“A show of power?” Her tone remained sharp. “Do you not see the obvious?”
I didn’t know what to say, and couldn’t guess what answer would satisfy her. I couldn’t tell her we were struggling for dominance and defining our roles. I couldn’t explain about being the Lustrata. The risks kept me from confiding in anyone. I longed to talk to Xerxadrea. Or even Nana.
“Get your bath. I’ll be in that room waiting when you are finished.” She left. After the door shut, I heard her mutter, “Foolish woman!”
My skin was scented with rose soap, and my body and hair were wrapped in two of the softest, thickest towels I’d ever touched. The necklace had come off while I soaked, but it was around my neck again, charm under the top of the towel. I didn’t want to take any chances. This evening was the public ceremony and WEC might try something.
I exited the bathing area by the same door Seven had used. The room beyond was candlelit, with a single beauty-salon-style chair centered in a U of granite countertops. To either side sat vases of roses and scented candles. Long garment bags hung from hooks to the right of the door.
Seven sat in that salon seat facing me. As I was clad only in a towel with my hair turbaned up in another, my entire bare neck was on display—fang marks and all. Her eyes were neon bright, focused on the puncture marks. She made small circles with the wine glass in her hand. Dark red fluid swirled in its bowl. “I know what you are,” she said plainly. “And I know why you are being made EV.”
Claiming she knew and actually knowing were two different things. And Seven was shrewd. I was determined not to give up any information, but I decided not to play dumb, either. “And?”
“And!” She flew from the chair and stood before me, panting with anger. The crystal glass trembled in her hand, but she did not spill a drop. “And Isis weeps for me, as I cannot cry out my mourning myself,” she whispered.
I stayed very still. “Why do you mourn?”
“He will not find what he is seeking.”
“What does he seek?” I was pretty sure we were talking about Menessos.
“I have seen him struggling to re-create what came before. It cannot be done.” She inhaled my scent again. Her look of disdain indicated that, in spite of the flowery perfumes, she’d found the fragrance of a fool upon me yet. “I have been the object you are about to become.”
“You were Erus Veneficus?”
“No!” She withdrew from me. “This was before VEIN or its earlier version, before any such hierarchy started trying to brand vampires, before there were peripheral titles or even a parliament!” Shaking her head, she spat the words at me. “Long ago, I was Isis for him. A goddess for him.” She turned away. “It was not enough. And neither will you be.”
Isis? “I’m not trying to be anything but myself. If you did . . .”
“What?” She turned back. “If I did, what?”
“Maybe that was your mistake.”
She hmpfed. “He’s altering and amending you already.” She gestured at the garment bags. “And you cannot resist it.”
“Should I? Shouldn’t I?”
“You cannot be Una!”
Oh, hell. “I’m not trying to be Una!” I’d even told Menessos as much.
“Don’t you understand? That is what he wants! He wants you and the waerewolf to complete the trio he once had!”
Beau’s ritual might bring us close.
Seven sank into the salon chair. “I could not love him as he needed to be loved. I tried. I care for him deeply, but I do not love him as I love Mark . . . never have I loved anyone as I love Mark.”
“Seven, you say that like it means you failed. Loving someone isn’t a failure.”
“And what of not loving someone who deserves it? Of not being able to be what they need you to be?” She stood and tore the fastener from her braid, ripping her fingers through her long, black hair. It fanned out behind her, full and loose, crimped from the twisting. “Do you know who I am?”
I nodded and my voice came soft, “You’re Seven.”
“I was once the Lustrata.”
I gaped at her. She was my predecessor?
“Long ago,” she added.
“You’re a vampire.”
“I am now.” Her tone was rueful. “He could not bear to lose us.”
“Us?”
“Mark and I.” She delayed before continuing. “I failed. Horribly. We both failed him.”
“How?”
Her gaze went downcast. “I grew blinded by my love. My heart wanted to do the right thing.”
For the right reason?
“I was proud. And I was selfish. I could not give up what I had and follow his course. Love blinded me to what must be done.”
“Whatever I have become, I am yet a Greek, Persephone. Like you. I used my position, my power, to achieve what was best for my people. When all I had fought for was lost, my heart was broken and my will shattered. When Mark stood before these eyes again, restored and immortal, my judgment grew clouded. Love led me to make choices for him . . . choices that failed Menessos and the balance of the world.” She fixed those bright irises on me. “You must not fail. Not even for your waerewolf.”
“Then tell me what to do.”
“Love him, Persephone. Love Menessos as he loves you.”
My throat clenched up and nothing would come out, neither would any air go down. Love? She said love? “He doesn’t love me.”
Seven crossed to the door. “Risqué will be here soon to do your hair and makeup.” She left.
I stood there for a full minute, staring at the closed door, hearing “Love Menessos as he loves you” echo over and over in my rattled brain.
Her final words eventually silenced the echo: Risqué was going to do my hair?
CHAPTER TWENTY
I was thinking on what Nana had once told me about there being two previous Lustratas when Risqué came in wearing a slip dress of shiny orange fabric and clear high-heeled shoes. The skirt was so short there was a potential peep show in her every move, and the zippers over her breasts promised one. She should have been at the Playboy Mansion, but it was common knowledge they had something against the not-quite-human. Still, her attire hadn’t surprised me, though the suitcase she carried did.
“Let’s get your hair done first.” She set the case on the counter.
“You know, I can do this myself. You don’t have to go to the trouble.”
She ignored my resistance. “Boss said to make you elegant. Goliath suggested an updo with hanging tendrils. Said he’d seen your hair up at some concert thing and that it suited you.”
“That’s what I’ll do, then.”
“Honey, Boss gave me orders. Not even you can alter them. Now sit down.” She patted the chair and actually smiled. Sort of.
I sat.
The suitcase held all the tools and supplies she needed to make me into a red-carpet statement. She even had a pair of lights; she set them up on the counter first. The next twenty minutes passed blow-drying and hot-rollering my hair. I couldn’t see what she was doing, but she seemed to be an expert hairdresser. “Let’s get your dress taped on now.”
Taped?
“We’ll do your makeup and then I’ll take those rollers out and pin your hair up.”
Although Risqué was on her best behavior—no rudeness or apparent animosity—I still had the distinct impression that she was imagining shoving actual pins into my head like a voodoo doll.
Risqué unzipped the first garment bag and I knew this was going to be bad. She took out a pair of boots, set them to the side, and reached for the next garment bag.