“Don’t think about him. We just do what he wants so he’ll leave us in peace. Now go get ready. You’ll bed the young man tonight.” Lawrence left her alone.
Amaia made her way to her dressing table, wondering what this one would be like. She didn’t know who he was, and she didn’t have enough time to ask around. Certain things were the same about every man. The basics. A whore played off of those things. An artist like herself knew there was more to a man than the basics. Each one had a particular taste, a fancy, that if played to would have him surrendering his power. A whore had no power. A courtesan had it all.
“Are you working tonight?” Meg stood in the doorway. Amaia’s profession always fascinated her. She and Liam blended in with the lower classes. They didn’t like drawing attention, so she rarely got to dress up, and she enjoyed helping Amaia get ready.
“Yes. Care to help?”
“Of course.” Meg came all the way into the room and went immediately to Amaia’s wardrobe. “What look are you going for tonight?”
“I’m not sure. All I know about the viscount is that he may be a Catholic zealot.” Amaia kept her eyes on the mirror as she applied color to her cheeks.
“I think this will be perfect.”
Amaia went to the bed where Meg had spread out a blood red dress trimmed in gold and black. Resting on top of it was a large, gold crucifix with rubies at the points and in the center. Amaia smiled and then giggled. Meg joined her. “I agree. How much do you want to wager that he’ll have no problem doing it with that cross around my neck? It’s funny how faith takes a different form in the men who can pay my fee.”
“If only the poor girl from earlier knew that all it takes is a little money to sanction her liaisons before the Lord.”
There was no use worrying over Michael, visions of gray eyes, or Zenas’s presence in her life. She had a best friend she adored, a sire who cared for her, and a profession she was not only good at, but enjoyed. Amaia was happy, and that was all she had ever wanted.
Chapter 8
Vienna, May 1646
She had Christof right where she wanted him. Pinned under her, his eyes gave away just how lost he was to his passion. He would tell her anything she wanted to know. He would give her anything she desired as long as she didn’t stop the ecstasy. It always amazed her how easily a man could be coaxed to give up his allegiances. These men, who went to such lengths to protect their standing, killing and lying to secure ever-exceeding levels of influence, gave it all away for just one night of pleasure and were none the wiser after the night was over.
The viscount wasn’t particularly powerful himself, but he was a friend of the powerful players and eager to share his knowledge as a show of the faith that was ill-placed in him. The perfect target: high enough to be useful, but not so high as to be smart enough to keep his mouth shut. Amaia knew her work well. She would keep him on the edge of his pleasure, never giving him enough, until she knew all she needed. Men would give her anything with the end in mind, but after they were spent, they quickly forgot the intrigue of her charms and, more often than not, promptly fell asleep to awaken to a cold bed come morning.
There was nothing more the man could tell her. She brought him to climax and then acted as a pillow so he could sleep.
“I’m done.”
“Did he know anything?”
“The Catholics are eager to rid the world of Protestants, but none have the power or will to pursue that goal. He and his friends won’t hamper the peace process.”
“I’ll let Zenas know.”
Amaia looked at the face resting on her breast. Her eyes naturally travelled down his neck to where she could make out his pulse. “May I kill him?”
“No. We might use him again.”
It was worth a try. While it was rare for Amaia to kill a client, it wasn’t unheard of for Zenas to want her to kill a man he had sent her on assignment to bed. Amaia slid from underneath the viscount and leaned down, deftly pricking his neck with her fangs and having a drink. Catholic, Protestant, they tasted the same to her: sweet, tangy, warm, and filling. She took a little more than she would from a waking man. The viscount wouldn’t miss it in his sleep. As always, she stopped before she was satisfied, knowing that satisfaction could only come from his dying breath.
She hurried into her clothes, noting with a smirk that the crucifix had remained around her neck the entire night, and went home to change into something less flashy before meeting Meg and Liam.
***