1897
Outside, the shadows of winter evening grew long quickly. But in her bed below the tall spotless windows of a top-floor loft converted into an artist’s studio, Irina stretched against Jack’s side and pressed her face into the hollow between his shoulder and his throat. She was warm, brown against her dingy sheets, her back and flank scattered with liver-black moles.
She turned to brush her lips against Jack’s ear. —You’re not wearing his ring.
Jack’s drowsing eyes flew open. He must have jumped away from her, because abruptly he found himself clinging to the edge of the cot.
—Excuse me?
—Your wampyr. You’re not wearing his ring.
She touched his hand as if by way of illustration, her breasts swaying gently when she pushed herself up on her elbows. Her long nipples were liver-black, too, like pieces of licorice. Jack suddenly had no urge to reach out and cup one, though his fingers still burned with the memory. He pulled his hand away.
—How do you know about that?
—I know all sorts of things,— she teased. —Come back into bed, Jack, before you tip it over.
He edged closer, but stayed wary. It must not have been the response she wanted, because her expression sobered.
—I know because my patron told me— she said. “Here. Look.”
She pushed the sheets aside and drew her leg up, turning it aside so he could see the fine-textured scarring along her inner thigh. Just a row of pale dots, shiny against the soft matte texture of her skin. Easy enough to miss, if you weren’t looking closely.
Jack bit his lip, choking down envy. Unwarranted envy, in all probability: most wampyrs were not Sebastien.
There was no paler or irritated band on her finger, as there had been on Grigor’s. Either she hadn’t worn the ring habitually, or she’d had it off her hand long enough for the telltale marks to fade. “You’re not wearing a ring either. Who is your patron?” he asked, because that was an appropriate question and he could speak it sanely.
“He goes by Starkad,” she said. “Don’t worry. He’s away from Moscow now. There won’t be any trouble.”
“There wouldn’t have been any chance of trouble if you had let me know you were a courtesan in advance,” Jack shot back, but he could see by her expression that what he’d said was too complicated and he’d lost her. He tried again, stretching the limits of his vocabulary. —There would be no trouble if you had told me.
She shrugged, impishly. —But then you wouldn’t have come home with me. And I wouldn’t have had the chance to meet your patron.
Jack stood, leaving the sheets behind, and crouched to find his trousers.
—He’s not my patron. He’s just a friend.
—h—
Patron or not, he was unsurprised to find Sebastien waiting in the icy street below, leaning on a silver-shod ebony cane, looking gloriously out of place in his beaver hat and overcoat. A casual inspection would have shown a man of just above average height—five foot eight inches, perhaps: taller than Jack, anyway—with thick black hair that wanted to curl and a swarthy complexion that often concealed his wampyr pallor. An unnecessary muffler wrapped across his face hid the fact that he had no warm breath to mist, but Jack made billows enough for the both of them.
It was only a half-hour after sunset. Sebastien must have come looking for Jack directly upon leaving their apartment.
“What’s her name?” Sebastien asked as Jack came up. He presented the perfect picture of nonchalance.
Jack would have chosen to emulate him, but there was no point with somebody who could read your upset on the wind. He closed his eyes briefly, but had to open them again to keep walking due to the hazards of lamp posts and other streetside obstacles. Of course Sebastien knew. If he could follow Jack halfway across the city by scent, he could certainly smell Irina all over Jack’s clothes and body.
“Irina Stephanova,” Jack said. And then—bitterly,
Outside, the shadows of winter evening grew long quickly. But in her bed below the tall spotless windows of a top-floor loft converted into an artist’s studio, Irina stretched against Jack’s side and pressed her face into the hollow between his shoulder and his throat. She was warm, brown against her dingy sheets, her back and flank scattered with liver-black moles.
She turned to brush her lips against Jack’s ear. —You’re not wearing his ring.
Jack’s drowsing eyes flew open. He must have jumped away from her, because abruptly he found himself clinging to the edge of the cot.
—Excuse me?
—Your wampyr. You’re not wearing his ring.
She touched his hand as if by way of illustration, her breasts swaying gently when she pushed herself up on her elbows. Her long nipples were liver-black, too, like pieces of licorice. Jack suddenly had no urge to reach out and cup one, though his fingers still burned with the memory. He pulled his hand away.
—How do you know about that?
—I know all sorts of things,— she teased. —Come back into bed, Jack, before you tip it over.
He edged closer, but stayed wary. It must not have been the response she wanted, because her expression sobered.
—I know because my patron told me— she said. “Here. Look.”
She pushed the sheets aside and drew her leg up, turning it aside so he could see the fine-textured scarring along her inner thigh. Just a row of pale dots, shiny against the soft matte texture of her skin. Easy enough to miss, if you weren’t looking closely.
Jack bit his lip, choking down envy. Unwarranted envy, in all probability: most wampyrs were not Sebastien.
There was no paler or irritated band on her finger, as there had been on Grigor’s. Either she hadn’t worn the ring habitually, or she’d had it off her hand long enough for the telltale marks to fade. “You’re not wearing a ring either. Who is your patron?” he asked, because that was an appropriate question and he could speak it sanely.
“He goes by Starkad,” she said. “Don’t worry. He’s away from Moscow now. There won’t be any trouble.”
“There wouldn’t have been any chance of trouble if you had let me know you were a courtesan in advance,” Jack shot back, but he could see by her expression that what he’d said was too complicated and he’d lost her. He tried again, stretching the limits of his vocabulary. —There would be no trouble if you had told me.
She shrugged, impishly. —But then you wouldn’t have come home with me. And I wouldn’t have had the chance to meet your patron.
Jack stood, leaving the sheets behind, and crouched to find his trousers.
—He’s not my patron. He’s just a friend.
—h—
Patron or not, he was unsurprised to find Sebastien waiting in the icy street below, leaning on a silver-shod ebony cane, looking gloriously out of place in his beaver hat and overcoat. A casual inspection would have shown a man of just above average height—five foot eight inches, perhaps: taller than Jack, anyway—with thick black hair that wanted to curl and a swarthy complexion that often concealed his wampyr pallor. An unnecessary muffler wrapped across his face hid the fact that he had no warm breath to mist, but Jack made billows enough for the both of them.
It was only a half-hour after sunset. Sebastien must have come looking for Jack directly upon leaving their apartment.
“What’s her name?” Sebastien asked as Jack came up. He presented the perfect picture of nonchalance.
Jack would have chosen to emulate him, but there was no point with somebody who could read your upset on the wind. He closed his eyes briefly, but had to open them again to keep walking due to the hazards of lamp posts and other streetside obstacles. Of course Sebastien knew. If he could follow Jack halfway across the city by scent, he could certainly smell Irina all over Jack’s clothes and body.
“Irina Stephanova,” Jack said. And then—bitterly,
Similar Books
