“I’m just glad the hunter missed,” I say.
With a sigh, Lula gazed down at a dormant Michael. “Man, is he going to be miffed when he wakes up. Especially when he finds out that Nice and him just did blood mouth-to-mouth, basically the equivalent of vampire sex. The missionary position, of course.”
Yikes. Really? “I didn’t have another choice.”
Lula shrugs. “You could have let him die, which is exactly what he would have preferred over you giving yourself up. Or mouth sex with Nice.”
Maybe, but this isn’t about Michael. It’s about the serum. “At least you’re free again. So there’s that silver lining.”
“Honestly? It hasn’t been that bad. We go out every night to parties, raves, underground vampire clubs. We go shopping and attend spoken-word open mic nights. My only real complaint is that the sex is too vanilla, but whatever.”
Too vanilla? Nice? I am very aware of the kind of stuff he’s into—toys, red lace, S&M, clowns—so if he’s too tame for Lula, I can’t imagine what her thing is.
“Just let me know if you need any tips,” she says.
“For what?” I ask.
“Well, if you’re going to be his fanged love companion, he’ll have certain needs. And trust me, you do not want to disappoint him. He gets nasty if you do.”
I feel my cold heart dive into my stomach, and my stomach dives for the floor. “You mean…he’ll demand that I…”
She stares, and then her eyes go wide. “Oh. No. I don’t mean that. He’s not into rape unless you’re the one doing it to him.”
Ew. Just ew.
She continues, “I meant that he really loves his dress-up time and Fanged Love role-playing. He especially wants the wedding vows said correctly.”
Oh, that. “Yeah, I remember.”
“Good.” She claps me on the shoulder. “Well, you need to pick out a dress, and I have to go find a donor for Mikey-Poo. Time to get a move on.” Lula dashes from the room, and I’m left alone with an unconscious Michael and Mr. Nice in the bathroom, singing his heart out to a show tune. Cabaret, I think. And somehow, I just know the crazy is about to begin.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
I sorted through Lula’s collection of very strange outfits that look like they’ve come from a Halloween shop. The black dress I have on was the most conservative item in the closet, even with the plunging neckline and barely there back.
When Nice emerges from the bathroom, he has on a pinstripe suit that’s tailored to his gangly frame. His wingtips are shined to perfection, and his dark hair is neatly slicked back.
I do a double take. He looks like a well-to-do European gentleman out for a night on the town. Where are the fluffy lace collar and flowy sleeves?
He notices me staring and looks me over in turn. My blonde hair is back in a ponytail, and I have no makeup on, but he knows me well enough. My natural, no-frills look is how this librarian rolls.
“The dress will do. For now,” he adds. “But tomorrow we will ensure you have the appropriate attire for all occasions. Shall we?” He holds out his elbow, and I glance worriedly at the dormant Michael on the king-size bed.
“Do not be concerned; Nice made a deal, and zee Nice keeps his deals. Vanderhorsssthst will be fine.”
I nod with trepidation, knowing that the “deal” starts now whether I like it or not. From this moment forward, I am the property of Mr. Nicephorus, the ancient Byzantine general whose reputation for ruthlessness exceeds even Michael’s.
We exit the room, and I can only pray that Lula will return soon and nurse Michael back to vampire health.
Nice and I step into the elevator, and he hits the button for the lobby. The vibe in the air is all too familiar, him wanting something impossible from me—my heart—and me wanting to be anywhere else but here. Such as, glued to the toilet seat of an overflowing outhouse or swimming in a hot caldron filled with festering boils. Anywhere else.
I avoid eye contact as a strategy to keep my nerves steady. “So,” I say, “where are we going tonight?”
Nice straightens his black tie in the reflection of the stainless-steel elevator door and then says with a deep voice that has only one accent, “To the theater.”
I do another double take. Is he role-playing? Because he sounded like an almost normal person just now. No silliness. No inflection. Just a smooth, velvety voice with maybe a hint of an Italian accent.
Unsure if I should react, I say, “Uh…I like the theater. Which show?”
“Cabaret.”
Ah, thus the reason he was singing “Willkommen, Bienvenue, Welcome!” earlier. However, I still can’t tell what’s going on with his voice. To probe, I ask, “Is this your first time seeing it?”
“No, I go at least three times a year,” he says with the crisp, proper articulation of a gentleman.
Holy crap. What is going on with him? I can’t help staring.
“I bet you’re wondering,” he turns to me, all seriousness, “why I’m not speaking like a lunatic with a speech impediment.”
I nod slowly.
“Well, Miriam, one does not get to be as old as I am without learning a few tricks. One of which is having a public persona that discourages other vampires from challenging you.”
Get out. “So you’ve been putting on a show this entire time?”
“Show?” He chuckles. “No, my silly woman, Mr. Nice is merely a disguise. A cloak. It is the way of the vampire—a lesson I shall teach you well. Vampires only respect that which they fear or do not understand. And now that you and I have made an irrevocable deal, it is in your best interest to listen and learn.”
The elevator reaches the ground floor, and the doors slide open. My feet remain glued to the tile.
“Shall we?” He gestures for me to leave ahead of him.
I’m too flabbergasted to say anything, but I manage to step out. All this time, he’s been pretending to be this insane, volatile, eccentric vampire, and not
