I nodded. They didn’t offer to take my bag. The one that had spoken hitched his thumb toward the house. “Cyrus is waiting.”
The other guard stepped forward and pulled the gate open. I noticed that his hands trembled.
When I reached the front door, it opened. But instead of Cyrus, a leather-clad couple emerged. They pushed past me as they descended the steps, and I caught the sound of loud music coming from somewhere in the house.
More tough-looking vampires loitered in the foyer. Some lounged on a sofa in the center of the room, their vampire faces on full display. A few played with dice in a corner. All of them were dressed to ride in a motorcycle gang, and all appeared to be very intoxicated.
A bodyguard stood in front of the doorway to Cyrus’s study. Compared to the bikers, the black-clad guard looked like a Boy Scout, so I made a beeline for him.
“Is Cyrus in there?” I asked, juggling my bag to the other shoulder.
“I’ll take you to him.”
At the sound of the voice behind me, I spun and came face-to-face with Dahlia. My features began to shift and loosen. I bared my fangs.
“You’d be dead before you laid a finger on me.” She snapped her fingers, and the guard at the door retreated.
A low growl formed in my throat, the sound animalistic and satisfying. “I’m a lot faster than you think.”
She smiled sweetly. “You weren’t so fast when I was killing your boyfriend last night.”
I lunged at her. She raised her hands to form a spell, and I slashed them with my suddenly clawed hands. Droplets of her blood sprayed the marble floor.
The biker vampires stopped their carousing. I assumed the blood had drawn their attention, but they weren’t staring at us. They were staring beyond us.
Cyrus stood in the study doorway, clad in a lush floor-length fur dressing gown. His hair hung in two long platinum braids that fell behind his shoulders. He smiled at the bikers.
“Gentlemen,” he called over the sound of Dahlia’s swearing, “I trust you are enjoying yourselves?”
A few of the vampires raised their beers and gave a raucous cry.
When they turned back to their amusements, Cyrus gripped Dahlia by the hair and pulled her into the study. He motioned to the bodyguard, who grabbed my arm and pushed me in, as well.
When the door closed, Cyrus threw Dahlia to the ground. “What to do with a disobedient pet? Especially one that has had so many warnings.”
Dahlia wiped her nose on her bloodied wrist. “Cyrus, it wasn’t my fault, she—”
He slapped her across the face. The sound of the impact made me wince. Leaning down, he grasped her chin in his hand and twisted her neck at an uncomfortable angle so she was forced to look up at him. “What did you call me?”
Fresh tears rolled down her face, mixing with the smeared blood from her hands and the layers of makeup that coated her face.
“I’m sorry. It won’t happen again.” She choked on her words. “Master.”
He shoved her away and dusted his hands together as though he’d touched something dirty and unpleasant. He signaled to the guard. “Take her and get her bandaged up. Then lock her in her room.”
He turned to me as the guard led Dahlia away. His beleaguered expression morphed to one of pure joy as he looked me over.
Fidgeting beneath his hot stare, I laughed nervously. “I hope you don’t expect me to call you Master, because you’ll be sorely disappointed.”
Stepping behind me, he laid his hands on my shoulders. I could smell Dahlia’s blood on them. “You might surprise yourself yet, Carrie. I can make you do things you’ve never imagined.”
It’s the blood tie, I reminded myself as a wave of pleasure buckled my knees. He doesn’t have any real control over you. I clenched my fists so hard that my nails slashed my palms.
He pulled me back, slipping his hands beneath my shirt. His skin was warm, as though he’d just fed.
“Don’t I?” The phantom desire that assaulted me was replaced by a hot, electric shiver as his fingers dipped into the cups of my bra. He snickered at my soft moan. “I’m not using the blood tie now, Carrie.”
I writhed away, though my flesh cried out to be touched. “Let’s get something straight. I came here to make good on a bargain. This, you touching me, wasn’t in the terms of our agreement.”
“I bet I’ll change your mind before long,” he said with a smirk. “In the meantime, let me show you around.”
I adjusted the bag on my shoulder.
“I can have your things taken to your room,” he told me.
“I’d rather keep them with me, if it’s all the same.”
“As you wish.” His tone was gentle, but he obviously didn’t take well to not getting his way.
We attracted a few curious stares as we walked through the foyer. Cyrus didn’t acknowledge the group of vampires as he leaned over to whisper in my ear. “The Fangs,” he explained. “They’re a motorcycle club from Nevada. They’ve had some trouble with the Movement there and sought safe haven with me. Hence the appalling sofa in the foyer and the intolerable stench of, what are the kids calling it these days? Reefer?”
“Yeah, about fifty years ago.” I sniffed the air. “It reminds me of college. You ever try it?”
His deep, rich laugh echoed off the polished marble floors. “Carrie, do I look like someone who’d indulge in such a filthy habit? I prefer more elegant intoxicants.”
We entered a corridor. Long windows cast silvery squares of moonlight on the floor. Through the darkness I saw a painting on the wall that depicted the grim shape of a giant clutching a headless corpse.
“Is that…Goya?” While his subjects were gory, an original work by Goya was priceless. With a house like this, his decadent clothing, and round-the-clock security, I supposed I could have wound up with a worse sire. Remembering that Nathan was probably at that moment rooting through the ashes of his ruined shop, I instantly regretted the thought.
“You know your art, Doctor. Very good.” Cyrus let out a melancholy sigh. “It’s only a copy. The real one hangs in the Prado, despite my numerous attempts to purchase it.”
“Well, it’s a really good copy.” I reached out to touch the surface of the painting, and he caught my wrist with an apologetic smile.
“Please, don’t touch. A number of years ago, I had a pet of exceptional talent. He’s also responsible for the bacchanalian orgy depicted on the walls of my bedroom.” His thumb stroked the nearly translucent flesh beneath the cuff of my sleeve, sending a shiver up my arm. “Perhaps you’d like to see that next?”
I jerked my arm away. “Let’s not press our luck, now.”
He chuckled and slipped his arm through mine. “This way.”
At the end of the hallway were large double doors. They opened to the ballroom I’d seen on my first visit, though we entered on a different side. The room had been converted into a makeshift garage, with rows of motorcycles parked on sheets of canvas laid out to protect the floor. Cyrus viewed the objects with some distaste. “I’ll never understand the compulsion some people have to drive themselves anywhere.”
“Had chauffeurs all your life, huh?” I asked, running my hand across the chrome tank of a motorcycle.
“Not quite. I was born six hundred years before the advent of the modern automobile.”
“Six hundred—” I swallowed noisily. “So you were alive during