‘Did he live?’
‘No.’
‘They don’t often, do they? Not with you.’
‘I can’t help it if I have a passionate nature.’
‘Maybe not, but that is another very good reason for you not to come out with me tonight.’
‘Oh very well, give your auntie a kiss then, and you’d better run along.’
Cicely stood to kiss her aunt, their lips meeting in a faint caress, only to open in passion, their mouths wide together, tongues entwined, with no sound but the faint chink of their fangs.
‘Little and pointy in the mouth, and such big boobies,’ Aunt Isabella remarked as she finally pulled away. ‘You’re a lucky girl, Cicely.’
Cicely smiled and kissed her aunt once more before scampering from the room, only to slow as she reached the top of the stairs. She’d let Aunt Isabella take more blood than usual, while it had been a long time since she’d fed herself. Her need was now urgent, but she found herself obliged to support herself on the banister as she descended the stairs and she tripped on the last step as she came back out into the moonlit garden.
‘Are you all right, my dear?’ Florence asked.
‘She was a little greedy,’ Cicely answered.
‘You really must learn to assert yourself,’ the Baroness advised. ‘Don’t put up with her nonsense.’
‘I just need to sit down for a moment,’ Cicely said. ‘Then I’d better go.’
‘You’re weak,’ the Baroness stated. ‘I shall come with you.’
‘Come with me?’ Cicely said in surprise. ‘But, Baroness, you haven’t left the grounds in years. Decades in fact.’
‘Since 1952, to be precise,’ the Baroness responded.
‘Really, my dear,’ Florence put in. ‘I’m not at all sure that it’s a good idea.’
‘Nonsense,’ the Baroness answered her. ‘It will do me good.’
‘Things have changed,’ Cicely said.
‘I have seen change across very nearly two hundred years, Cicely St Cyr,’ the Baroness pointed out. ‘And now I am of a mind to see some more. Besides, you are so weak you can barely stand.’
‘I can manage, thank you.’
‘Not another word, Cicely. Let us go to the carriage.’
‘The car, Baroness,’ Cicely pointed out. ‘I drive a car.’
‘A most vulgar abbreviation, and a most vulgar vehicle. Blood-red paintwork indeed. Sometimes your sense of humour is positively grotesque.’
‘It’s inconspicuous. Speaking of which, at the very least you will have to change.’
‘Certainly not!’
The Baroness had risen and stalked into the house. Cicely made to follow, but Florence spoke up. ‘Shall I come too, my dear?’
Cicely turned to make a brief inspection of the corpse-white face, the ragged grave shroud that only partially concealed the emaciated body, the inch-long fangs projecting over bloodless lips. ‘I’m not sure it would be your thing,’ she said.
‘Perhaps not,’ Florence agreed.
Cicely followed the Baroness through the house, throwing on a coat as she went, then out to the stable yard, where a double row of vacant stalls faced each other across time-worn flagstones. Her car stood to one side, the colour just evident under the brilliant moon.
‘And why so small?’ the Baroness demanded, picking up the conversation more or less where she’d left off. ‘A carriage should reflect a lady’s status. I had a beautiful black and gold landau once, drawn by a team of six greys …’
The Baroness continued her reminiscences, as Cicely started the car and drove out from the stable block and down the long curving avenue of intertwined beeches that hid the house from any curious gaze. Another mile and she was on the motorway, with her companion now silent as she watched the passing scenery and speaking only when they had stopped near to the old warehouse in which the club was being held. A sign in glaring red-orange neon above the doors proclaimed the name of the premises ‘Suzi’s’, while a painted board advertised the fetish vamp night that had drawn Cicely’s attention.
‘Rather common, is it not?’ the Baroness remarked as she climbed from the car. ‘But you’re sensible, of course. Nobody notices the occasional missing peasant, after all, but take somebody from even a moderately notable family and, oh, the fuss!’
‘I think it might be better if you didn’t refer to them as peasants,’ Cicely suggested.
‘But they are peasants,’ the Baroness pointed out as she made a disdainful inspection of a group of girls in nothing but fishnet tights and brightly coloured underwear, ‘although in my day –’
‘Oh shut up!’ Cicely said.
The Baroness gave her a haughty look but made no move towards reprisal. Neither drew comment at the door, where Cicely paid for two tickets, admitting them to a great square of open space, flickering with coloured lights and loud with music. The floor was already crowded, with dancers sporting a vast variety of styles: dour or flamboyant Goths in their black finery, role players and cosplayers, dominants and submissives, fetishists of every description.
‘Extraordinary!’ the Baroness remarked, her voice raised above the music. ‘Although I recall a ball at Chantilly, given by the last Condé …’
Cicely was not listening, but concentrating on the hunt. Some three hundred people were visible, one of whom would be giving up his, or her, blood, maybe more than one, especially if the Baroness chose to join the chase. It was never an easy choice, but always a thrilling one, while the occasional rejection only added to her hunger. The victim had to be pretty, fey and sufficiently dedicated to the vampire cult to allow Cicely to feed as they made love, something the presence of the Baroness made rather awkward.
‘Do you think, perhaps –’ she began, only to break off as she turned to discover that her companion was no longer with her. ‘Bother!’
Irritated, Cicely went in search of the Baroness, a task made harder by the jumping shadows and because well over half the guests at the club were dressed entirely in black. Climbing to a balcony, she scanned the throng in the main room over and again before moving on to the bar, then into a series of smaller rooms set aside for more intimate encounters. She found the Baroness in the very last, the darkest, the deepest within the labyrinthine warehouse, and what she saw made her gape in astonishment.
The room had been fitted out as if it were a medieval dungeon, with walls painted to resemble dripping grey-green stone and a single high window set with rusting iron bars. Against the far wall was a tall cross of heavy beams fitted with chains and leather straps, while other pieces of furniture intended to aid in restraint and punishment stood to the sides. A man was strapped to the cross, naked, his burly back and heavy buttocks criss-crossed with scarlet welts, while three others knelt on the floor, their faces pressed to the dirty concrete. Between them stood the Baroness, her thin lips set in a pleased smile as she employed a long single-tail whip with practised efficiency.
‘Ah, there you are, my dear,’ the Baroness said when she finally noticed Cicely. ‘I must say, this is tremendous fun! I had no idea modern people knew their place so well.’
‘They –’ Cicely began and thought better of it, breaking off as one of the men on the floor spoke up, addressing the Baroness.
‘Mistress, please, I beg you, just one kiss of your boots. I’ll do anything you want, anything you say!’
‘I want to please