Emotion thrummed through the room: anger, disputation, confrontation, alpha pheromones. The smell of violence baited. For a moment I thought that whatever was between the two males would boil over, but Leo broke, taking a single breath, and the scents evolved from censure, to startlement, to curiosity, to . . . eagerness as his eyes studied me. An anticipation as strong as Beast’s rose on the air. All Leo’s. From Bruiser, I felt a trace of sentiment, perhaps disappointment, but overshadowed by his master’s impatience.
The next track started, a mellow, sex-laden rumba. The rumba is a slower, more formal dance than the salsa, and Leo moved to me, his body already in the dance, his feet in the slow-quick-quick-quick steps of the dance. He took my hands and placed one on his shoulder, starting with an eighth turn of the box step. When the music rose, he pursued it into a quarter-turn box, faster, and then a series of turns and dips, drawing me closer with each measure until only a hint of space separated us. He led me into a difficult cucaracha step, not one I had practiced except with my instructor, but Leo’s lead was flawless, beating Raul hands down, his body balanced so perfectly it was poetry to follow. We finished the set with a fast, twisting pretzel of a turn and a dip, my body bent back over his thigh, his body over mine, his eyes bearing down into mine in a classic predator-prey posture.
Beast reared up hard, fast, shoving him back. Growling. The sound was lost in the applause. Gazes fastened to one another, we stared, breath heaving. I was vaguely aware of vamps in the doorway, clapping. Cheering. And then Leo vamped out.
His eyes bled crimson, pupils widening to vampy black. His fangs snapped down. And he growled back at Beast. The crowd in the doorway fell silent, that scary vamp-silence that always presaged violence. Bruiser pushed between us, took Leo’s hand, and mine, and led us forward, hands raised like actors on a stage. Weirdly, totally unexpectedly, Leo and I broke gazes, allowing Bruiser the upper hand. He bent forward, pulling us into a deep bow.
“Mithrans, I present Leo Pellissier and his . . . human . . . dance partner, Jane Yellowrock.” The pauses at “human” were infinitesimal, but present. The applause started again, uncertain, then growing stronger, more assured, as they believed the growls had been part of a performance. Smiling impeccably, Bruiser led us to the doorway and the accolades of the vamps.
I slipped away from my host shortly thereafter and made a quick round of the second story, searching for and not finding a staircase to the attic or third story. Not once did I scent rogue. I did catch a hint of the woman the rogue and Rick were sleeping with, and later, one of the underlying taints the rogue carried in his blood, but they were lost in the press of guests.
I knew Leo wanted to talk to me, but after the dance and the way he looked at me, like I was a tasty treat, I wanted to avoid that. Totally. So I kept a wary eye as I hunted through the house, turning down a hallway or slipping into an empty room when I spotted him, smelled him, or heard his voice. He wasn’t stalking me, exactly, but a frustrated reek pervaded his scent, and I figured I was part of it. But I was able to keep away, and Beast was having a good time helping.
When a bell sounded over the house intercom and sound system, I figured it was time for the presentation of the guests. Curious, I hid behind a marble statue on a matching marble stand over the foyer and watched. Leo stood with his back to the front door, facing the crowd, who gathered vamp fast or drugged-blood-junkie slow, and smiled at them all, the genial host.
“I thank you all for gathering,” he said, a slight accent on the word “gathering,”“in Clan Pellissier for this celebration. Our clans may no longer expand as they once did, held to lower numbers by Vampira Carta, U.S. law, and social convention. So when a new Mithran is added to us, it is a blessing. And when two are given over to us to fulfill a contract of marriage and clan binding, it is a significant event.” He flashed a brilliant smile, all human-looking teeth. “Tonight I present to my honored guests my future daughter-in-law and her brother, Amitee and Fernand Marchand, and the bride’s future husband”—he paused, drawing it out, as if in expectation of some huge event—“my son and scion and heir, Immanuel Pellissier.”
There was startled silence; then the crowd reacted, half in exultation, half in buzzing, whispered dismay. It took me a moment to realize why. Until now, Leo hadn’t named a clan heir. Clearly some of the vamps in the place didn’t like his choice. Despite myself, I took note of who wasn’t pleased and wasn’t afraid to demonstrate it. The most obviously ticked off was a swarthy-skinned vamp I thought might be Rafael Torrez, heir to Clan Mearkanis—blood-master once Ming was declared true-dead. A number of other vamps were looking his way to gauge his reaction.