Chapter Twenty-Three
As we step out of the car and I gaze up at the venue, a new kind of anxiety fills me. I turn to Claude, who is shutting the door behind me.
“This is a gallery,” I say. “It’s… an art exhibition?”
“Indeed.” He stops at my side, his expression flat as he stares at the tall, boxy building with its walls made almost entirely of glass. Within are glimpses of moody lighting and large portraits, and a small crowd wandering throughout. “A big opening for one of the younger Vulpe vampires.”
“You said it was a party.”
“I said it was an event.”
I chew my lip. Maybe I did assume, but he also hid the truth from me. I understand his behavior on the way here, now, because I can only imagine the kind of emotions an event like this would stir up in him.
I wish he had given me a chance to better prepare myself. But we’re here now, I suppose. And I should be able to do things like this for him, even though I feel unqualified to be any source of emotional support.
“Well, then.” I slide my arm into his. “Let’s get it over with, shall we?”
His lips quirk before dropping again. “Give me a moment.”
I wait by his side, unsure what to do or say. After a couple of moments, he clears his throat, nods, and leads me up the stairs and through the doorway.
Inside, the dark walls and dim lighting lend everything an almost sensual air.
As I catch my first glance of a painting, and then do a double take, I realize that sensual is an understatement.
As I glance from painting to painting, all I see is skin.
Skin of all colors, displayed on bodies in all manner of interesting, intertwined positions.
The art is hyperrealistic and hypersexual.
Looking at it makes me feel voyeuristic, bringing a heat to my face that makes me thankful for the dim lighting.
I probably shouldn’t be feeling this odd heat in my belly. It’s art, after all. It’s probably supposed to be meaningful, and symbolic, and highbrow, not…
“Remarkably horny,” Claude mutters into my ear. I stifle my startled laugh with a cough.
“Don’t be inappropriate,” I whisper. “We’re supposed to be admiring the art.”
“I’m not sure it’s possible to admire it appropriately.”
“Sure it is,” I say. “And it starts with being silent.”
He manages it for a couple minutes, but then speaks up again to say, “One must wonder at the artist’s process. Is it all from memory? Or photograph? Or perhaps they arrange an orgy and set up the canvas nearby—”
“Shh!” I elbow him in the side, blushing furiously, and his eyes brighten in mischievous delight.
But as we continue to wander through the building, that amusement fades.
He studies the paintings with more care, his brow furrowed.
As the shock of all the nudity wears off, I find myself doing the same.
It’s certainly not the kind of art I’d choose for myself, but I can appreciate the care that went into them.
The artist has a great eye, and every body has been so lovingly recreated in paint that it feels like an act of worship.
We stop in front of one and spend a while just staring up in silence. This one feels different. Almost private, like I’m looking in through a window. A couple is entangled on a bed so thoroughly that their skin blurs together, and it is impossible to tell where one begins and the other ends.
It makes my heart ache in a way I can’t explain.
“They’re quite talented,” Claude says. “The Vulpe Court must be very proud.”
His tone is impossible to read, obscuring the heavy emotions I’m certain are warring within him. When I glance at him, his face is stony too. But his eyes… his eyes always reveal his sadness.
I squeeze his arm. “I prefer your work.”
A brief twitch of a smile. “You hate my work.”
“I do not!” I bump my shoulder against his. “I’m never going to live this down, am I? I like your paintings, I really do. All I said was that the last one wasn’t your best.”
“Mm-hmm.” He sounds unconvinced. “So the issue is that you dislike me as a person?”
I know he’s teasing, but a small, frustrated huff escapes me. “Please. I think I’ve made it quite clear by now that’s not the case.”
“Well…” He’s starting to smile, the slow curl of his lips peeling away his aloof expression. “I suppose that’s true after…” But the sentence dies, along with his smile, as he looks toward the other side of the room.
I follow his gaze to see Ambrose, dressed all in exquisite white, surrounded by a small coterie of beautiful vampires who are all looking our way. When Ambrose catches Claude looking, he beckons with two fingers, and my stomach drops.
Claude stiffens at my side before heading over, crossing the room in slow, measured steps.
“Wait,” I whisper, tugging on his arm. Claude turns to me questioningly, and I fumble in my purse, past painkillers and extra tampons and all the other things I carry just in case, until I find a pair of sunglasses.
I stand on my tiptoes to place them on his face, smoothing his curls back behind his ears before pulling away.
He tilts his head, his eyes hidden behind the lenses. “It’s nighttime,” he says. “And dark in here besides.”
“It’s a fashion statement,” I say. “Or perhaps a way to disguise a hangover.” Or a way to hide that sadness in his eyes. Something tells me the vampires of the Vulpe Court will be eager to see it, and I don’t want them to.
After a moment, he dips his chin in the slightest nod, and we continue ambling along to Ambrose and his coterie, taking our sweet time to get there.
“Claude,” Ambrose says, his voice a drawl that makes my skin prickle. “I’m surprised to find you here tonight.”
“As if I could ever decline an invitation from you,” Claude says, his tone deceptively mellow.
“Such a dutiful little fledgling. If only you were as mindful of the rest of my expectations.” He swirls a finger, gesturing to the gallery around us. “This could all be yours, if only you weren’t so stubborn.”
I bite the inside of my cheek to hold back a retort.
He isn’t even bothering to be subtle about why he invited Claude here.
Even the sexual nature of the display feels…
pointed, now that I know Ambrose is aware of that clause in our contract.
Another jab at something that Claude could have but doesn’t.
I glance around the circle at the other vampires, who are quiet but watching with thinly veiled amusement. There’s a flicker of hot anger in my chest at the thought that this is part of tonight’s entertainment for them.
“Is the artist here tonight?” I ask, butting in as if unaware of the tension crackling through the exchange. “We’d love to meet them.”
Ambrose’s lip curls as he looks at me as if he just realized I’m there and is displeased by it.
“Lady Elizabeth is in the back lounge,” one of the other vampires offers, perhaps taking pity on me. But then Ambrose turns his gaze on her, and she shrinks back, as if realizing she made a faux pas.
“Oh, we should go see her, Lord Claude, please,” I say, tugging on his arm.
“Very well.” He dips his head in a small show of respect to Ambrose. “Lovely to see you, as always, sire.”
I only manage to relax once we’re out of eyesight of that horrible little group. “God,” I say. “Sorry, we don’t really have to go see the artist, but I couldn’t stand being there a moment longer.”
Claude squeezes my hand. “I’d like to meet her.”
The back lounge is filled with the low chatter of a small crowd of vampires and valentines.
A bartender serves drinks in one corner, both blood-infused and otherwise.
It’s easy enough to find the star of the night, since people keep approaching to congratulate her.
She’s a petite Black vampire who appears to be in her early twenties, and quails under the attention each time, deflecting compliments with an embarrassed smile.
Something about her seems strange, though it takes a few minutes of studying her to put my finger on it. Most vampires are so still, but she’s fidgety, and— “She’s… breathing? I thought she was a vampire.”
“She is. Very freshly turned, though.” Claude’s hand rests idly on my side, fingers tapping my hipbone. “It takes a while to forget that muscle memory.”
Claude waits for a break in her line of admirers before heading over.
“I’m sure you’re getting tired of hearing this, but the exhibition is delightful,” he says. “Truly extraordinary. Congratulations.”
“Oh, thank you,” she says, smiling. If she could blush, I’m sure she would.
“Is this your first gallery showing?” I ask.
“My first of this size, definitely,” she says. “And my first since being turned. I confess, I’m not so used to all of the attention. Usually I get less compliments and more weird looks.”
“Well, I hope there are many more to come,” I say, smiling. “Gallery showings, I mean. Not weird looks.”
She laughs. “Right. Thanks. I’m Elizabeth, by the way. Er, Lady Elizabeth? You probably know that already, but it feels so strange not to introduce myself, so…”
“I’m Nora,” I say, shaking her hand. “Pleasure.”
Claude, in an unusual show of what could be mistaken for shyness, only steps in when we both look at him. “Lord Claude de Vulpe,” he says, with a small, self-mocking bow.
“Oh,” says Lady Elizabeth.
“Oh,” he echoes, rising from his bow with a sardonic ghost of a smile.
I look back and forth between them, not sure what to make of the pause in the conversation. At that point, I realize that the room’s attention is on us, a rather alarming number of heads turned in our direction.
Elizabeth clearly feels the spotlight too. “I…” she starts uncomfortably. “I’m afraid I have to…”
“No need,” Claude says, holding up a hand. “We’ll go. Just wanted to extend my compliments.”
He leads me away while I’m still trying to make sense of what just happened. His mouth is a stiff line, his shoulders tense.
“What was that?” I ask.