“No,” said Odette. “I’m his descendant.” By, what, six generations?
“And my protégée,” said Graaf van Suchtlen. Odette looked at him and kept her face deliberately blank.
“So, Miss Leliefeld is the first in line, then?” one of the Checquy men asked.
“No, there is no line,” said the graaf matter-of-factly. The Checquy people exchanged confused glances.
“Grootvader — I’m sorry — Graaf van Suchtlen has no intention of dying,” explained Odette. “Ever.” She expected to see a raised eyebrow or two, but they nodded sagely.
“We have a Bishop like that,” said one of the women. “In fact, he’s right there. Bishop Alrich! Yoo-hoo!” Odette’s stomach flipped over. Bishop Alrich. That was definitely a name she’d managed to remember.
Bishop Alrich wasn’t a church bishop. The Court — the leaders of the Checquy Group — had a hierarchy based on chess pieces. It was ridiculous, probably one of those archaic British traditions that made no sense to anyone else. The two Rooks were responsible for domestic operations. The Chevaliers oversaw international affairs. At the top of the tree were the Lord and Lady (they weren’t called the King and Queen, as it would have made the real British monarchy a little antsy). And just below the Lord and Lady were the Bishops, who, from what Odette could gather, oversaw everything.
As a result, Bishop Alrich was incredibly important and powerful. But that wasn’t why she felt a sudden bolt of dread go through her. It was because of what he was. If the reports were correct, then he was actually a vampire. A blood-drinking, apparently immortal entity who preyed on human beings.
And he’s behind me.
Despite herself, she turned. Oh, she thought. Gosh.
The dossiers she’d read on him had not included photographs because the Bishop did not register on any photographic equipment, either digital or chemical. There had been a few sketches and a copy of a rather idealized watercolor painting, but they hadn’t done him justice.
He stood tall, in a suit of exquisite cut. And he was striking, so striking, with features that might have been sculpted by Donatello and eyes that could have been painted by Blake. His hair poured vermilion down to his waist. Odette felt the blood rising in her cheeks. And then she wondered if he could sense it. When their eyes met, his expression was one of dry amusement.
“Bishop Alrich,” said the woman. “You’ve met Graaf van Suchtlen, of course.” The two men nodded to each other. “And this is Miss Odette Leliefeld.” He took her hand, and his skin was warm. Suddenly she was simultaneously very glad and very regretful of her dress’s dowdy high neck.
“Good evening, Miss Leliefeld,” he said. “It’s a pleasure to meet you.”
“Thank you,” she said, and the strength of her own voice took her aback. “I’ve heard a great deal about you, sir.”
“Indeed?” he said.
There was a long pause, during which Odette flailed around in her mind for something to say. This is why I don’t like going to parties.
“It’s a lovely party,” she said finally.
“Yes, and there have been no atrocities committed yet,” remarked the Bishop, looking around.
“Oh, Bishop Alrich, you are bad,” said one of the Checquy women fondly.
“It’s not out of the question, Pawn Titchmarsh,” said the vampire. “The last party I was at ended very badly. And didn’t you once attend a dinner in Bhutan where everyone except you left having been rendered completely sterile?”
“And they all became allergic to rabbits,” said the lady with some satisfaction. “But that was for work.”
Isn’t this evening also for work? thought Odette.
“And have you been enjoying your time here in London, Miss Leliefeld?” asked Alrich.
“We got here only this morning,” said Odette, “so of course I haven’t seen much. But the hospitality of the Checquy has been very...” — she hunted frantically for an adjective that wouldn’t cause an international incident — “welcoming.”
In point of fact, the hospitality had been almost smothering. It had still been dark when the delegation of sleepy Grafters stepped off the jet at Heathrow. They had been met by a group of extremely alert-looking people from the Checquy headed by the imposing Bishop Raushan Attariwala. He had greeted them cordially and escorted them through the bowels of the airport, bypassing customs and immigration. Odette had noticed that none of the hallways they’d passed through had any security cameras and that none of their escorts were carrying any obvious weapons.
Then they’d been ushered into large black cars with tinted windows and driven through a maze of service lanes and hangars. Gates were opened and wary security guards waved them through until they emerged on a service road that segued into a back road that se-gued into a street that segued into an actual highway. Despite her exhaustion, Odette had been glued to the window during the trip to the city. Her squeal at the sight of her first proper London cab woke Alessio.
And then there was the hotel, tall and grand, where they had been checked in and shown to their rooms. For all Odette knew, Graaf Ernst had attended meetings with the senior members of their delegation all day, but she and Alessio had been told to get some rest and not to leave the hotel. The cocktail party would be held at six thirty, and she was to attend the strategy meeting beforehand. Any time she or Alessio had opened the hotel room’s door, those grim Checquy operatives were standing guard in the hallway, and so she’d elected to stay in the suite and have a long nap in the bathtub.
“Yes,” said Odette. “They’ve taken very good care of us.”
“Good to hear,” said Alrich. “I hope you’re looking forward to working with us.”
“Oh, I hope so too,” said Odette. It took her a couple of moments to realize that what she’d just said made no sense. Mercifully, he didn’t comment, just smiled a little smile, bowed his head, and excused himself.
That didn’t go too badly, she thought. She relaxed a little and watched as the vampire moved smoothly through the crowd. She couldn’t help but appreciate the fact that his hair stopped strategically right at his waist.
“It’s enough to make you wish he were an incubus, isn’t it?” said an amused voice next to her. Odette turned and saw a short woman in her thirties. She was a rather unremarkable-looking person, but she was wearing an astounding cocktail dress of ebony cloth and leather. Judging from the unorthodox cut and fit, it had to have been made specifically for her. Indeed, it seemed to have been sculpted around her. Tight curves swept up her body to sharp points that spread just beyond her shoulders and elbows. She looked as if she were wrapped in elegant black flames. The sleeves were connected to the dress at the middle of the rib cage, which made for an arresting silhouette, although it was not terribly practical — the woman had trouble lifting her glass to her lips.
It was, in short, the dress to which Odette’s own gown was the ugly stepsister who had taken vows of chastity and poverty.
Beyond the dress, though, there was something about the woman that set her apart despite her plainness. She had an air of command, but she also gave the odd impression that she did not quite belong, even among the Checquy. Then Odette recognized her and felt genuine fear — even more than she had with the vampire.
Rook Myfanwy Thomas. My God.