistic if taken out of context. “Not usually.”

“I like it,” he said. “Lucky Ducharme.”

“I’m here with
you
now, Wil.” As I looked into Wil’s pretty hazel eyes, I wondered if Ian was with Cricket now while Ford watched. “So why is the Council irked with you?”

“If our kind live equally among Normals, the Council becomes irrelevant. Those dusty bastards aren’t going to willingly relinquish their power and the wealth that goes with it.”

I swirled the carrot stick in my drink. “Are things so different here that you’re ready to safely come out?”

“No, but we can organize and establish relationships with key contacts. We do that with the Bloody Good Table, our clubs, our business alliances.”

“How fab that you incorporate your activism with your social life,” I said. “A lot of activists back home are deadly serious.”

“You Americans are like that. Look at the way you treat sex—schoolgirl giggles and Puritan moralizing. Sex is
just
sex.”

“Sex is never
just
sex,” I said. “Oh, God, did I actually say that? Please ignore it.”

The waiter delivered our plates and said to me, “It’s an update of the traditional English breakfast with black pudding, what you call blood sausage, free-range eggs with shaved black truffle poached in an heirloom tomato sauce, organic red lentils, and whole grain cranberry bread with red currant jam. Enjoy.” He left us to our meal.

I dug in, saying, “Everything is so organic this and heirloom
that. I had no idea that you were such foodies.” A minute later, I said, “Why did the waiter explain what black pudding is?”