Sips of Blood Part 10

Garrett counted out the money.

"Thank you. We have one request, actually a list of requests." The man snickered. "We'd like you to read our rules before climbing the stairs."

Garrett quickly scanned the short list containing the typical s.e.x club "do's" and "don't's": No public intercourse. No forcing someone to play who did not want to. Always use barriers when touching genitals. No speaking to partic.i.p.ants of a scene. Do not engage in loud talking or laughter when near a scene. Do not touch members of a scene unless specifically invited.... The only unusual suggestion indicated that a customer could enlist a club employee's a.s.sistance in finding a willing partner. This club may have an advantage over the others, Garrett thought.

The edges of the cement-block stairs had rubber grip runners. As Garrett climbed each step, he glanced at the beige peeling walls. At the top of the staircase, burgundy velvet drapes blocked the doorway. A thumping rhythm pulsed the material. Cautiously he pushed the drapes aside.

Illumination dim, music loud, and a sweet odor hiding sour sweat, all hit his senses in a flash.

As his eyes became accustomed to the lights, he suddenly caught sight of several torture devices. The St. Andrew's Cross to his right stood ready for a victim. A photograph of St. Andrew hung on the wall between the two top cross beams. A plaque next to the cross stated that, "According to Leonardo da Vinci, the human body displays beautifully with the poser's legs spread at a seventy-two degree angle. Enjoy!"

"Like to try it out?"

Garrett turned to see the man who had been walking the Great Dane. His leather jacket was unzipped, revealing a blood-red tattoo of a skull-and-crossbones on his chest. Garrett marveled how the image looked as if it were carved from a bleeding open wound. The brushed edges of the design gave the appearance of bleeding flesh.

"No!"

The man moved closer to Garrett. He sniffed the air.

"You have the smell of a sub." He pulled Garrett's chin upward. "The pleading eyes of a submissive. And the shallow breathing to mark you as victim."

The man started to undo Garrett's tie, but Garrett pushed the hand away. Quickly he stepped around the man and walked deeper into the dry ice haze filling the room in front of him. He turned once to see whether the man followed. The man stood stock-still, his pale blue eyes fixed on Garrett. He's got my number, but he's not my flavor.

Garrett moved on. Tucked away to his right he saw a schoolroom, complete with blackboard, erasers, school bell, dunce cap, and various-size rulers in varying thicknesses. The handheld school bell reminded him too much of the bell the princ.i.p.al in his parochial elementary school had held. The sight of the nun had frightened six-year-old Garrett, with her towering height and black-and-white habit that allowed only the center of her face to peek through the wimple. That's where he first learned not to touch himself, at least not in public, especially not in church. He recalled the sting on his cheek caused by the pastor's sharp cuff. An old one-piece school desk stood near a heavy-set dominatrix. The kind of school desk he had had to lie across to receive his punishment. As he reminisced, the dominatrix made her sub lie across the desk. She chose the thickest ruler.

Garrett turned away and moved into the opposite room. Here a group of people stood around a medical examing table. Because of the crowd he couldn't see the patient; instead he only heard a low moan or two. He moved back into the hall and continued on.

A dungeon came up next with fake stone walls, several inhabited cages, an occupied spinning catherine wheel, a bondage chair, and two guillotines, one for each head. Stretched out upon a rack lay a naked female. Her master selected a whip from the wall and drew the whip's snakelike tendril across her flesh. Clamps hugged her nipples, a black gag stretched across her mouth, and her white flawless skin awaited the flus.h.i.+ng burn of the whip.

Garrett stood and watched as the woman silently accepted the sting of the whip. Other males and females gathered around. No one spoke. No one attempted to halt the display. But, he thought, to their credit no one cheered. He backed away from what he believed should have been a very private moment. Tripping over traditional steel restraints, he moved on to the next room.

Here the three mirrored walls reflected back the spanking horse, the whipping post, and the spanking block in an infinite series of receding reflections. The fourth wall displayed the whips, floggers, crops, and paddles. The ceiling lights glowed harshly down on very human-looking bodies. Beauty diminished by wattage. A man in his late forties or early fifties stood naked in the center of the room masturbating. Garrett noticed that the man did wear white tube socks and high-top sneakers. His pack of Camels caused a bulge in his left sock.

Garrett stared at his own image in the mirror across from him. Suddenly the baldheaded man came into view behind him. The man now had a black handkerchief tied around his neck.

"You moved through the club quickly. Didn't find anything of interest? I can get you into the locked room. There's something different waiting for you in the locked room." The man spoke in a low voice. His lips hardly moved, but his words came through clearly.

"I've seen enough."

The man smiled. A gold front tooth glinted off the mirror's reflection. "How about some active partic.i.p.ation?"

"Not here," Garrett said. Not publically. He needed La Maitresse's strength, her control, her breath softly floating across his skin as she moved to his neck.

"Blood sports."

"What?" asked Garrett.

The man reached into a pocket of his jeans and pulled out a straight-edge razor similar to the one Maitresse la Presidente used.

"You drink?"

In answer the man opened his mouth, stuck out his long fat tongue, and licked his lips.

She wanted him to build up his blood. Replenish all that she had taken. His blood bled only for her. But she no longer found the taste satisfying. Not his flavor, but the bald man desired what she had rejected.

"Back to your place?" Garrett asked.

Chapter 19.

"Matilda, a bit more tarragon," Sade said as he tasted the cooking mushrooms. "Tarragon adds an exquisite citron liquorice flavor."

"I didn't want to add too much, sir."

"Too little is just as bad." Sade wrinkled his nose in disapproval. "The soup? How is it doing?"

"Fine. The roast is in the oven and Cecelia is making the salad."

Cecelia smiled at Sade as she drew a cuc.u.mber delicately from her straw basket. She washed the cuc.u.mber under running water, rubbing her hands up and down the dark green skin to remove all surface soil.

Sade sighed.

"What is all this?" asked Liliana, entering the room. "I've never seen the kitchen so busy or so lively with delicious smells."

"Matilda and Cecelia are preparing dinner."

"Really, Uncle, sometimes I think you get too carried away with this food business."

"My taste buds have not died," he indignantly said.

Liliana laughed. "It seems so sad that you don't have anyone with whom to share the meal."

"Ah! I have a guest coming. One that needs the nourishment of a meal."

Sade knew Liliana would understand this to mean a non-vampire.

"Where did you meet him?"

"He's someone who offered to do my taxes."

"And will he get the chance?"

He leaned in close to Liliana and whispered, "I hope not."

"Then I'm glad I will not be here."

"Pourquoi ne te joindrais tu pas a nous?" asked Sade.

"I can't join you for dinner because I've already promised Grandmother that I'd eat with her and her guests tonight."

"Mais non!"

"I'm sorry, Uncle, but I didn't know that you were planning a special meal, and knowing how these meals usually end, I'm glad I will not be here."

"Mais non!" Sade glanced over at Matilda and her daughter. Neither appeared to be listening, but Sade knew servants had big ears. "Come into the dining room and see how well Matilda set the table."

They moved into the dining room together.

"The spoons are out of place!" Quickly he redid the silverware settings.

"It does look beautiful, especially the lilies in the centerpiece."

"I promise this night will not end in my taking anyone's life. Several days ago I took my fill." He recalled the sensual pleasure he had taken while beating and sodomizing the willing Evie. Her blood had tasted of herbs and spices. A vegetarian, most probably. He had feasted until he sucked her dry.

"Then who is this person who thinks he's doing your taxes? And why did you invite him?" Liliana folded her arms and waited for an answer.

"Ma cherie, you look lovely in that silk dress. Crossing your arms will only cause creases to form."

"He's meant for me. Isn't he?"

"A dalliance. A brief touch with the male gender in a social situation."

"I have enough touches from you, Uncle." Liliana raised her voice. "I refuse to pander to your every whim."

"Quiet," he whispered. "The servants will think--"

"Uncle! Stop calling them servants. Matilda is a housekeeper, and Cecelia just comes here to help out her mother, not to wait on you."

"By extension, Cecelia waits on me."

"I'm going upstairs, getting my bag, and then leaving for Grandmother's."

"When will you return?"

"Don't bother keeping him here, because I may stay over at Grandmother's."

"You never like to stay there. Her work disgusts you."

"But she makes no demands on me."

"Your..." Sade remembered the mother and daughter in the kitchen. He moved closer to Liliana. "Your coffin is here with your home soil."

"I'll rest when I return in the morning."

"Ah! Then you will be back."

"Good Lord! You intend to keep him here until I get back, no matter when that may be."

"Oui."

"Mr. Sade, I've added more tarragon to the mushrooms. Would you like to try one?" Matilda stood in the doorway.

"Don't follow through on your plan, Uncle. One of these days you will lose me completely if you continue this pressure."

Sade watched his niece walk away. Finally he looked over his shoulder and found that Matilda waited for an answer.

"Children." He sighed and watched a rare look of sympathy appear in Matilda's eyes.

Chapter 20.

Grandmother baked delicious breads and pastries. Her preserves could even make a vampire's mouth water. But Uncle Donatien was right about the rest of her cooking. Quelle tragedie!

However, it didn't seem to bother her male dinner companions who wolfed down large portions of everything. Liliana simply pushed the mashed potatoes and asparagus around the overcooked garlic lamb. Meanwhile, Grandmother never touched the meal. Blood l.u.s.t had s.h.i.+ned in Grandmother's eyes all evening, making Liliana feel out of place, especially since the young Bridgewater seemed more interested in her than in Grandmother.

"Are you currently in school, Liliana?" Wil asked.

"She's an embalmer," her grandmother answered.

"You're way to young to be working at that kind of job."

"She's older than she looks." The fingers of Grandmother's right-hand started performing a tattoo on the dining table.

Liliana didn't want to leave and go back to her uncle and the poor, unsuspecting fool he had invited to be her dinner. However, her relations with her grandmother were being severely strained.

The older Bridgewater knocked over a water gla.s.s while reaching for the sliced meat.

"Liliana, dear, could you run and fetch something to dry up the table?" her grandmother asked.

Immediately Liliana left the room, but she felt Wil's stare follow her. Not what her grandmother had wanted, she was sure.

In the kitchen Liliana wasted a few minutes collecting a bunch of paper towels. If she left right after dinner, her grandmother would be relieved and Uncle Donatien would be elated. Liliana did not permit herself friends, for she feared the hunger might take control one day. She could drive around, but the bright headlights hurt her sensitive eyes. She, like her uncle and grandmother, had to use sungla.s.ses night and day while driving. Mingling at the single's bars would be just asking for trouble for some poor guy.

"Do you need help?"