The Vampires Are Convinced to Throw a Party, Despite Themselves
Dimity was beginning to feel guilty.
She was hiding from Cris the fact that she had taken to escorting Betsy down to her trysts with the hive queen. She didn’t think she was in any danger. She never spent any time with the bally red-headed fang-toothed snoot. Dimity was rarely even in danger of fainting, as Betsy often emerged with no punctures at all and only love bites to show for her encounter. This was a sign of great improvement in the baroness’s mental state. For it meant that she was eating only when she needed sustenance, and not to prove some kind of medieval point.
But Dimity knew Sir Crispin, as her safety, wouldn’t like that she went down into the cave essentially unprotected. And now he, as her lover, wouldn’t like it that she was placing herself in a position to be corrupted. Because everyone knew it was nigh on impossible to resist the lure of a vampire queen. On the bright side, wasn’t lover a delightful word? Dimity wanted to write missives to all her friends immediately: Sidheag in the North, Sophronia gallivanting about the Continent, and Agatha who was... well, who knew where Agatha was? But Dimity wanted to write to them all anyway, simply to crow: “Guess what has happened to me? I have taken a lover!” Then she would add something on how very peculiar was the way that men functioned physically, in matters carnal – enthusiastic and vulnerable and messy. Who knew? Certainly not Dimity. Now, of course, she was delighted by her discovery, and she was bound and determined to see if she could completely master one specific part of Sir Crispin’s anatomy. With the expectation, of course, that said anatomy could obey her over him and his legendary control, for always. It was a point of pride.
But of course, one didn’t write those sorts of letters. Not even to one’s true friends.
Still, other things were coming along enthusiastically too (not just Sir Crispin’s nether regions).
She’d been working on Lord Finbar, for example, with excellent results. The library was now being expanded – Lord Kirby’s carpenter friend was back. Lord Finbar expressed profound admiration of the Catullus translation Dimity had given him, and continued interest in the works of the transcendentalists. This could only be considered progress.
It might be going too well, in fact, because he asked her one night, with dour timidity, if he might practice an oratory endeavor upon her.
“Practice, Lord Finbar?”
“Well, I have been giving considerable thought to your idea of an intellectual salon, Mrs Carefull, perhaps a small gathering of high-minded, respectably grave individuals.”
“My suggestion? Surely that was your idea, dear Lord Finbar?”
“Was it? How perspicacious of me. Well then, it should most certainly happen.”
“I couldn’t agree more. Shall I send out invitations?” Dimity had, of course, already prepared them all.
“Oh, would you? That would be very kind, indeed. I’m sure you know who best to invite.” As if Dimity had lived in Nottingham all her life instead of merely two weeks.
She stood to leave.
“No, no, my dear Mrs Carefull, please remain a moment longer. If I could simply practice with you? Of course one should not be so nervous, but...”
“Oh, but wouldn’t Rosie be a better choice of audience?”
“Rosie is a lovely girl, but not particularly cerebral. I believe that you are better equipped to understand the somber quality and melancholic nuances of my work.”
Dimity, after a moment’s consideration, decided it would be better to have this over and done with sooner rather than later. “Very well, sir. I’m all ears.”
Lord Finbar began, and Dimity realized he was not so far along as she had hoped. He clearly needed a great deal more work. And it was, perhaps, beyond the purview of even her not inconsiderable talents to eliminate Byron when he had taken root so firmly.
I stand alone at the edge of the abyss.
Remembering.
Oh, remembering.
That you are only beautiful when you cry.
No, oh no.
Do not take your love away, in deathly song.
All is winter in my heart.
I pray you murder me, like eggs falling over the cliff of forever.
For now, all I see is darkness and destruction.
The angels are dead.
I need nothing. I am nothing.
Sadness rains.
Dimity began to clap.
“Oh, but that is only the first verse, Mrs Carefull.”
“Oh, dear me! I was overwhelmed by the profound nature and depth of feeling in your beautiful words.”
“Shall I go on, then?”
“Oh, dear sir, but I don’t think I could bear it. Too powerful, too moving.” She squeezed out a few tears. Dimity had always excelled at crying on cue.
Lord Finbar watched the perfect crystalline drops trickle down her cheek in awe. Dimity did not wipe them away – why should she? They weren’t that easy to produce!
“Oh, you poor, delicate, sentimental young jewel. I’ve done you in, haven’t I?”
“Oh, sir, it is a tremendous talent you possess. How did it survive your metamorphosis? One would think you still human, with such depth of meaning in your stanzas. How could you not present to a broader audience? An intellectual salon is exactly the thing. We simply must invite others to listen to your greatness and be similarly moved by it.”
“You don’t think I would be showing up the other speakers, do you? One wishes to be welcoming to all levels and abilities. It’s not putting myself too far forward – a poem of such grave magnitude?”
“Well, perhaps only one verse at a time? Over a series of assemblies? All at once might be a touch overwhelming for weaker human constitutions. Lives might be lost.”
“My dear Mrs Carefull, how thoughtful you are. I shall take this under advisement. Of course, my melancholy might detrimentally affect others. It’s quite deep, you see? One does not wish to drag any poor, unsuspecting humans into the depressive depths that hold a man such as myself in their yearning maw.”
Dimity patted his hand. “I understand perfectly. You merely wish us to experience your pain, share it a little, but not dwell in the darkness with you.”
“Exactly so.”
“Then indeed, I urge all caution in your oratory pursuits, dear Lord Finbar. The damage you could do with any more than a single verse could be profound and have wide-ranging repercussions.”
He nodded gravely. “I understand. Poetry can be too powerful.”
“And thus others must be eased into it. Your library idea is a wonderful prospect. After all, these days most young ones are taught to read, so eventually they too may enjoy poetry. And your oration will most certainly inspire them.”
“You are too kind, Mrs Carefull. Too kind.”
“Now, Lord Finbar. Have you considered, for this debut of your salon, a new jacket perhaps? Something emerald green? I do so think you need a signature color. All the great poets had a signature color. And black is so over-worn in poetry circles, don’t you feel?”
“Green, you think, Mrs Carefull?”
“Emerald green, Lord Finbar. It will bring out your eyes.” Which was a belter of a lie, as his eyes were so sunken she had no idea what color they were.
“Do you think little Miss Rosie would like me in emerald green, Mrs Carefull?”
“Most assuredly, Lord Finbar. Most assuredly.” With which she beat a hasty retreat, as he looked inclined to begin another verse.
Accordingly, invitations to an Intellectual Salon at Budgy Hall were delivered and the replies came back with alacrity. It seemed Nottingham wanted nothing more than a new cerebral gathering of pedants in its midst. The fact that it was being hosted by a vampire hive was, of course, left off the invitations. But eccentric aristocrats reciting poetry were deemed, even in the very best of drawing rooms, to be almost as worthy.
If the Ogdon-Loppeses knew the truth behind Budgy Hall or connected the salon to their youngest son’s inappropriate love affair, they made no objection. For they were the first to accept.
Unfortunately, all was not entirely smooth sailing for Dimity and Sir Crispin.
Cris was horrified to open the door just before sunrise, with everyone preparing for bed, to find Mr Theris smirking on the stoop. He had with him a large man, well-dressed but scruffy, with a certain commanding glint to his eye. Crispin had never served with Lord Maccon of the Woolsey Pack, but he’d had the Alpha pointed out to him in the ranks. The head of BUR had a reputation for being gruff and exacting, occasionally brutal, and generally fair. Because Cris worked for the War Office, he also knew what authority the werewolf standing before him in greatcoat and top hat carried for the Crown – he was a sanctioned sundowner. He was allowed, legally and without trial, to kill other supernatural creatures.
Greetings exchanged and introductions made, Lord Maccon gave Cris such a knowing look it was clear he was aware of their infiltration operation.
Lord Maccon made a weak excuse for the actor’s benefit. “Your pardon for arriving unannounced. Mr Theris kindly said he’d escort me to see Budgy Hall. I’ve an interest in architecture and it is an excellent example of its type.”
“Oh, indeed, what type is that?” asked Cris.
“Oh, erm, architectural.” The werewolf shrugged and looked a bit confused. Clearly, he was not one for conducting infiltrations himself. Crispin might have made it easier on the man, but Cris was nervous and flummoxed to find the biggest threat to the hive’s survival simply standing there on the landing.
“Indeed so, Lord Maccon. As you say.” Cris did not invite him in. He wanted to. For surely Dimity’s makeover would impress even the most hardened of sundowners. Or Scottish lords. But he couldn’t. One didn’t invite a werewolf into a vampire hive without a great deal of pomp and circumstance and clearance first. Even vampires as absent-minded as Justice, Kirby, and Finbar would know a werewolf when they smelled one. And without their queen to stabilize them and their emotional reactions to the unexpected presence of another predator in their house? Who knew how they might react?
Fortunately, it seemed Lord Maccon knew all of this and was merely on their stoop to make Dimity aware that he was in town. For now.
Lord Maccon pretended to look at the night sky. “Time is running out.” The implication was that he meant sunrise, and it was for Theris’s benefit. Crispin knew that he really meant saving the queen. Theris barely noticed. He was occupied in kicking at the stoop impatiently while the niceties were exchanged.
Lord Maccon tilted his hat and turned to go.
“Wait just a moment, my lord?” Crispin reached behind to the entryway table for one of the extra invitations. Dimity had made them up on thick card stock with lace detail and gilt, very ornate and impressive (and almost Valentine-like). “An intellectual salon, my lord. A few evenings from now. Let us prove our mettle, sir. You won’t be disappointed.”
Lord Maccon took the invitation and tapped the corner of the envelope against his teeth. “I’ll be made welcome?”
“Of course, sir.” Dimity’s persuasive abilities were about to be truly tested, but what better way to show off how far the hive had come than by proving they could tolerate a werewolf in their midst without flinching, and recite poetry at the same time?
“A gathering, here?” No doubt Lord Maccon had been told the hive was in full retreat and going to Goth. The fact that there was a party in the works could only be seen as a good sign.
“Here, sir.”
The big werewolf nodded. “We shall see if it’s good enough. A respite, then, until the party.” With which he swept away, greatcoat trailing in his wake as he strode down the cobbled street at an impressive clip. Crispin caught a glance, as the coat flapped, of the gun holstered at his hip. A small, fat revolver with a square grip – a Galand Tue Tue. Crispin knew his munitions. He’d once been in charge of them for his regiment. The Tue Tue was one he knew of but had never seen outside of schematics, for it had been designed with only one purpose – to kill vampires.
Mr Theris finally spoke, revealing that he didn’t know Lord Maccon was a supernatural creature and could still hear him. “Cad. Who is he to judge us? Bally Scotsman got himself a title and fancy digs in London. We met on the train up. First class will let anyone in these days.”
Crispin blinked at him, startled. This proved a remarkable lack of social acumen, even for Mr Theris. The story of Lord Maccon’s becoming Alpha to the Woolsey Pack was common knowledge in London society. Even if the fact that he was licensed to kill supernatural creatures wasn’t.
Judiciously, Crispin said, “He would be an excellent addition to our upcoming gathering, regardless.”
“Oh, indeed? And what gathering is that?” Mr Theris stepped in, tossing his top hat at the stand and missing it, so that one of the new maids had to run after and pick it up.
“Lord Finbar is hosting an intellectual salon and literary gathering.”
“Bloody hell,” said Mr Theris, succinctly.
Cris carefully did not invite the actor to participate. The man lacked all class – he’d probably choose to recite Hamlet. “How was your trip to London? Did the stage embrace you? Did Lord Akeldama?”
Mr Theris wrinkled his nose and handed over a missive, seal unbroken. This surprised Cris. He hadn’t thought Mr Theris capable of that kind of discretion. Cris cracked it and read the vampire’s neat firm hand with interest. Various words were underlined for emphasis:
No, Sir Crispin, no. He is not for me and I am, most assuredly, not for him. I do have an idea, however. If this fellow is a bit much, even to become one of my droney-poos, without question Nottingham cannot hope to cope with him long term. Let the werewolves have him, dear boy. Werewolves are always up for the hardest and messiest of jobs.
Cris looked up. “Are you sure Lord Maccon is that much of a bounder, Mr Theris? One would think you had a few things in common.”
“Bit of a brute, truth to tell.”
“Exactly what I meant.”
Mr Theris paused, clearly unsure whether he’d been insulted or not. “Well, erm, quite. And how are things here in poor old Notts?”
Cris gestured wide to indicate the transformed hive house, practically glowing with vibrancy and decorative aplomb.
Mr Theris managed to look both impressed and discomfited. Of course he went on the attack. “And how has your wife been rubbing along with the baroness?”
“My wife?”
“Oh yes, didn’t you know? She’s been taking the human nibbles down to the queen every night in my place. I passed along the responsibility to her. Or I did when I left.”
“She WHAT?” Crispin’s stomach dropped into his knees. His knees were not ready for that and began to shake.
“Oh yes. None of us thought Baroness Ermondy would put up with that nonsense, but presumably she has, or I’d already have heard the screaming rants. Used to be that if any of us tried to change anything around the hive, or even recommended a change, the baroness had hysterics. After she had her last big fit and took to her cave, all the other drones left.”
“They left, did they?” Cris tried to calm himself, still upset that Dimity had apparently been seeing the queen, or at least seeing the queen was fed, by herself most nights. They were going to have a nice long conversation about that!
“Yes, they left, en masse, so to speak.”
“So you say.” Cris genuinely wondered if Mr Theris didn’t think he’d hounded them out, or if he was that good an actor.
Suddenly, Mr Theris snorted, muscled his way into the front parlor, and put down his suitcase. “Let us be perfectly frank with one another, Mr Carefull. Performer to performer.”
“Must we, Mr Theris?”
“You two are no more interested in becoming drones to this hive than you are married to each other.”
“Is that what you think, Mr Theris?”
“That’s what I think.” He was back to looking smug.
“London didn’t go well, I take it?”
“What makes you say that?”
“We had all hoped you would stay, take to the stage where you evidently belong.”
“I’m sure you did. Now what did that woman of yours do to my room while I was away?”
“Whatever it was, I’m sure it’s a vast improvement.”
“I don’t know what you two are really about, Mr Carefull, but now that I’m back, I intend to stop you.”
“Too late, Mr Theris, far too late. There’s an intellectual salon imminent.”
The next night, after waking, everyone made a show of being pleased to see Mr Theris returned. Dimity more than anyone. It seemed no one was actually pleased to see him, however. Dimity sighed. One more problem to solve. Not to mention the fact that, as Crispin had told her before they went to sleep, BUR’s chief sundowner was in town – armed. Never, she thought, had there been more pressure put on the success of an event then there was on Lord Finbar’s wet-blanket efforts at an intellectual salon. Oh dear.
Mr Theris kept turning up as she made the rounds, checking in on all her final projects. She caught him chatting with Lord Finbar in the library, apparently disgusted by the expansion in progress, the new shelves and comfortable chairs. The actor was blatantly dismissive of poor Rosie, who was in tears in one corner. Lord Finbar was throwing her distressed little looks while Mr Theris gesticulated widely and complained about excess, and why on earth did the impoverished need to read, for goodness’ sake? Apparently, Lord Finbar had shocked Theris with the hive’s intent to establish a lending library for the benefit of the underprivileged.
Dimity rushed to Rosie, tutted at Lord Finbar, ignored Mr Theris, and guided the distressed girl away for tea.
Later that same night, she found Mr Theris flirting outrageously with the kindly middle-aged carpenter while poor Lord Kirby slouched in a corner of the parlor looking morose and miserable. Even Trudge seemed disgruntled. Sitting at Lord Kirby’s feet, the Corgi looked up with worried dark eyes at the vampire, one paw on top of the vampire’s shoe. Really, Mr Theris was too bad! Too much, too domineering. It seemed, with the queen gone, he’d stepped into the void and the vampires, lost, had let him. Well, Dimity would not allow it to occur again!
Dimity told Lord Kirby that she needed his help post haste and took him away.
Lord Kirby didn’t want to go, but Dimity only whispered, “Betsy will be here soon. Betsy can take on Mr Theris and win.”
Betsy was no milkwater miss. She adored the queen, and she’d taken over Mr Theris’s proper role of main drone and human nibble without flinching, and with a great deal more grace and aplomb. After all, he had neglected even to feed Baroness Ermondy himself! She would take on Mr Theris with all the righteous indignation of the newly responsible.
Also, Dimity had long since shown Betsy how to use a muff pistol.
Dimity took Lord Finbar to Lord Kirby in the library. She hadn’t wanted to be so direct with this particular arrangement, but the unexpected return of Mr Theris was mucking up her schedule.
“How are the plans coming along for the salon on Thursday, Lord Finbar?”
“As well as one might expect, Mrs Carefull.” Which was Lord Finbar’s way of saying everything was going swimmingly.
“I’ve been meaning to ask you something for a long time, Lord Finbar. With all your attention on these new enterprises, opening the library to the public and hosting the salons, both of which I have no doubt will be wildly successful – not to mention your wonderful poetry – are you not a little overwhelmed in your praetoriani duties as well?”
Lord Kirby, behind her, gasped. “Mrs Carefull, what are you doing?”
“Hush now, let me continue. Lord Finbar, are you not feeling a tad stretched? I don’t want you to overtax yourself. Plus, you have Rosie now to think of.”
Lord Finbar nodded. “Yes, of course, Rosie. How is the lass? Mr Theris was rather unkind to her, I’m afraid. I forgot about him, of course. Was away somewhere for a spell. Not sure where he’s been. Overtaxed, you think? Yes, it is rather a lot for me to take on alone, and one has the depths of one’s melancholy to consider. One wouldn’t want to take on so much that one loses touch with one’s wallowing in melancholic depths, would one? Don’t you feel similarly, Mrs Carefull?”
“Of course I do. So you see my point, dear sir? Lord Kirby has the perfect solution.”
“Does he indeed? And what’s that, old chum?” Finbar looked with interest at his fellow hive member.
Lord Kirby worried the end of his sleeve tassel, looking at Dimity imploringly. He’d taken to shorter robes over trousers, with narrower sleeves and longer tassels, in lighter colors. Presumably to help control the appearance of Corgi hairs everywhere. But Dimity felt certain the velvet would not last much longer. When it came to a competition between dog hair and velvet, the dog hair always won.
“He was telling me only last night – it was last night, wasn’t it, Lord Kirby? Anyway, he was telling me he worried for you, Lord Finbar. He worries you do too much.”
“Oh, Kirby, my dear fellow, too kind.” Finbar looked near to tears.
“And I was saying, he might have to sacrifice, you see, to help you out, for the good of the hive. And your melancholy, of course.”
“Oh, surely not!”
“As you were saying, Lord Finbar, you need time to wallow.”
“Yes, I was saying that recently, wasn’t I?”
“So we were thinking, Lord Kirby and I, perhaps praetoriani is too much for you? Perhaps it’s time to slough off the coils of hive concerns and the safeguarding of the queen. Lord Kirby is ready. Ready and willing.”
“Oh, is he? It’s not too much for you, old man? It’s such a burden, I wouldn’t want to curse you so.”
Lord Kirby started and blinked at Dimity, but he wasn’t so far gone as to not follow her crafty machinations towards his greatest wish. “Oh no, old chap, I assure you! I mean to say, of course it’s a terrible burden, terrible. But anything to help the hive, my dear fellow. Anything.”
“There, you see?” said Dimity.
“Are you sure?” Lord Finbar looked almost pleased.
Lord Kirby was very grave. “Indubitably.”
“Our queen will have to approve the switch, of course, should she ever come out. But I think it’s a capital idea. Allows me to pursue my new projects and have time to wallow. You always cared more for her safety and hive management than I did, anyway. Never knew why she had to foist the bally position on me.”
“That’s settled, then?” Dimity slapped her hands together and rubbed them. “Topping. Now, shall we discuss Mr Theris? I’m not quite certain what to do about him. I was wondering if he can be trusted to attend our little gathering of like minds, or if he needs some task to keep him out of the house, or if you might consider relaxing our standards a touch and allowing one of the local werewolves to visit? Courting, if you would. When I think of Mr Theris, I think claviger. Don’t you?”
“Werewolves! Werewolves.” Lord Kirby’s lip curled. “Ruffians! Scoundrels! Scandalmongers! The lot of them.”
Lord Finbar added, “They aren’t very intellectual.”
Dimity nodded. “Perhaps only one claviger and one werewolf, then? A very special werewolf, all the way from London.”
“But why, Mrs Carefull? Whyever involve them?”
“Well, you see, I have this idea...”
They quarreled that night. A real quarrel, not a sham one to push the hive in a new decorative direction or to showcase the efficiency of a good noise-muffling tapestry. He’d been stewing over it too, since Mr Theris had let loose the goose the night before.
It was because Sparkles had been attending the hive queen alone with only Betsy for company. Cris thought it was a perfectly reasonable thing to quarrel about, his being her safety and all.
“We still don’t know if she’s sane or not,” was his point.
“She’s actually being very tame with Betsy. She’s not gorging herself anymore. She lets me catch glimpses of her from the doorway. Betsy says she talks sweet.”
“Stomach talk, Sparkles. You know how mellow and chatty people get after a nice meal.”
“Well yes, but—”
“It’s such a big risk. At least let me go down with you.”
“No, that’ll scare her. I know it will. A strange man, even one as pretty as you? It has to be me, or Betsy, or Mr Theris.”
“Never again, not that man. He shouldn’t be allowed near her. Probably filling her head with nonsense, plus his blood can’t be healthy for her. It’s probably full of strange humors.”
“Yes, I agree. Please, Cris, let me do this my way? I still have my pistol with me.”
“Oh, and that has sundowner bullets in it, does it?”
“Well, no.”
“Sparkles! We have someone in town to handle this!”
“He won’t give her a fighting chance. I know he won’t. It has to be me.” It was the tone of voice she got before she stripped him bare and pounced. The one that said she would not be stymied by anything or anyone.
He had to trust her.
But his trust was tested even further as for the two nights leading up to the salon, Dimity dressed in a low-necked ballgown, a recently ordered one too – tightly fitted and puffy only at the back. This, Cris had learned to his great disappointment, was a bustle.
He wasn’t sure what she was about, why she had to dress up. Or why she had to show as much neck as a human nibble might.
But both nights she vanished into the limestone caves and came back to him unscathed.
There was something desperate to their lovemaking on the evenings following. Because Cris hadn’t liked that she felt the need to keep a secret from him. And Dimity clearly felt she must reassure him of her trust.
He realized that he’d told her, not so very long ago, that she was both things. She was his Sparkles and she was the Honey Bee. But somehow he’d forgotten. He’d let himself fall in love with Dimity, forgetting that the Honey Bee took risks. The Honey Bee had to take risks. It was her job.
And there was always the possibility that he would lose Dimity because of the Honey Bee’s responsibilities.
Dimity didn’t know that sex could become both comfort and reassurance. She certainly had never thought she’d be the one doing the comforting. She’d assumed, when they entered this new state of carnal bliss, that Cris would remain her safety. She was beginning to realize that sometimes she would need to be his.
There was something lost about him, after they quarreled. She was desperate to find him again. It wasn’t that she hadn’t trusted him, only that she’d known he wouldn’t like her visiting the queen alone, and she’d been trying to protect him, in her way.
They both knew she was right. They both knew it was her job.
But like finding her with a pistol pointed at Mr Theris, the danger inherent in a vampire queen scared him. Cris was afraid for her, and that was a hundred times worse than being afraid for himself. So Dimity tried to show him she was well, she was whole, and she was his in any way she could be.
Not that he remained passive under her. He always let her explore, always let her do whatever she wished to him and his body at the start, but he never lasted all that long without paying her back.
Her Cris, her man, was never truly still, and he was like that in bed as well. Always having to do and to please, looking after her, making certain she was happy, several times, before he allowed himself his own release. Before he allowed her to win. Because it was winning, so far as Dimity was concerned.
She’d already learned so many things in so few nights. She’d learned what she enjoyed, and what else she maybe wanted to try, not to mention a few things that probably wouldn’t be her favorites.
Honestly, even though she suspected the position was considered rather banal, she liked him over her best. The weight of him. She liked to wrap her arms and legs around his hard, lean body, squeezing as tight as she could. She liked the way her limbs looked coiled around him. For he was tan all over, so it wasn’t only his outdoor activities that turned him brown. (Unless, of course, he was prone to doing those activities naked.)
She liked rubbing against him, her nipples in his chest hair, and she liked the gradual way he sank into her, always slow and always careful and always, always kind. And she liked the way, if she held him close enough and tight enough for long enough, he sometimes forgot to be careful, but he never forgot to be kind.