Chapter 31
Several months later
A downright luxury, to wake up on clean white cotton percale.
No need to leap instantly out of bed, though as soon as Simone rolled over she heard the click and faint whine as the television was turned off, relative silence filling the penthouse.
No seals either, since they weren’t traveling; John took the invisible shimmers off just before dusk, so long as there was ‘no danger’.
He had a way different idea of risk than she did, that was for sure.
The first ritual was opening the drapes; it only took a button, but she liked doing it by hand.
San Francisco sparkled and twinkled below, spreading down to the bay.
The Golden Gate was a strand of yellow stars, and even on this floor she could hear the faint breathing of the city, the hum of traffic, the ever-present surf-murmur of human crowding.
Most nights, the whisper was comforting.
A vintage silk bathrobe, the kind she’d always secretly coveted, was ready on a row of wooden pegs; she yawned, padding down the hall, scraping her soles happily on thick blue carpet. According to the resident expert, the yawn reflex was a holdover from pre-infection.
Mortal time, John would say. Before the Dark Gift.
He wasn’t kidding about money being easy for older vamps, or maybe he had investments socked away from ‘before the fire’.
Somehow he’d accumulated enough for this apartment, the furnishings, a new surprise almost every night.
Even the cleaning and other chores were handled; no city ever really slept, and with enough money you could get maid service at any hour, day or night.
For the first time in her life, she didn’t have to lift a finger. A giant change of affairs, one she tentatively almost liked.
Simone’s own nest egg sat tidily in a fresh account under a different name, insulated from ‘Jane Smith’ by a series of transfers and redirects.
Sometimes she called up the statements just to look at them, and each time the sharp swell of relief was the same.
All safe, all hers, untouched by daily expenses.
John simply shrugged. It is my honor to see to your comfort, he’d say. And your feeding.
Which of course generally touched off one of his nymphomaniac episodes.
The penthouse was an open plan, all glass and chrome. He had a fascination with both; Simone was just glad he didn’t want to live underground like some folklore vamps. Still, his cautions about completely drawing the heavy blackout drapes in the bedroom before dawn were nearly endless.
The kitchen shone, clean as a whistle. A bubbling, a burbling, the heavenly smell of coffee—it was one of the new pod machines in slick indigo enamel, its lines consciously Art Deco. It worked just fine and the cleanup was easy, one of the very few chores she didn’t let anyone else near.
The brewing had just about stopped when warm air brushed her hair; his arms slid around her waist. “I have missed you,” he murmured, and nipped lightly at her earlobe.
Her knees went faintly weak, as usual. “Restrain yourself, old man. I need caffeine.”
“It has no effect, save psychological.” He nipped again, one hand describing her hip under thin silk. Nowadays it wasn’t black jeans and button-ups but a thoroughly modern haircut, T-shirts, and butter-soft stonewash, though he kept the cowboy boots. “And you are too delicious. I can’t help it.”
“Hm.” Hard not to feel pleased, not to feel a little flutter deep down in her stomach. The whole leman thing was unbelievable, but she had to admit his story was consistent.
The reaction when she suggested maybe meeting other sanguinant so she could compare notes was thought-provoking as well.
“Be good,” she continued. “I decide where and when, that’s the deal.”
“That is our agreement, yes.” Another nuzzle, a very light scrape of his blunt human teeth on the side of her neck, and he laughed softly when she shivered.
The living room couch was vast, dusty blue, and comfortable, her one insistence for the furnishings. It didn’t match the sleek coffee tables, Eames chairs, and whole minimalist vibe he had going on, but he never complained about the incongruity.
Miles away from Curt, indeed. She pulled her legs up and settled, tailor-fashion, in her usual spot. And as usual John stretched out, his head in her lap, seemingly supremely comfortable and handing her the remote without being asked.
“What were you watching?” Simone couldn’t get over how much an old vampire liked cable, for God’s sake. Not to mention streaming.
“Nature show.” His bright eyes hooded, he went motionless as a cat, nearly boneless as well. If he started to purr she wouldn’t be surprised. “One may roam the world without leaving the room.”
“Yeah, but you only see what the producers want.” The screen lit up, a giraffe working on a high branch with a long dark-grey tongue—when she thought about it, Simone could believe vampires were just one of Ma Nature’s little experiments, set loose in the petri dish of a rocky, watery planet.
“True.” He studied her instead of the screen, gazing up from her lap as she sipped. “Would you like to travel?”
“Not just yet.” Sometimes it was exhausting, all the decisions each night. Did she like this, did she want that, did she prefer, what did she want?
Simone inhaled the steam rising from her cup gratefully, pressed the button.
Channels popped by, the volume at the lowest possible setting. Most nights she didn’t want the noise or the bright moving pictures first thing; sometimes streaming old movies with a bowl of uneaten popcorn was tolerable.
She couldn’t settle enough to knit just yet.
As usual, John didn’t look like he minded her restless surfing. He seemed to enjoy whatever happened; there was, however, always the inevitability of his hands on her, his mouth, her own gasps and pleading, sometimes outright screams of release.
And the feeding. Can’t forget that. Finding out that he took a little from her during the day had provoked what would have been a knockdown drag-out fight with anyone else, but he simply listened to her furious spluttering and inquired whether she would like to be bitten while awake, as if it made no difference.
One way, he said quietly, or another. Choose, sweet Simone.
She wasn’t sure what to think about that yet, either.
Simone skipped past the news, stopped, flicked back.
A shiny-haired man with a soothing mellow tenor looked into the camera with what he had to be sure was reassuring gravitas, and in a box to the upper right another man’s face floated, promo stock footage from a company event, flashbulbs popping as Elton Huske posed, thumbs in black fleece-vest pockets.
“—fire in his Aspen vacation home,” the announcer intoned. “His company was found to be nearly bankrupt, despite the high stock valuations of X-OL and several subsidiaries; investigations are still ongoing. To date, Huske’s body has never been found.”
Coffee slopped in the mug as Simone shuddered. John moved swiftly, whisking the remote away, and the TV screen died once more, its electric glow shrinking to nothingness, becoming a blank dark mirror.
He set the remote carefully aside and was suddenly in a different position, his hands on hers around hot ceramic, steadying and safe. An inquiring look, his lips parted slightly as if to speak, and with that expression he was actually, well, handsome.
Or maybe she only thought that because she was sleeping with him. An open question.
“I’m fine,” Simone said, forestalling the question. “Really. I promise. Did you…”
Did you take his money? She didn’t want to think it was possible for a vamp to learn so quickly, though now he knew his way around a computer and she’d even caught him playing games on his sleek black smartphone, studying the screen with an abstracted air as his fingers blurred.
He’d be hell at a casino. Good Lord.
Huske had more likely blown his fortune on that mountain hideout—which couldn’t have been cheap—plus chasing immortality in vampire form. It was also possible X-OL had been a sham, a prettily wrapped present with rotting innards dribbling out the bottom.
She couldn’t tell which prospect was most terrifying. Or revolting.
“Did I what?” Funny how anxious John looked. How human, blue eyes shaded with worry, straight eyebrows drawn together, a tendril of dark hair falling over his slightly wrinkled forehead, his palms so warm and sure against her skin. “Simone?”
“I wanted to ask.” There was no shortage of questions; she was a damn near inexhaustible well, and always faintly amazed that he never seemed to tire of considering each one carefully before answering.
“Have you remembered anything else? About the fire?” So far, the best guess was that the event had occurred in Frisco itself, a quake and a conflagration long enough ago to be considered history.
Which was part of the reason they’d settled here, to hopefully jog his memory.
Though to be honest he didn’t seem very interested in the exercise. It could have been Timbuktu for all he cared, though he dutifully went on trips to the older parts of the city with her, looking around with studious attention, far more interested in her own observations.
“Nothing necessary,” he answered, as always.
Oh well. She’d try again, soon. Simone nodded, freed her hands, and leaned far forward, searching for a coaster. Once more he anticipated, sliding a square pad of black leather across the glass coffee table, positioning it precisely so she could settle the mug.
With that done, she could draw her knees up and curl into his side. As usual, he accepted with alacrity, his arm over her shoulder like a solicitous boyfriend, resting his cheek against her hair as she waited for the shudders to die down.
Trauma stuck around in vamp nervous systems, just like mortal ones.
The apartment building hummed to itself—basement to crown, elevators whooshing up and down, mortal lives lived in a layer-cake of concrete, steel, and glass.
If Simone focused, she could hear the heartbeats of the occupants just below.
Unless the seals were active. How long before she asked him to put up invisible force-fields so she could hear herself think without the noise of human beings all around? Did he ever feel that way?
That was a conversation for another night. The shakes drained away; she didn’t have to think about the lab, the burning blistering straps, the caustic smoke, the sounds of tearing meat and snapped bone.
Or the terrible, brassy smell of death.
The urge to flat-out burrow into the warmth beside her was overwhelming. She rubbed her cheek on his shoulder, and his stillness was absolute attention, complete focus.
“You know,” Simone said, softly, “I don’t think we’ve christened the couch.” It’s the only time I don’t brood about horrible things. That, and when we’re out looking for history.
“Christened?” John sounded very interested in the concept.
Simone uncurled, tipped her face up, and did not have to wait for a kiss. She never did; and eventually she had to gasp don’t tear this, it’s my favorite.
His reply was silent, but intense. And outside the penthouse windows, the night pursued its own eternal business.