“No.” Angling his head in her direction as they turned toward the throaty sound of a jazz singer coming from the left, he said, “They’ll assume I have you in my bed.”
13
Closer, the singer’s voice tangled with the music of soft conversation. The voices were elegant, cultured . . . just like the ones she’d heard in the basement. “I know,” she said, determined not to let this drive her back into the dark, “but since you have a reputation for enjoying pain, I’m sure they won’t be surprised if I give in to the need to stab you.”
A gleam of laughter in those eyes so dark and old, but he said nothing as they walked through the doorway into what appeared to be a very genteel bar, complete with a chanteuse in a glittery green dress on a low stage to the side. The lighting was soft, the groupings of tables intimate, the clientele dressed in immaculate formal clothing. “A bit early for cocktails.”
“Or very late,” Dmitri answered. “Time means little here.”
All the men and women in her line of sight were old enough that vampirism had worked its magic, honing their looks to a level of beauty only possessed by the rare mortal. “I expected . . .” In truth, she’d never thought that much about Erotique, but what she had heard focused on an aspect that was missing here. “The dancers?”
“In another section,” Dmitri told her. “There’s an entire floor below us, as well as a number of other more intimate areas similar to this one.”
“Dmitri.” A stunning woman in a clinging black dress that reached her ankles and showcased her assets with sensual elegance crossed the room to them, her steps quick. “I didn’t know you were coming or we’d have set up a private room for you and your guest.”
“Get us that corner table, Dulce.” His voice was that of a man who expected instant obedience. “Champagne. And find Illium.”
The barest flicker of . . . something on the perfect bones of Dulce’s face, gone as fast as it had appeared. “Yes, of course.”
Honor saw the couple already at the corner table move with alacrity when they saw the hostess heading toward them. There was more than a little fear in their movements. Aware that vampires of a certain age had preternatural hearing, she leaned up to speak against Dmitri’s ear. With any other man, any other vampire, she’d have been close to throwing up by now . . . but whatever inexplicable alchemy existed between her and Dmitri, it allowed her to breathe in his scent, say, “Do you keep them afraid on purpose?”
His hand only just brushed her lower back. “Means I have to execute fewer of them.”
She didn’t say anything else until they were seated and Dulce had melted away after serving the champagne. “Dulce isn’t human.” It had been the eyes that had given her away. An intense deep purple, jewel bright against raven black hair. No human had eyes that color—and the contact lenses hadn’t been invented that could mimic that kind of otherworldly beauty.
“No. She manages Erotique, has done so for the past ten years.” A raised eyebrow. “You didn’t think I’d be greeted by anyone less than the manager, did you, Honor?”
She didn’t take the bait. “Why are we here?”
“Look in the corner diagonally opposite.”
Following his gaze, she saw a tall, sandy-haired vampire with a curvy brunette in his lap. Neither had noted Dmitri’s arrival—and the reason why was clear. The vampire’s pale hand lay on the shimmering silver of the woman’s ankle-length gown, dangerously close to the full curves of her breasts, his lips nuzzling the long line of her throat. They both went motionless an instant later, and then the vampire was feeding, his throat muscles moving, as the brunette threw back her head in silent orgasm.
Honor’s hand clenched around the champagne flute in front of her. Scanning the room, she realized more than one vampire was feeding—and they weren’t all male. An ethereally lovely woman with Hispanic features was stroking her hands into the hair of a slender blond male, the crystal blue sharpness of her nails dramatic points against his skin as she wrenched him down to feed just above the pulse point in his neck.
“I thought,” she said, throat dry, “this was a club, not a feeding orgy.”
Dmitri’s laugh was a rope of fur twining around her senses. “So innocent, Honor.” He took a sip of his champagne. “Some vampires come here because they know they’ll find a willing partner should they need one, partners who know what to expect. But most of the others are lovers indulging in a little harmless exhibitionism.”
Obviously noting her gaze on the female vampire, he said, “That’s Amalia. She likes them young—but he’s legal, adult enough to make a choice.” There was something in that statement, something old and buried and so angry.
“You’re watching the vampire with the attractive brunette,” she said, knowing that even if Dmitri did get her into bed, that’s all it would ever be—sex. Erotic, sinful, dangerous sex, but nothing beyond a physical coupling. No secrets would be shared, no bonds forged. “Why?”
“That is Evert Markson. Tommy’s best friend.”
Her head jerked up. “You knew he was going to be here.”
“Evert has the rather distasteful habit of feeding at Erotique on a regular basis.”
It was hard not to stare at Markson, but she kept her attention on Dmitri. “You just told me vampires come here to feed.”
“Only now and then, when they don’t have a regular lover or donor. Perhaps if they are visiting from out of town.” He placed his champagne flute on the table. “The reason Evert needs to feed at Erotique is that he hurts his lovers so badly that not even the worst of the groupies will go near him now. The hostesses here only acquiesce on the condition that he feeds in public, where he can be monitored.”
Heart in her throat, Honor looked back at the brunette in Markson’s arms, seeing what she’d missed earlier—the shallow breaths, the white lines bracketing full lips pursed tight. “She’s not orgasming, is she?” The urge to get up and tear the vampire off the other woman had every muscle in her body tense to breaking point.
“He’s making it hurt.”
“Dmitri”—releasing the fragile stem of her own flute before she broke it—“if he’s Tommy’s best friend, then . . .”
“Yes. Exactly.” His gaze shifted to the doorway. “Bluebell’s here.”
The silver filaments in Illium’s wings caught the light as he walked over. The women in the room—and more than a few men—went motionless, watching his progress with eyes full of wonder and want.
Anger, a bright, sharp thing, continued to sing a piercing song in her blood, but she said, “Hello, Illium,” when he grabbed a chair from another table and swiveled it to sit with his arms braced on the back, his amazing wings sloping down to brush the floor.
“Hello, Honor St. Nicholas.” His eyes, those beautiful golden eyes tipped with the most impossible lashes, locked on her. “You look like you want to use a knife on someone’s flesh, watch the blood bead on their skin.”
“Yes,” she admitted, “but I have to wait.”
Illium stole her champagne, took a sip, shuddered. “Never did like that stuff.” Putting the flute back on the table, he turned to Dmitri. “Word is, Tommy’s gone underground because he’s scared of someone. It was before Honor was assigned to the Tower, so it’s not you.”
Dmitri’s eyes never shifted off Evert Markson. “Do me a favor. Fly to Evert’s home and see if you find anything interesting.”
The blue-winged angel left without further conversation.
Beside her, Dmitri smiled and it was a cold, cold smile. She knew who he had in his sights before she turned her head and saw Evert. Swallowing compulsively as he shoved the brunette off his lap without care, his eyes skittered between Dmitri and Honor. The recognition in those eyes was a stabbing confirmation that Tommy had taken his best friend into the game.
When Dmitri did nothing to stop the vampire from leaving, she began to rise. He clamped a hand over her wrist. “Let him stew in his fear, Honor.” Dmitri’s murmur was a brush of silk over her senses. “Evert isn’t as smart as Tommy. I know where he’s going.”