Chapter Five

 

No. There was no way he would ever get used to this.

Bastian adjusted the narrow tie that was now his. You might as well keep it. It’s not like Nadair has a use for it anymore.

Going in search of the bar, he ignored the stares and pretended he was badass, if only for twenty minutes of his life. Throwing his shoulders back, he strutted like he owned the block the bar was on. He stared down his nose, casting a disinterested gaze at the patrons. If he caught the eye of a refined female, he tipped his head and stuffed away the panic that he might recognize someone—or be recognized.

He’d driven Nadair’s car past Sharpe’s Point, but had parked it a block away and flashed. It was too big of a risk to park it at the club when the other male had been such a frequent flyer, and it was best not to risk being seen anywhere near Ophelia before she walked in.

The clothing had nearly presented an obstacle. The slacks hugged his thighs so tightly, he consoled himself that if the seams hadn’t burst in the car, they were probably going to hold the rest of the night. The shirt, a purple with a hint of metallic, stretched across his shoulders. Ophelia swore it wouldn’t give him away because she’d bought it for Nadair and he’d never worn it. But there’d be no crossing his arms the rest of the night.

The wingtips pinched his feet and he let his sport coat hang open to show off the gold plating on his belt—otherwise the buttons would fly off if he took too deep a breath.

The smell of sex clouded the space. He’d rather walk through the perfume department in the mall and get spritzed. It would be less of an assault on his senses.

In the center of the vampire-exclusive club, he’d expected a high-end runway for strippers. Instead, there were small, round tables circled with high-back upholstered chairs. Couples occupied the seats, doing the mating dance of the primes. Boast, demean others, lay on the innuendo, maybe talk some business and mutual back-scratching before progressing to actual touching.

Some couples were actively groping, though such brazenness was confined to the secluded booths lining the far-right wall of the club, each behind a heavy, blood-red velvet curtain that hung floor to ceiling. A couple of the curtains were closed.

Odd. Ophelia had described the place, but he’d anticipated blatant fornication. The parties he’d tended in the private manors could get…uncomfortable. For him and for much of the rest of the staff, though some participated, making the servants’ quarters their own Sharpe’s Point. But here, at a sex club, the atmosphere was unexpectedly sedate.

Was that why it was a perfect place to bargain and negotiate? They saved the grand finale for last?

The pheromones saturating every fabric and fixture launched an attack on his manhood until, trying to keep his erection at bay, he almost missed the bar. He’d tell himself to get over his prudishness and sport it, but his pants were too small for a flaccid penis. A stiff cock might break free of its restraint.

The bartender assessed him, reading the cut of his coat and the quality of the fabric. Bastian had done the same. It served Bastian well to know who was who, and who was faking it. The club, like any prime party, probably had wannabe primes trying to crash it. The bartender’s scrutiny added another level of danger.

He recalled the scotch Master Gaston had preferred. “Highland Park, 25 Year.”

The bartender didn’t rush to fill his drink. “Do you have an account here, Master…”

“Duvall. Two ls.” Totally made up name. “No account. I’m not yet sure this place has what I need.” Truth. He dug a few hundreds out of his pocket—also Nadair’s stash—and dropped them on the bar. “Keep a refill ready.”

“Yes, Master.”

The bartender bought his act. A good sign. He’d know better than anyone in here who was genuine and who wasn’t.

“If you don’t mind, Master Duvall, what are you looking for?” the bartender asked.

Now that was an easy answer. He passed the male a mysterious smile that he’d seen hundreds of primes use. “I don’t know. Something…unique.”

That fit Ophelia perfectly. And the bartender would have an aha moment when he saw Bastian cozying up to her later tonight.

“You’ll find that here. It’s my pleasure to serve you tonight. The name’s Marcus. I’ll keep an eye out for your refill.”

Bastian resisted the urge to thank him or do something foolish like shake hands. Either action would give him away as not being what he seemed. He stood out enough as a stranger to a male who’d know the personal business of all the clientele.

Marcus drifted away as Bastian reclined against the bar and sipped his scotch. Struggling to school his features, he got the first pull down without gagging.

Ugh, he hated the stuff. He didn’t drink, he didn’t smoke, and he supped blood from servants of other houses. Though some had hinted that they’d like more than a shared meal, he rarely carried it further.

Do you think vampires can die of boredom? Antonia would ask him. Because I’m afraid you’ll be the one to do it.

He was never bored. Work waited for him every minute of the day, and that was how he preferred it.

The scotch didn’t grow less disgusting as he sipped, but it gave him a prop to hide behind as he read the club. The skill was one he’d used at parties in the Gaston manor, when it’d been his job to determine the needs of the guests and strive to meet them.

Those mingling were either looking for dirt on someone or planning dirt on someone. Had this place developed to suit the sexual needs of the privileged, or had that been the bait to lure the wheelers and dealers to one inconspicuous spot? Or was it a happy circumstance that the club filled both desires?

The couples who stuck together in hushed conversation eventually filtered toward one of three dark hallways winging off to promised lands of pleasure. His face threatened to heat just from recalling the conversation with Ophelia as she’d described their use. In detail.

The passage on the far left led to four BDSM rooms, each one themed, though Ophelia had said themed BDSM wasn’t an accurate description. They were divided into soft-core and hard-core rooms. Hard-core rooms included spanking benches—whatever those were—and swings and bindings. One of each was connected to an optional viewing room for the voyeurs.

The middle hall had rooms for “boring old sex” but had scent scrubbers so the suspicious mate wouldn’t catch on. Apparently lavender was a favored scent, and in any of those rooms, the smell could drop a rabid elephant. Its very intensity ought to be an indicator to a suspicious mate, yet it was an accepted way to hide an unwanted smell.

The remaining passage contained fantasy rooms. Think French maids, schoolgirls, and urination. Bastian hadn’t bothered to ask for clarification on the piss.

The entire time Ophelia had been explaining the layout and purpose of each room, he’d had to focus on her words—actual letters, no pictures. His fantasies had begged to take off. An unfamiliar stirring had pestered his groin.

He’d been determined not to get hard. An erection here would be appropriate, but also a hint that he lacked control. An erection when she’d been laying out the mission would have been both disrespectful and humiliating, regardless of the salacious descriptions she’d given him.

When he’d asked her preferences—for work purposes only—she’d said he couldn’t be too familiar with her habits or it’d give them away. Learning what a potential partner needed was part of the dance here.

He kept his features impassive as he watched the others. That’s not my scene, as Antonia would say.

Call him old-fashioned, and anyone who knew him would, but he liked getting to know a female through genuine conversation. Artful looks and body language meant to only lead to sex did not excite him. There was nothing wrong with it, but the thrill of this sort of chase was too short-term.

When he found his true mate, he wanted to woo her into thinking forever with him was the best and most important decision she’d ever make. Vampires mated for life, but it didn’t mean they settled easily once they felt the pull of their true mate.

For others, the fidelity of a mate’s bed and vein sounded horrific. Their species had even developed drugs to circumvent the strength of the bond that hindered a couple from feasting or fornicating with others.

For him, that depth of commitment sounded divine. It was what his parents had had and it was what he’d dreamed of.

A woman sauntered toward him. A glittery beige dress swirled around long bare legs, and her neckline dropped nearly as far as the slit up her skirt went high. Her auburn hair was piled on top of her head and she had him in her sights. She was attractive, but not his type. And she’d be horrified to find out he was a mere servant, though he found nothing “mere” about his existence.

“We’ve never met.” Her cultured voice matched Madame Gaston’s. She held her hand out, her head turned slightly to the side.

Just like he’d observed Master Gaston do when greeting equals of the female persuasion, Bastian grasped her cool fingers and planted a light kiss across her knuckles. The restraint he called on to prevent his habitual bow staggered him. Unlearning three decades’ worth of behavior wasn’t easy; he’d have to keep his wits about him tonight.

“No, we haven’t,” he said. She hadn’t given him her name, therefore he withheld his. Part of the game. He was supposed to be wondering, mistress or madam? It was supposed to be titillating.

A little pout marred her face. “I can’t place your accent.”

He lifted the corner of his mouth. “You don’t say.”

The touch of mystery dilated her pupils. Okay, according to Ophelia, he ought to be deducing this female’s fantasies.

She liked intrigue. How the hell was he supposed to figure out her sexual preferences from that?

Blindfolds?

Oh. Yes, that was exactly how he was supposed to be doing this.

He took another sip of his foul-tasting liquor and curled his lip. That didn’t mean he was good at this. It didn’t mean he was…them.

He set his glass down to cover the tremor in his hand. His time in service to the upper crust hadn’t immunized him to their ways. The undercurrent of disdain all the hired help harbored flowed through him. Sometimes, he just got sick of their shit.

The female sidled closer. He fought not to slide away. Her cloying scent stank of sex, lavender, and a chemical tang that spoke volumes.

She was mated and on drugs. Whether the drugs were so she could feed outside her bond, or just snatch the limited high that was so hard for those of his kind to attain, Bastian could only guess.

Perhaps it was both.

Again, this was so not his scene.

He worked, found serenity in moving his body through the tasks of the day. It was his exercise, his meditation, his reason for being, and he’d come to accept that long ago.

And wasn’t that the crux of what bothered him about Sharpe’s Point. He was secure with who he was. So many people in here were trying to change, to buck the trends of the outside world and cling to the long-held views of their long-past era. They weren’t satisfied in their daily lives, their personal lives, and probably lacked an income of any kind that wasn’t tied to the interest earned off old money.

They spent their nights looking for a way to feel good, unaware that it came from within.

Pale fingers danced along his collar. She was wasting no time. His reserve had intrigued her.

He wanted nothing to do with her, but he forced an impassive look her way. Her nostrils flared as she tried to read him.

“You smell…” The curve of her lips turned into a frown. “Familiar.”

He was covered in Nadair’s items from head to toe, but he’d been wearing the garments long enough the male’s scent wasn’t identifiable. Shouldn’t be identifiable.

And he didn’t smell like himself, either. Bleeding out, being nourished by Ophelia—his pulse kicked up at the reminder—and spending hours at another’s male’s house, he’d changed in more ways than just scent.

“Do I?” Answering with a question seemed to work. “You smell”—toxic, taken, and desperate—“ripe.”

She preened at his…compliment? Feathering her other hand against her décolletage, she smiled demurely.

How much longer was he going to have to keep up this ruse?

Ophelia had warned him he might have to play along in ways that would make him squirm, but he’d been too determined. He had to find who was after Antonia.

Now his mind was scrambling for other ways to help Antonia.

Contact others in his line of work, and at the same time, spread the word that the threat of demons was real?

No. Just because his fellow vampires were hired help didn’t mean they weren’t also ambitious and bloodthirsty. He could only name a few that he’d trust to question, but they’d also be endangered, both with the threat of unemployment and with their safety.

Work outside of prime homes was hard to find for a common vampire. Night shifts in the human world weren’t plentiful enough for all of them, and because of the secretive way they had lived for centuries, they were behind the curve in technology and online employment.

He flinched when the female whose name he still did not know, or care to know, brushed his hair.

To cover his reaction, he quirked a brow. “I don’t recall giving you permission to touch me.”

Excitement flared in her eyes. “No,” she breathed, her gaze raking him over. “You have not. Yet,” she purred. “I may be interested in knowing what I have to do to touch you.”

She skimmed her fingertips along his jaw, the scruff on his face scraping her skin. He would’ve shaved, but Ophelia had thought it would help prevent him from being recognized.

At the thought of the other female, his heart slammed. The stranger next to him sensed the change and the corner of her mouth curved. She thought she’d caused the reaction. That was all well and good for the ruse, but the duplicity soured his stomach.

It was getting harder to keep up his placid facade. He’d either need to move away soon and circle the crowd—and look suspicious once Ophelia arrived and he pretended to have eyes only for her—or get physical with someone until he saw his opening.

He couldn’t go around asking if anyone had, or knew of, possessed servants.

“I’m not sure I’m willing to divulge my secrets.” He would play the obtuse game for as long as he could.

“And I would bet you have plenty.” She drifted closer still, her body nearly pressed to his from bosom to toes.

He shot her a smile meant to be mysterious. It must’ve worked. A fresh stench of arousal wafted across his nose.

Damn. He was going to sneeze.

Turning his head, he clenched his jaw, hoping it’d go with his ruse of feigned disinterest when he lacked any in truth.

His stomach clenched, and a deep-seated need uncoiled inside of him.

Ophelia had arrived.

He glanced around, his actions probably too frantic.

A vision strode across the dark room. What little light there was reflected off her luminescent skin as much as her slinky dress.

Not one sequin decorated the floor-length gown with the hip-length slit up the side, but it shimmered in an invitation that contrasted with her “don’t fuck with me” eyes. Her dress was ivory, but as she moved under the dim lights, faint lilac hues shimmered through the fabric.

He was supposed to guess what others wanted in this place and she was a challenge. Her clothing, along with her simple yet elegant chignon, said she belonged in this establishment. Yet her expression said it was the last place she wanted to be.

The bondage rooms. She had said she frequented those plenty of times in the days before Nadair, and she certainly embodied the “spank me, fuck me, bite me, then leave me the hell alone” vibe.

A delicate hiss at his side caught his attention.

“So soon after Nadair’s death. I knew she was with him for the money.”

Bastian struggled to remain present. He wanted to stalk Ophelia around every square inch of the room. He had to get to her before she met someone else. Another male laying so much as his gaze on her incited a possessive rage.

She was his.

Was not.

Perfect. Now he sounded like Antonia.

“She’s prime, is she not?” He kept a hint of male interest in his voice. Jealousy might make the female say things she might not otherwise.

“In the barest definition of the word. We all think she’s a traitor, but males still seem drawn to her. She was certainly Nadair’s weakness.” She sniffed.

“The flaw was likely in the male, don’t you think?”

She chuckled. “Oh, you do promise to delight. I knew I had good taste in partners.”

“As do I.” He purposely let his gaze swivel to Ophelia. The female next to him stiffened.

“I will do you one favor, gent. The males who tied themselves up with her, literally and figuratively, met their bad fortune not long after.”

Bastian saw an out but forced himself to stay and garner what information he could. “Again, I would claim the weakness was in the males.”

Her jaw clenched. He really should’ve learned her name. She narrowed her eyes on him, then dissolved into a demure smile.

“Yes, again I must agree with you. Mistress LeFevre should pose a threat to no one. Just look at her. I think her power is persuading daft males into thinking they must own her.”

No, Ophelia’s power was knowing who was a daft male, and who was an evil bastard out to hurt others.

“And you, my mysterious”—he leaned in with a knowing look—“madam. You are not easily duped by those around you.”

Another smile played over her lips at his assumption that she was mated. “I have control of my mate and my house. Nothing gets past me.”

He lifted a brow at her declaration. An orderly house should be an assumption, not an idea she had to defend. “Seems many only control one or the other nowadays.” He smirked. “Or neither.”

“How true. My own staff is as obedient as I require them to be. None of that silly talk about days off or living in the city and commuting.” She lifted her chin. “Really. What if I require them in the middle of the day?”

“Indeed.” His employers had rarely called on him during daylight hours. He could have lived in the middle of Freemont and still been able to perform the minimum of his duties. But the manor had been his home and he’d cared for it as such. And Antonia was his family.

“I swear.” She tilted her head toward the secluded area where a female was supping from an older male’s neck. Bastian almost jerked his gaze away. The female’s arm moved in a manner that screamed she was pumping him under the table. The male was reclined, his eyes closed, the female curved over him.

Bastian had seen that occasionally during the parties the Gastons hosted or dragged him to, but he could always extract himself from the room and avoid serving them cocktails until they were finished.

She clucked. “The master there? His staff runs roughshod over him. He spends his nights here begging for pleasure while his own mate fornicates with the servants. Susanna probably polishes the counters with her body while they feast on her.”

Bastian slowed his inhale to keep his heart rate down. His mystery madam didn’t need to know that piece of information excited him. He filed the tidbit away for Ophelia. A scorned mate with ambitious servants. It wouldn’t be a unique motive. Was she the Susanna from the Gastons’ arguments?

At his side, the madam sighed as if the weight of the world was on her shoulders. “It’s the story of most in here, really. It never used to be like that.” Her eyes took on a hard glint and her chin jutted toward another couple, twined around each other and following another male into the fantasy den. “Those two are actually happily mated but enjoy extra participants. I’ve heard their house has fallen into a dreadful state of disrepair. No staff. They used to have the most opulent estate, but now it’s trash.”

Perhaps the couple kept it up themselves and came here to relax, a reward for their hard work. But that was probably a foreign concept to her.

Still, he filed the information away.

He scanned the room, trying not to search for Ophelia but desperately seeking her out.

There. In a darkened booth, across from a male in a blue seersucker suit fitted to within an inch of his immortal life.

Bastian didn’t recognize him either but hated him on sight.

The length of Ophelia’s legs was magnified as she crossed them under the table, the skirt of her dress falling to the side. She tilted her head, baring her neck and inviting lustful glances from around the room.

Or was that just from him?

“Mistress LeFevre’s house doesn’t even stand anymore.” The arrogant glee in the female’s tone raised his hackles. “She’s drifted from male to male, securing a roof over her head the old-fashioned way.”

Bastian fought to retain his composure. Guilt flickered through him. He wanted to learn more about Ophelia, but not like this. And he knew her enough to know she had a reason for whatever she did.

Besides, gossip about Ophelia impeded his mission. He needed dirt on the others.

“I won’t disparage her tactics. She’s certainly a stunner.” Jealousy seethed off the female next to him. He almost smiled. “But will her target fall for it?”

An indelicate snort. “Most likely. She’s more than tempted Roberts before, but Nadair took the bait first. Roberts is from a family who had someone on the council for centuries, like Nadair. Now they make their money off human investments.”

More disdain from her while Bastian ruled the male out. If his family was financially stable, then they likely weren’t willing to risk their wealth.

Breasts brushed his arm. It was all he could do not to yank his limb away. The chemical-laced perspiration from the female would stain the garment.

A curtain brushed aside from a secluded booth and two vampires emerged.

This couple he recognized. They’d attended several gatherings over the years, the Gastons tripping over themselves to impress them—in public only. Behind closed doors, they denigrated the couple like it was a sport. Their son was a friend of Antonia’s whom Bastian had met a few times.

They strode toward the bondage rooms while a third party slipped out of the booth.

A male. And as Bastian examined him, alarm bells went off. There was nothing he could pinpoint, just a general sense of not belonging. That feeling was what Bastian was afraid others would think of him.

The strange male adjusted his jacket, straightened his bow tie, and breezed past Bastian and his companion.

The faint odor of matchsticks tickled Bastian’s nose.

The female plastered to his side didn’t flinch at the smell. That was something. She also eyed the departing male with as much interest as she had Bastian. She liked mystery, so the male must not be a regular. Finding a lead on Master Gaston might be futile, but Bastian would settle for a lead on Susanna.

He glanced up and caught Ophelia’s eye. His gut told him that between the couple and the third guy, they’d find answers. He shifted his gaze to the door that was swinging shut and then to the hallway that led to the BDSM room.

Ophelia rose from her booth without comment. The guy she’d been flirting with watched her exit with a frown. She didn’t glance back.

Bastian’s lips twitched, an action that did not escape the notice of the one next to him.

She rolled her eyes and made a sound of disgust. “I would wish you luck, but you won’t find it with her. Watch your wallet.” She swept away, toward the booth Ophelia had just vacated.

He’d never been so grateful to see someone leave.

Ophelia paid him no attention as she reached the bar. “Marcus. The usual.”

“Absolutely, Mistress LeFevre.”

Ophelia slid onto the tall barstool, her heels boosting her high enough to not need a running start. She ignored him.

He had to hit on her subtly enough to keep from attracting attention, but believably enough so that he could get her alone in a room and pass on what he’d learned.

Sure. No problem.