Blood and Lace: Chapter 25 (Patreon)

Della knew she was fast even by the standards of her own kind. She could have easily ducked into one of the side rooms. It would have been trivial…but she didn't. Her reasons were both elusive and primal, twisted up in anger and frustration, but they added up to a simple truth: she was tired of hiding.

The first to enter the darkened room was a slim woman, her curly hair like a corona in the brighter light from the hall. It was Stephanie, Roger's blood servant. A vampire loped in behind her. Della noted his crinkled khaki pants and golf shirt with the collar up. His youthful good looks were marred by an entitled twist of the lips and a "mussed" hairstyle crafted with an excess of gel.

Frat party reject, indeed. Her softer self would have been amused by Nicholas's accurate description. The fact that she was aware of that in her present state was another anomaly she refused to question.

The vampire’s perma-scowl deepened upon seeing Della. “Who’re you?”

Her reply was an arched eyebrow. This one was boorish even by the lax standards of the modern day. The cold spur of anger at her core began to spread like ice along her veins. She savored the sensation. “I have business with the proprietor.”

“That guy’s here?” His look of calculation was impossible to miss.

“Not presently.”

The vampire narrowed his eyes then turned to Stephanie. “Let’s use a room. I'm hungry.”

The girl’s look of disquiet—no, more than that, fright—was obvious to Della, and she suspected it was obvious to the Libertine as well. A tendril of sympathy tried to sprout, but she refused to let it grow. A plan was beginning to form, one that would provide an outlet for her wrath and reveal exactly where Roger stood. The blood servant would have to endure a little fear and risk, but such was life.

She ignored the twinge of shame this thinking provoked deep within her. That Della was not in charge here.

The Libertine practically dragged the blood servant into one of the side rooms. Della caught a glimpse of its tasteful decor and luxurious leather armchair before the door slammed shut.

“Della, is that bastard getting ready to feed from someone? That can't be safe.” 

It isn't. She didn't reply to Nicholas's words aloud. Stephanie’s voice was just audible from the other side of the door. Della heard the phrases “first time client” and “wrist only” from her halting sentences.

“Shut up.” The Libertine’s voice. The vampire’s words were perfectly clear even through the door. A tell-tale prickling along the back of Della’s neck told her he was using the Compulsion on the poor girl. A flagrant violation of both blood servant custom and Roger's explicit rules.

“What’s going on?” A frantic edge had entered Nicholas’s voice. “Della, please don’t let someone get hurt.” She could sense the hidden plea beneath the obvious one. Please be the person I believe you to be. 

Della let out a silent sigh. She wasn’t a monster. He simply didn’t understand the rules she was playing by. But she rose several seconds sooner than she had planned. “I will ensure her safety,” she muttered.

“Thank you.” His relief was palpable, and knowing she had provided it triggered a fierce note of satisfaction.

Again with this madness. Why? Her feelings were sequestered and suppressed. Nothing should be felt with such…clarity.

She thrust the thoughts away with icy resolve and grasped the door knob. Locked. A purely symbolic barrier, of course. Della applied steady pressure until there was a crack of wood and it abruptly broke inward.

Shoving the door open, she beheld a scene reminiscent of a lover cradling his beloved. The Libertine stood with Stephanie in his arms, his mouth affixed to her throat. She was gasping in apparent ecstasy.

In truth it was a grotesque parody of romance. Stephanie’s skin was already too pale and her dangling arms were twitching as she struggled to marshal her flagging strength against the irresistible pleasure of the bond. Nicholas may have forced her hand, but Della had to acknowledge his concern had been warranted—now the girl’s evening wouldn’t end in an emergency room.

“Release her,” Della commanded. No response. The cretin didn’t even have the discipline to keep awareness of his surroundings. She would have to separate them with great care; an intervention would hardly be successful if the girl’s throat were torn out.

In one fluid motion she hooked her hand over the top of the whelp’s head. His styled hair actually crackled under her palm, but she was too busy pressing her fingers against his eyes to be disgusted. She applied pressure, forcing him to tilt his head back if he wanted to keep his sight. He made a strangled noise of outrage and pain, but complied. The angle conveniently pulled his fangs from the young woman’s throat without doing additional damage.

Della stilled upon seeing Stephanie’s neck. Despite her precautions, a large unsightly wound was steadily leaking blood. The bastard had bitten into her like an animal. She was only distantly aware of flinging the Libertine through the doorway with such violence that he overturned the couch upon impact. She banked her rage, promising it a full release in short order, and forced a soothing tone into her voice.

“Stephanie.”

The girl’s eyelids fluttered. She swayed on her feet, weakened from blood loss. Della didn't want to touch her and trigger a reaction. She repeated the girl’s name. Finally Stephanie's eyes opened and focused on her with dilated pupils.

“Sit in the chair,” Della said, warily keeping an eye on the room beyond. The blood servant blinked in response, then started to sit. Her legs gave out and she practically collapsed onto the seat. “Good,” Della continued. “Are there bandages or cloths in here?”

Another bemused look. Stephanie furrowed her brow, then pointed a shaking finger at a vestigial side-table with a single small drawer. Della pulled it open. Cleaning wipes and a stack of hand towels. She grabbed two towels, folded them carefully, then pressed them into Stephanie’s hand and gently guided it to her throat.

“How b-bad—”

“You’ll be all right. Just apply pressure. Like this.” Della carefully let go and was satisfied to see that Stephanie kept the towels pressed to the wound. “That’s good. Stay here.”

Over the link she detected what might have been a relieved exhale, but Nicholas said nothing—perhaps he’d deduced her need for continued focus. Smart hunter. Della exited the room and wedged the broken door closed behind her.

The Libertine was sitting in a wingback chair, making a show of casually wiping his face. His expression of disdain was real enough, but his body language was all wrong, too tense. What was the term Roger had used? An unlicked cub. This young fool would dig his own grave with the barest strategy on her part.

“I should kick the shit out of you, you know that?” he said, wiping the last of the blood on his shirt sleeve. “If you’d tried that around my friends you’d kiss the sun.”

She glanced at the closed door to the hall. Roger had yet to return. No doubt he was watching them through hidden cameras. She knew he took the welfare of his blood servants seriously, which meant his absence indicated a placement of trust; now he was waiting to see what she would do.

In the short-term the answer was “nothing.” Not yet. If her assessment of the whelp was accurate, she would get the best information that way. Della stepped into the center of the room, planted her foot on the overturned couch, and sent it slamming into the wall with a nudge. She straightened, staring at the young vampire with a shuttered expression, arms loose at her sides.

He looked at her expectantly, an arrogant brat awaiting a scolding. His mistake. The creature before her was an adult, and he would pay for his crimes like an adult. Della didn't scold or accuse. She waited, and watched the Libertine’s gaze turn from disdain to uneasiness.

“What?” he asked. Della remained silent. He rolled his eyes. “You honestly trying to lay a guilt trip? Over the blood bag? Bitch was enjoying it. I get that she’s a servant, but come on, it’s like killing a pet cat. That Roger guy would be bummed, but he’d get over it.”

The vampire’s metaphor was repulsive on every level. Humans were not pets. And even pets were meant to be cherished, not casually discarded. Had this unfeeling creature thought nothing of killing innocent animals when he was human? Outwardly, Della didn't react. She masked her seething temper by remaining as motionless as a statue, only blinking to make it clear that the other vampire had her full, relaxed attention. He squirmed ever so slightly.

“Oh. One of those, huh? Treating the sheep like they should have a say in whether or not the wolf eats ‘em.” He laughed too loudly.

Nicholas’s presence in her ear had become a void. There wasn’t even a rustle of clothing. She could almost sense the taut stillness of his body, his own fury sublimated into silence. It surprised her to realize that his feelings were affecting her own. Feeding them. Time to bring things to a head while she was still capable of acting honorably.

“You’re a Libertine,” she said. It wasn’t a question.

“Damn straight. I know what I like and I have the balls to take it.” His stare briefly raked her up and down. “You know…you're pretty hot. Totally would’ve banged you before I got my fangs.” He held up a finger. “So even though you’re a bitch, I’m gonna let you walk, sweetheart.”

“Are you?”

“Yeah. And I’ll even give you some free advice: get the hell out of the city.”

Della tilted her head. “Why?”

He leaned forward and grinned. His fangs were still partially extended—perhaps he’d already started to turn feral. “The new golden age is about to kick-off. It’s gonna be one hell of a party, and all the Libertines have been invited. In a few days it won't really be your kind of scene.”

Golden age? Does that mean… Della cocked an eyebrow. “You and your friends are going to come out of hiding?”

The vampire slapped his knee and laughed. “Tonight was just an appetizer for me. As soon as we get the word, the buffet begins.”

Della’s heart was beating like the steady throb of a war drum. “Who gives the word?” she whispered.

“Sorry. You’re not a member of the club.” He waggled his hand like a member of the gentry dismissing a servant. It was a poor impression. “Now get out. Leave the blood bag.”

The ice within her had spread to the top of her scalp and down to the tips of her fingers. It brought a tremendous tension to her stillness, like she were a primordial glacier poised to scour the earth. This was ancient anger, primitive and unrelenting. The wrath of a forgotten god.

Della turned her head. “Roger.”

The door leading out opened and Roger entered. She had been certain of his presence for the last few minutes. The older vampire closed the door and stood in front of it.

The Libertine lunged forward in the chair. “What the fuck is this?”

“I would act as your emissary, if that suits,” she said.

Roger pursed his lips and regarded the interloper. “It does,” he agreed.

The Libertine shot to his feet, unable to keep a tinge of anxiety from his scowl. “Is this some kind of con? A shakedown? For money or something?”

“Money?” Della’s smile was wintry. “You just spoke of the golden age, youngling. Do you know anything of its precepts? Your maker should have educated you in the ways. It was their responsibility.”

The Libertine swallowed, but didn't answer. His facade of arrogant anger was crumbling.

“I see you were left in darkness,” Della intoned. “A pity. Pay close attention.” Slowly she set one foot behind the other and executed a crisp curtsey. It had been a long time, but the endless drills of her youth had made it second nature. “Fellow of the blood,” she intoned, head bowed, “you have insulted my host and mistreated his servant. Will you apologize and make recompense?”

The vampire across from her rolled his shoulders and snorted. “I’ll pay,” he muttered. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a greasy roll of bills. Della had no doubt they came from a variety of wallets. “Let’s say a grand for your trouble. But no apology. We don’t apologize. Ever.” He gave the middle finger to Della.

 She remained in the same respectful pose, a thin shell containing a torrent of bestial ferocity. Thin, but not brittle. A recipient of the blood valued control above all else. Or so the creature in front of her should have been taught. Clamping down on the writhing monster inside her, she turned to look at Roger. “Are you satisfied, sir?” It came out as a low whisper.

“I am not.”

Her control slipped just enough to allow a smile to emerge. She came up out of the curtsey and placed a hand on her hip. “Then the blood has become diluted.”

“What?” The Libertine looked up from peeling bills off of his roll.

“It must be concentrated for the good of all. One must stand in place of two.”

The whelp shook his head. “We’re doing bullshit poetry now?”

“No,” Roger drawled, his patrician past on full display. “The young lady has challenged you to a duel. Ah…to the death, I’m afraid.”