“I think you’re right. If I’m going to spend the night with you, I want it to be on honest terms. And that is not going to happen over the phone with my father—and not just because I left that GPS-riddled cell of mine at home.”
“If he kicks you out, you can stay here with me. And I’m only half joking about that.”
“You are very sweet.”
The snort he let out was an ugly sound, the kind of thing that he tried to keep down, but couldn’t catch. And yes, she laughed at him—which made him resent the noise less.
But then Elise sat up and, tragically, began putting her clothes on. When she was back in order, she knelt down and pulled one of the blankets over his nakedness.
“Are you sure you’re going to be okay here alone? I’m worried.”
“If what we just did together didn’t kill me, I guarantee you I’ll make it to sunset.”
“I’m serious.”
“I’ll be fine.”
She kissed him and then went over to the fire, restoking it for him.
“You don’t need to do that,” he said.
“Too late.” She smiled at him over her shoulder as she poked at the logs she’d added. “You know what I’m doing right now?”
“Looking hotter than what’s going on in that hearth?”
“I’m trying not to ask when I’m going to see you again.”
“I got an easy answer for that. Four a.m. tomorrow.”
“Is that a date?”
“You better believe it.” He wadded an old sofa pillow up under his head. “Call me when you’re home safe?”
“Always. Where’s your phone?”
“Oh … shit. I have no idea. Probably back at the training center with what was left of my clothes. And I don’t have a landline.”
“Well … I’ll be fine. I can take care of myself.”
There was a long, long pause.
“Go,” he told her. “So I know you’re safe before the sun comes up.”
Elise nodded and then she was gone, the front door closing behind her quietly.
In the wake of her departure, he thought, God … the house was so empty.
THIRTY-FOUR
The following evening, as Elise got dressed to go to see Peyton, her thoughts were on Axe, not either of her cousins. She was worried about him having been okay through the day. How his wounds were doing. Whether he’d let the fire go out and turned himself into a Popsicle.
He had to get that heating system at the cottage fixed. The weather was going to get a whole lot worse before it improved. In, like, May.
The problem was, it felt a little too stalkerish for her to just show up at his house and be all, Hey!, just wanted to see if you’re still breathing! Besides, in the middle of their sexual marathon, he’d mentioned that he had to get his stitches out at the clinic, and surely if he failed to turn up there, someone would go looking for him.
Right?
“Damn it,” she said as she left her room—with her phone and its GPS tracker going strong.
She had skipped First Meal. There was just no way she could sit between her father and her uncle and make small talk, not only considering what she had done with Axe, but also in light of what she’d seen in her aunt the night before: Even with all her schooling and self-actualization, she wasn’t capable of shelving that much emotion.
Maybe she was her sire’s daughter after all, not wanting to share.
Down on the first floor, she knocked on the closed door to her father’s study. When she heard his greeting, she opened it and went in. He was at his desk, in one of his suits, looking like a posed Dunhill model.
For an ad in Life magazine, circa 1942.
“Good evening, Father.”
He looked up from his paperwork. “Oh, hello, dearest.”
“Father, I’m going over to see Peyton, son of Peythone? His sire and his mahmen will both be there. The purpose is to discuss Paradise’s birthday party? It is coming up and he and I will be planning a small event, at his home, in her honor?”
For the first time in so long, Felixe actually smiled. Really, truly smiled. To the point where he even had to put his gold pen down on the blotter. “Oh, darling, I think that is marvelous. I think that is just splendid.”
“I thought you would be pleased.” With effort, she kept the judgment out of her voice. “I’m not sure how long it will take.”
“Oh, do enjoy yourself. I shall see you at dawn, then.”
“Yes, Father.”
With a brief bow, she exited, the center of her chest aching because she would have loved to have had that reaction from him to her studies, her work, her real plans. But no, he was happy she was throwing a party.
She told herself it was just his way, his generation, all he knew.
But it hurt to be minimized.
Outside, she realized she forgot a coat, but it didn’t matter. Closing her eyes, she coasted off the estate, riding a surge of relief across the cold air.
Peyton’s mansion was not far away, and every bit as grand as the one she lived in, just of a different style. His family’s manse was a Tudor, with all kinds of cupolas and angles and fun rooms inside—not that she was all that familiar with the place.
As she approached the front door, it was opened by a butler who wore the same uniform as the head doggen at her house.
“Mistress, welcome. Master Peyton is up in his room. He requests that you wait in the library for his arrival.”
“But of course,” she said as she followed along into a huge room filled with leather-bound volumes, heavy, medieval furniture, and enormous brass chandeliers.
With all the tapestries and the oil paintings and the way footsteps echoed on the gray slate floor, it was like something out of Harry Potter, just sans the owls and the wizard wands.
How anyone felt at home in it was a mystery, but then, the glymera cared more about impressions than comfort. And it was impressive.
“Would you care for something to drink?” the butler asked her.
“No, thank you.”
“My pleasure.” The butler bowed low and backed out of the room. “He shan’t be long.”
Before she could even pick a spot to sit, her phone went off, and she answered it on the first ring with a frown. “Peyton? I’m downstairs. What? Ah … yeah, no, it’s fine. I don’t care.… Sure. Where …? Okay, right.”
Ending the call, Elise went across to a second set of oak doors and slipped out. Tracking the hallways through the back of the house, she found the pantry, got the bag of Doritos her cousin had asked for, and hurried up the staff stairs to the second floor. After ducking into a laundry room for a maid to pass, she jogged down—
Peyton was hanging out his door, one arm locked on the jamb, the other swinging free as he waved at her. “Hey, girl!”
He had no shirt on, satin PJ bottoms, and the mental functioning of a microwave oven.
Great. Just what she’d had in mind, damn it.
“Peyton,” she muttered as she came up to him. “How drunk are you?”
“Very. And stoned. And wait … I think I did some cocaine about two hours ago? But the buzz has mostly worn off.”
“Well, here is your sodium delivery system.” She handed the bag over and glared at him. “And I’m going home.”
“No, you’re not. We’re going to talk.”
“And how’s that going to happen. You’re slurring your speech so much, I’m pretty sure you’re speaking French. Or is it Italian?”
“I’m more likely to spill if I’m drunk.”