“You shouldn’t let him do that,” a voice called from somewhere above us. I looked up and saw Julian—in a pair of silk pants and no shirt—on the third-story landing, leaning against the railing with a look of bored disapproval on his face.
“Why?” Adrian called up, eyes narrowed. “He’s my brother.”
“You’re so”—Julian’s eyes flickered over to me—“naive.”
Adrian smiled darkly. “I’ll take that as a compliment.”
It looked like Julian was about to respond, but Adrian looked at me, then back at his older brother. “Later.” Julian glanced at me again before disappearing into the third story hallway.
“Did I do something wrong?” Lucian asked, looking dejected.
“No, Frankie; you didn’t do anything wrong.”
“Frankie?” I asked.
Adrian turned as if he’d forgotten I was there. “Oh, yeah. Just a little nickname I gave him when he came home. Short for Frankenstein. Come on, let’s go eat.”
I followed him into the adjoining dining room (where a small feast was laid out), contemplating the logistics of brotherhood among a thirty-five-, eighteen-, and eleven-year-old. Throw in the fact that they weren’t human, they drank blood, and they lived indefinite life-spans, and I guessed some awkward tension might arise.
“Caitlin; it’s so good to see you again,” Mariana said, bringing a huge silver platter of some sort of meat in from the kitchen.
“That smells delicious,” I said, quite sincerely.
Mariana just smiled. A part of me couldn’t help but wonder if it was because she thought it was cute that I had complimented her cooking. Of course, considering that she’d had over a hundred years to perfect her recipes, perhaps she had a right to be confident.
“Let’s eat.”
Julian and Dominic materialized out of nowhere, it seemed, and everyone sat. I was between Lucian and Adrian while Julian, Mariana, and Dominic sat across from us. Dishes were passed silently, except when Lucian dropped a green olive. He scooped it up quickly and shoved it in his mouth, but aside from that, everything moved with machinelike efficiency. Everyone, even Lucian and Mariana, had taken three times as much as I had, each staring at his or her own plate of food. It was weird.
A few minutes later, as if on cue, everyone stood up and walked their dishes into the kitchen, plates empty of even the smallest scrap of food. I brought my half-full plate with me and set it on the counter. Thankfully, Adrian took me by the elbow and led me back to the front hall.
“That was tense,” I said, finally feeling like I could breathe.
“You see why I like your house?” Before I could respond, he shook his head and said, “Never mind. Let’s go.”
We climbed the winding stairs and got off at the second floor. At the end of the hundred-foot hall, lined with majestic paintings and expensive wall sconces, we stopped and Adrian opened at a door to our right.
“This is your room.”
13
INTERVIEW WITH A VAMPIRE
The only light came from two bedside lamps and the flickering glow of the fireplace. There was a queen-size, four-poster bed complete with awnings and a mountain of red silk pillows, and it didn’t even take up half the room. I’d probably need a stepstool just to get in it. An old-fashioned gold-brocade lounge chair faced the fire, covered with a deep red throw. French doors led to what I assumed was a deck, although in the gloom outside, I couldn’t really see much. I walked up to the bed and ran my fingers over the fabric reverently. I would kill to work with material like this.
“There’s a bathroom through there,” he said, pointing to a door to the left of the fireplace. “If you need anything, you can either call my phone or push the third button on the intercom, which will connect you to my room.”
“You’re leaving me?” I asked, a little alarmed.
“I’ll be one room away.” He smiled and patted his pockets as if making sure he had nothing left to give me. Finding nothing, he said, “All right, well, good night.”
“Night,” I called as he stepped out and closed the door with a soft click. I stood alone for a moment in the large, extravagant room, somewhat lost. Finally, I grabbed my bag and went into the bathroom, then stopped dead. I guess I shouldn’t really be surprised by the de la Mara grandeur anymore, but the bathroom was huge. Tall ceilings, archways, the whole thing made out of warm, honey-colored marble illuminated by soft lights. Rather than take a shower, I filled the claw-foot tub with hot water and poured in expensive, spiced Parisian bubble bath, and stepped over the edge. The tub was so deep that I could float in it. I bunched my hair into a messy bun and leaned my head against the backrest, letting my arms hang over the edge of the porcelain.
This was certainly heaven.