Hupotasso (Vampire Bachelor Games #2)

21

21

I stand and stare out the window, ignoring the slurping and moaning going on behind me as Caroline drinks.

Her little joke on me is that she’s only ordered redheads throughout our entire trip.

She tells me Falcon does the same, but I don’t believe her.

I know that when she’s finished, our security will dispose of the body discreetly and permanently, as no doubt they’d been doing for the royals since time began. I shake my head and wish I could open the window and fly away. But I won’t be doing any flying tonight, out of a window or otherwise. Usually, we leave straight away for the next country, but this is the last family, and the Lear is in use, apparently. Instead we’ll fly back to the castle tomorrow, and I’m dreading it. Every day that I’m away is another day I’m not pregnant, another day away from death.

When I hear Caroline call for security I turn around, keeping my eyes firmly fixed away from the body on the floor. She hadn’t screamed, of course, the young woman on the carpet. Vampire bites feel amazing. Her death was probably pretty good as far as deaths go. But I’m damn sure she hadn’t volunteered. Where she’d come from was anyone’s guess. Procured is what the vampires called it. Kidnapped would be more apt.

Even so, I’m not really shaken when Caroline eats, much to her chagrin. I’m sure she’d like to see me horrified as often as possible. But I’ve seen enough bodies now to no longer be visibly shocked, and it’s not as if I didn’t know what vampires ate before I married one. I don’t let it show, but that still doesn’t make it any easier to see the corpses. If my calculations are correct she only needs to suck a human dry once a week. The rest of the time she eats human food. I don’t know if this is the same for all vampires. Falcon ate a contestant virtually daily on The Games — but then again, I don’t know if he sucked them dry or just had a little sip.

‘Let’s face it, I don’t know anything about the man I married, or his kind.’

I meet Caroline’s eyes, my face neutral. Tonight my plan is to ask for something outlandish and, when refused, wind it back to something she might agree to; classic deal-making skills. I wish I did have the super-spy abilities Falcon accuses me of, but sadly I don’t. This is pretty much my only plan.

“We have tonight in Barcelona, Caroline. I want to go out.”

“No,” she replies, wiping her mouth daintily on a white lace-edged handkerchief.

I narrow my eyes at her. As usual she’s dressed in a pastel twin-suit and pearls. I can’t help but wonder how old she actually is, but I don’t bother asking. I try to keep my conversation with her to a bare minimum because she delights in dropping information about Falcon’s long life that is mostly downright disturbing. I loathe everything about her.

“Then if I can’t go out I want to order in from a restaurant, not from the hotel menu.”

She cocks her head to the side and considers my request. It’s like watching a vampire calculator, I can almost hear the cogs whirring as she tries to add up whether this is a risk, and if I should be permitted to do it or not. I wonder what instructions Falcon gave her. She definitely seems to have a list of do’s and don’ts. She hadn’t shown her nasty little fangs to me again after the ballroom incident, though, so I’m sure she was told she wasn’t allowed to bite me. But she still liked to mentally torture me whenever she could. Luckily my background as a teacher meant most things she said just washed right over me, and I’d schooled my face not to react to her malice.

When we’d first started travelling I’d asked for a huge range of things to test her limits. I wasn’t allowed to shop, I wasn’t allowed visitors or devices, I wasn’t allowed to go off-script, I wasn’t allowed, well, you name it, I wasn’t permitted it. I haven’t asked to dine out anywhere before, though, so she’s got to think this one through, and it is our last night on the road.

Eventually, she nods.

“What restaurant?”

“The bar we were in with Isabel’s parents. The menu looked interesting, and naturally I wasn’t permitted to stay there and dine.”

“It’s not Michelin starred,” she frowns.

“I couldn’t care less,” I shrug. “It’s what I want.”

“Well... you’re not pregnant, so I guess it doesn’t matter what you eat…”

I try to look as nonchalant as I can as she picks up her phone and places a call to the bar. But inside, my stomach’s churning. The bar was owned by Isabel’s parents. I’d noticed their name on a small timber plaque in the corner within the first ten minutes of our arrival. By now her mother would have read my note. I know it’s a long shot, but I’m hoping that my food order will give them an idea, or an opportunity, to somehow help me. I have to hope that’s why she mentioned the food.

Caroline speaks rapidly in Spanish, so I can’t tell what she’s saying, but after a minute she reverts to English to repeat the menu to me. She won’t let me take the phone to order for myself, so this pantomime goes on for a few minutes with me asking back and forth what each meal is. Eventually I order a seafood paella with black rice, a white sangria, and a small custard tart for dessert. She orders a red sangria and makes some joke to me when she hangs up about it being the second for the night as we watch security fold the dead girl into a laundry basket and whisk her away.

I don’t laugh at Caroline’s jest, but when my meal arrives and I find the tiny note and vial inside my custard tart, I’m hard-pressed not to burst into maniacal cackles.