“You could be a little nicer,” Dahlia’s best friend Taffy said reprovingly. “Would it have hurt to you tell the breather how good she was?” Dahlia would have ignored anyone else who ventured to give her advice on her manners, but Taffy was within two hundred years of being as old as Dahlia. They were the oldest vampires in the nest, and their friendship had survived many trials.
Taffy had been practically Amazonian during her lifetime, and she remained an impressive woman even now. Five foot seven and busty, Taffy’s light hair exploded in a tangled halo around her head and fell past her shoulders. Taffy’s husband Don was one of the trials they’d survived, and it was due to Don’s preference that Taffy went heavy on the makeup and tight on the clothes. Don thought that was a mighty fine look on Taffy.
Of course, Don was a werewolf. His taste was dubious, at best.
Taffy waved at Don, who was over by the food table. Werewolves were always hungry, and they could drink alcohol until the cows came home—and then the Weres would eat them. A party with an open bar and a buffet was like heaven to Don and his new enforcer, Bernie. The two Weres were making the most of the opportunity, since politics demanded they be in the vampire nest for Joaquin’s ascension celebration.
Dahlia noticed Don and Bernie casting contemptuous glances at the group of blood donors. Werewolves thought humans who were willing to give blood to vampires were from the bottom of the barrel. Any self-respecting Were would rather have his fur shaved off. Dahlia was sure Don didn’t mind giving Taffy a sip in private . . . at least she hoped that was the case. During Dahlia’s own brief marriage to the previous enforcer, her husband had not been averse to a little nip.
The demons and half-demons huddled together in a corner, and just after a very skinny female said something, they all burst into laughter. Dahlia looked for one half-demon computer geek she knew better than the others. With a frisson of pleasure, she spotted Melponeus’s reddish skin and chestnut curls in the cluster. Their eyes met. The half-demon and Dahlia exchanged personal smiles. They had had some memorable evenings together in Dahlia’s bedroom on the lower level of the mansion. The glitter in Melponeus’s pale eyes told Dahlia that the demon wouldn’t mind a replay.
She might retrieve some pleasure from this dismal evening, after all.
A few creatures Dahlia didn’t recognize were scattered through the crowd. No fairies, of course; vampires loved fairies to death, literally. But there were other creatures of the fae present, and a witch. Joaquin had a reputation as a liberal, and he’d made up the party list and presented it to Lakeisha, who’d retained her post as the executive assistant to the sheriff despite the change in regimes. Lakeisha had sniffed at some of the inclusions, but she had obeyed without a verbal comment. All the vampires were walking softly and carefully until they learned their new leader’s character. Since he’d lived on his own, not in the nest, until his appointment as sheriff, Joaquin was a largely unknown element.
As Taffy took Dahlia’s arm to steer her over to the buffet to join Don, Dahlia said, “I’m not enjoying myself, though I ought to be.”
“Why not?” Taffy asked. “The humans will be gone soon, and we can be ourselves. It’s not like we haven’t seen this coming. Cedric has been getting more and more set in his ways. He’s lazy. He’s sloppy. A waistcoat every day. So dated! He can’t even pretend to belong to this century.”
Like all successful vampires, Dahlia knew the key to surviving for centuries was adaptation. And the most conspicuous adaptation was following the trend in clothes and language. This had been essential when vampires existed in secret, so they could blend in with a crowd long enough to cut out their prey. Vampires were an increasingly familiar presence in business and politics, but they found society still accepted them more easily if they mimicked modern Americans. It was true, too, that old habits died hard. It had only been six years since the undead had “come out,” and to vampires that was less than the blink of an eye.
“I did see that Cedric would have to be replaced,” Dahlia said. “I don’t know Joaquin well, and maybe I’m worried about how he will rule, and how living in the nest will be with him in residence. At least he had a very conventional ascension.”
“It couldn’t have been more standard,” Taffy agreed. “And soon the guests will be gone and we can amuse ourselves. I’m pleased with Joaquin’s first steps. The mansion is looking beautiful, more beautiful than it did for my wedding.” Taffy tapped the newly polished wooden floor with the toe of her boot. The reception room, which was large and full of dark leather furniture and scattered rugs, was at the back of the mansion and looked out onto the garden. Taffy had gotten married in that garden one memorable night. Though the night was chilly the fountain was splashing away in the dimly lit courtyard outside the French doors. The lights didn’t need to be bright; vampires have excellent night vision.
Dahlia was proud that the mansion, which housed the vampire nest of Rhodes and was the area headquarters for all vampires, was polished and sparkling, clean and newly redecorated. However, Dahlia’s pride had a certain nostalgic tinge. Though for decades they’d all tried to prod the old sheriff, Cedric, into installing new carpet and modernizing the bathrooms, she found that she missed the old fixtures. And she missed the former sheriff, too. Maybe he counted as an old fixture.
“I’m going to talk to Cedric,” she said.
“Not the smartest move, homes,” Taffy cautioned. Taffy always tried to use current slang, though sometimes she got it wrong or was off by five years . . . or ten.
“I know,” Dahlia said. The new sheriff, Joaquin, was certainly keeping an eye open to see who approached Cedric; but Dahlia was not afraid of Joaquin, though she did regard him with a certain respect for his devious ways. The ousting of Cedric had been handled with a sort of ruthless finesse. Cedric, sunk into what he thought would always be his cushy job, had been foolishly complacent and unaware. “I’ll join you later,” she told Taffy. “Though I may stop to have a word with Melponeus, too.”
“Playing with fire,” Taffy said, grinning broadly.
“Yes, we did that last time.” Even half-demons could produce fireballs. The memory caused Dahlia to have her own tight smile on her lips as she approached the former sheriff.
“Cedric,” she said, inclining her head very slightly. Even Dahlia didn’t care to provoke Joaquin by appearing to offer Cedric obeisance.
“Dahlia,” he said, his voice laden with melancholy. “See how the peacock preens?”
Joaquin, in the center of a cluster of other vampires, was dressed to kill. Obviously Joaquin felt like the king of the world on his ascension night. In his thin, dark, hand he held a goblet of Royalty (a blend of the blood of various European royals, who could keep their crumbling castles open with the money they made by tapping into their own veins). His favorite artiste, Jennifer Lopez, was playing in the background. He was wearing a very sharp dark gray suit with a pale gray silk shirt, and in his crimson tie was an antique pearl stickpin. Fawning all over Joaquin was Glenda, a flapper-era vamp who had never been Dahlia’s favorite nest sister.
“You could use a little preening, Cedric,” she observed. Cedric was wearing fawn-colored pants and a white linen shirt with a flowered waistcoat, his favorite ensemble. He had many near-duplicates of all three pieces hanging in his closet.