Part 1: Dinner Party

 

 

 

Chapter 1: Aperitivo

 

“You will behave tonight, Arianthe, or you will be punished.”

 

My sire's grumbled words still ring in my ears as I sulk at the top of the stairs, leaning on the banister to look at the thralls set up the landing and main rooms for the party. All of this should have been finished last night, but my sire is a last-minute sort of creature. Perhaps I could have chosen better, or waited for another one of the Night Folk to find me, but I was infatuated by Julien and did my best to stand out. Really, this is my fault.

 

Honestly, it wasn't all that hard to pick me out in a crowd. Back in the days when I was alive, I powdered my skin white and wore my mahogany hair long and unbound. Corsets, beautiful skirts, bleeding red lipstick, and smoky eyeshadow was my style of choice, and more than a few times other Night Groupies (that's what I called us all in my head) would beg me to turn them, convinced I was already a vampire. It was flattering, but they weren't who I was after. You have to dress for the job you want, right? So I did, just to show one of the classier creatures what I might be like.

 

And then one night Julien came out of the darkness and charmed me. I'm sure it took minimal effort on his part, given how I threw myself at him. Our courtship was a whirlwind of feeding, sex, and debauched parties with the local Nightlife over the course of a few weeks. One night he asked and I accepted, put my affairs in order, and allowed myself to be turned. The process wasn't as romantic as I'd been led to believe, but the less said about it the better. It's been five months since then, and I'm still considered a fledgling. I hardly have any powers at all, and I keep biting my tongue by accident with my fangs. It's embarrassing. Even now I rub my tongue against the back of my teeth gently, trying to massage the sting out of it from having stabbed it a few minutes ago. Maybe that's why I'm feeling surly.

 

My sire lingers by the bottom of the stairs in the large manor house we share with several of his other fledglings. I suppose I shouldn't have expected a great deal of monogamy in this arrangement, but I'm still feeling a little disgruntled that I wasn't exactly told about the other girls until I woke up with seven women staring down at me and gossiping to each other about my nose. For the record, there's nothing wrong with my nose. They all scattered like birds when I cussed them out; I don't think they're used to that kind of treatment. Julien is a big softy when it comes to managing his fledglings. I'd do it for him, but I'm far too young to hold any sway with them.

 

Take this, for example. As I'm looking down over the banister, a hand slaps the back of my head and a cutesy voice shrills “Arianthe, did you hear what He said?” No respect. No respect at all.

 

Oh god I hate how I can even hear how she capitalizes all references to Julien. He's like her messiah. I glare back at her, my amber eyes scintillating as I slide my hands through my hair to set it back in order. “Tammie. Isn't there some pedophile out there that you could terrorize?” Honestly, she looks like she's twelve. Hello, Claudia. Tammie was turned when she was in her mid-twenties, but due to some strange hormonal thing she looks like a teenager on the obscene side of 18. I guess Julien was going through a phase.

 

Tammie gives me a venomous little smile, her blond curly pigtails (so uncreative) bouncing as she turns to look at the preparations. With a petulant sniff, Tammie's green eyes flick from thrall to thrall, her bubblegum pink lips curling into a secret smile that isn't all that secret. I use this opportunity to wander back into my room and shut the door. The guests will be here in a few hours so I suppose I should get ready. Nobody wants to see little old me in a pair of ripped jeans and a T-shirt. Back I go into my make up kit, taking out my typical fashion choices. The dress I've managed to get for tonight is a knock-out. Red satin with black embroidery, with a corset up top and a long, shimmering skirt down to my ankles. And those will both be clad in black boots with just enough heel to let me lord it over tiny Tammie without making me trip and fall over.

 

I'm just finishing up when I hear a knock at the door. My plush tiers purse as I caress them with the tip of the lipstick, the color that sort of red that shadows easily but gleams brightly red in the right light.    The person knocks again, and this time I hear a sultry purr tinged with irritation. “Arianthe, you've been requested by the Master.” That would be Veronica, one of the less onerous members of the harem, if only because she's the second eldest and keeps to herself.

 

The tube of lipstick is twisted, drawing the pigment back down before I cap it and put it away. “Coming, my lady.” I can constantly be nasty to Tammie, but I've only tried being nasty to Veronica once. Only once. It took me days to recover from her Justice, which happens to be the name of her whip. I smooth out the folds of my dress, adjust the set of the choker I wear until the little red jewel just rests within the dip of my collarbones, and then I open the door.

 

Veronica, of course, has outdone me in every way. I put in a great deal of effort to look beautiful and gothic, but Veronica is everything that is gothic. Her hair is long, straight and black, and her features are as beautiful and remote as a star, and her skin is just as pale. Her slender fingers bear delicate rings in silver, connected with an even more delicate lattice of silver chain, and her entire body is clad in black silks. The woman's black eyes look me up and down, and a sculpted black brow lifts. “I suppose it will do. Go. Master waits for you.”

 

I incline my head as I pass by her, resisting the urge to look over my shoulder towards her one last time. I don't like any of the other women in the harem, but I dislike Veronica the least. My boots make no sound as they sink into the cushioned velvet tread on the stairs. The rail is newly-scrubbed and gleaming, and I caress my fingertips along its curved length, following the coiled path down to the main floor. Thralls, both men and women, move furniture around now that everything's been cleaned. Fresh candles are being set into all the sconces and chandeliers, which is something I haven't seen happen in months. This party he's planned for tonight must be grand.

 

Now, don't get me wrong. We have electricity in our house. We live in the present along with everyone else, and that even includes a high-speed broadband connection and wireless routers all over the place. Julien's rather a whore for new technology; he says it makes him feel young. Yet every once in a while we have guests over who find modern appliances to be in poor taste, and what I find laughable is that all of those who do were born in this era. They want so desperately to be counted among the elders that they shun their own time, and they look idiotic doing it. Still, I'm hardly in any position to pass judgment on them. They're all still far more powerful than I am. I'm ashamed to admit that I tried to enthrall a cat once, but after an hour it just wandered off to take a nap. Tammie has made sure to remind me of the incident at least once a week since then.

 

One of the thralls meets my eyes, and he points to the large drawing room, and so I head in that direction. Julien stands in the center, dithering about how to hang one of his newest purchases. It's a Matisse and he's very proud of it, and because he loves it so much it seems incapable of hanging straight. It looks fine to me, but I already know that no one here will accept my opinion on the matter. The other five members of the harem are here in the room. Three cluster around him now. Desperately clingy women, he sired the three of them at once as a matched set. A blond, brunette, and a redhead, Priscilla, Prudence, and Purity look up at him adoringly with crystal blue eyes. They take the American southern belle look to its most beautiful limit, with wide skirts, curly hair done up in elegant fashions, and plunging necklines that bely their feigned giggling innocence. I hate them for being so insipid and parasitic.

 

There are two other women here, though they linger towards the edges of the room. Near the fireplace is a slender woman named Natasha dressed all in white. Even her long, wavy hair is white, as is the snug dress that she wears. It's latex, embossed with motifs of flowers and vines that accentuate her subtle and dangerous curves. Latex opera gloves gleam all the way up to her biceps, and her boots are thigh high, which I only know because I've seen her get dressed in this ensemble before. The other woman, named Domina, sits on a couch and is dressed entirely in polished black leather that gleams severely. A corset cups and presents her breathtaking chest, while black hair tinted with dark purple flows straight down past her shoulders to lick at her cleavage. Her long legs are hugged in black leather pants as well, and her feet are clad in severe, pointed stilettos. It's not much of a mystery what her calling in life is.

 

Julien's harem, of course, doesn't include his wife. She has her own business halfway across the world, and though unlife has turned them into very different people than they used to be, they still refuse to divorce. I've not poked my nose into it too much. His wife scares the daylights out of me, in an exciting way.

 

“There! Perfect!”

 

I glance over at Julien, and I'm not surprised to see that he's talking about the Matisse and not about me. I could whine about the fact that I'm yesterday's news to him, but it'd be naïve to think that someone as flighty as Julien would make me his primary lover. That honor goes to Domina, which might be why she seems so at ease. She really has nothing to prove to any of us, so she doesn't bother. I've heard that Veronica learned her skills with a whip from Domina, but then again there are a lot of rumors that fly around this house. Like the fact that Domina's really a man. She's not. I'm not going to tell you how I know... but I just know.

 

The gaggle of Belles coo and swoon over the painting as Julien puffs out his chest in triumph, and I walk politely over and remain just on the edge of his personal space. Maybe he'll forget why he called me down. That's happened before. I'm gazing up at the painting when I feel the warmth of his gaze slide along my skin, and my own amber eyes turn back to him.

 

“Sir?” I say in my most inoffensive tone of voice.

 

Julien approaches me and pinches my chin delicately between his fingertips, turning my head this way and that to study the application of my makeup. “I dare say you're learning new tricks, my dear. Quite lovely.” I can't help but smile a little at his praise, especially since it makes the Belles frown sourly.

 

“Thank you, sir.” I know he's staring at the milky structures of my neck. He's told me before that he likes how they move when I talk or breathe. And given that I no longer have to do the latter, I try to make the former just a bit more alluring.

 

My head is drawn back to center, and he shifts forward, gazing into my eyes with his own silver orbs. He's much older than any of us, and I have a feeling that his flighty nature covers something far too serious for even himself to bear. I study him as he drinks me in, sliding my attention from his silver hair tied back in a ponytail at the nape of his neck, to his dark eyebrows, and the salt and pepper nature of his goatee. His lips are the color of wine naturally, and his body is like a long drink of the same, slender in all the right places. With a little smile I slide my tongue along my lower lip, glossing it so that it shines in the firelight.

 

“Whore” I hear one of the Belles say, but I don't look over at her. This is my moment with him, brief as it might be. And if I play my cards right he might pull me into a dark, forgotten room. This manor has a lot of those lying around.

 

“Purity.” His voice slices through the warm air and chills it immediately, and I can see the redhead's blue eyes widen as if she'd been cut. “Attend to the kitchen staff. All three of you. Now.” The Belles pout and mince away. Those three in particular hate working with the thralls, especially when it comes to feeding the thralls of the guests. My guess is that they subsisted on celery and fad diets in life, and now they detest seeing actual delicious food being prepared for the servants.  As they head off, Natasha chuckles, still lingering by the fire.

 

My eyes only lift their demure gaze from the floor once the Belles have left, and Julien guides me over to stand near the other two women. “Domina and Natasha will be keeping an eye on you tonight, Arianthe. If you cause a scene like you did the last time, they will remove you from the party and punish you. For as long as they desire, right ladies?” Natasha just smiles meanly, and Domina eyes me slowly up and down, as if she's already measuring me up for her bondage equipment.

 

I shiver at the thought of it and press a little closer to Julien, though I'm not sure if the idea of being punished by them terrifies me or excites me.

 

 

Chapter 2: Antipasto

 

With my two wardens making it plain how very badly they want me to fail tonight, I am released back into the general hubbub of working thralls to think about my next course of action. I'm not all that hungry, but since I've been turned I've become an anxious snacker. I seek out one of the larger thralls and take them into a small feeding cubby, barely larger than a closet. Julien felt it prudent to provide privacy for his fledglings as they learned how to feed themselves gracefully. I'm just getting the hang of it, and luckily this thrall is patient and stoic as I only leave six puncture holes on his neck, which for me is the better side of average. Three tries to get at that vein, the poor man. Honestly, I'm going to start pricking their fingers and sucking them. It'd be so much easier for them.

 

I send him back out to his duties, wincing as the puncture wounds still leak a little onto his collar. There are bandaids on a shelf in this cubby, just in case one of us really makes a mess of things. I really should have slapped a few on him, but it's too late now. Maybe another thrall will patch him up. Here's hoping. The fresh blood in my system is a pick-me-up, and I take a moment to check myself in the mirror to make sure I haven't ruined my makeup. A few dabs and swipes with a tissue, and I'm good as new.

 

By now the first guests are starting to arrive, and I slip out of the cubby surreptitiously enough that I'm not noticed right away. Some of the new arrivals are familiar to me – aristocracy in this part of Europe. Not all of them are undead, either. Little do the living know that many royal houses still have quite genial ties to the Night Courts, and there's a lot of back scratching that occurs even to this day.

 

With the front door being opened for more arrivals, I can feel the crisp, cold air wafting in, carrying the scent of a coming storm. I suppose it's cliché, but our manor is perched high up in the mountains for the sake of solitude. And probably pretentious imagery. Trust me, the place wasn't my idea. We're situated on the prime real estate for all wealthy eccentrics – the Alps. Specifically, our manor house is tucked into the mountains in the Italian province of Turin, just on the French border with Provence-Alpes Côte-d'Azur. The entire mountain chain, from France to Slovenia, is riddled with vampire lairs. This sort of location makes dinner parties exclusive by nature – only those with the proper means can even make it up to these reclusive heights.

 

The new arrivals are dressed colorfully, even the men. Black, formal suits sport sashes of bright colors representing their houses and bloodlines and allegiances, while the gowns are a rainbow of expensive and exquisite fabrics. Determining the living guests from the undead ones is easy. Even though my powers aren't fully matured, I still have a sense that's like heat vision. The aura of living warmth washes from the skin of our living guests, and I watch them trail their golden glow as they walk, smile, mingle, and move on. For now I linger in the background, still too nervous to really strike out into the fray. Even Tammie, the second youngest of the harem, schmoozes, laughs, and seduces those with a lust for the young without a trace of effort. If she can do it, then so can I...

 

...in the greenhouse, alone. My red satin skirt slides against my legs as my heels click on the marble flooring, the gleaming tiles reflective and black. One must be careful to wear full length skirts if one is to wear a skirt at all and still maintain modesty. Once inside this smaller verdant space, I rub at the back of my neck as I consider my cowardice. Moonlight flickers through the patter of snowflakes that strike the insulated glass walls, and I look out at the breathtaking vista of the Pennine Alps, where caps of snow cling to the toothy summits of the mountain tops.

 

A flicker of light and the sound of a latch makes me turn my head towards the opening door, only to see an unfamiliar guest enter the greenhouse garden. My eyes lower demurely. I'm so painfully young, keeping company with elder vampires, that I dare not address them until they acknowledge me. Even so, I can't help but glance at the man. His suit is Italian in cut and dyed a deep black. In the light of the stars and the moonlit snow I can see that the sash serving as a cummerbund is silver silk. The white of his shirt and collar stand out brightly against his darkly-tanned skin and his Mediterranean features. Perhaps he was Greek once. After our second birth to the night, our previous nationalities don't matter as much anymore. I myself used to be Swiss a few months ago.

 

Rather than look back out at the view, I keep my eyes lowered as I follow him in my peripheral vision. I know he can tell that I'm waiting on him, but of course he takes his time, teasing me with his authority. Making his host's fledgling wait and fidget – this vampire must be less than a decade into his unlife if such a puerile activity still amuses him. Deep within myself I admit that I'm looking forward to playing such games with other fledglings in the future, even if I find it horribly irritating now.

 

Finally I hear his elegant wingtips slowly move him towards me, though I'm surprised as I feel his hands on my hips and his lips at the nape of my neck. I stiffen and lift my gaze to watch his reflection, and I can see his silver-backed eyes looking into mine. “You're Julien's newest addition, aren't you?”

 

My breath flutters as I draw it into my throat, and I'm sure that makes me look newly-turned to reflexively maintain such a useless act. “Yes, Sir.” I don't dare address him less formally. I'm only ranked higher than the thralls at this point.

 

“Remind me...” he trails off, sliding his hands forward slowly until his fingertips are dragging at the satin on the front of my thighs. With a lascivious rumble of pleasure at my silent acceptance, he whispers “...Remind me of your name.”

 

“Arianthe, Sir” I say just as softly, my breath only fogging the glass because of the warm thrall's blood coursing through me from earlier. I gasp again as I feel his hips press up against the curve of my backside. He's already aroused. And he knows how to use his condition to best affect, nestling it to press its length against the cleft between my cheeks. His daring makes my eyelashes flutter closed.

 

His lips are warm, meaning he's fed recently. Of course, the hardness of his cock is another sign – we need the blood of the living in quantity for our bodies to be vigorous enough for such activities. The spicy scent of his cologne rises up from behind me, mingling with my floral perfume. I can feel the sharp tips of his fangs lightly slide over my skin, giving me goosebumps. As I lift my hands to brace against the glass I can feel my hard nipples slide against the interior of my corset, sending sparks up my spine. My boots slide shoulder-width apart to offer myself wordlessly, and luckily he doesn't require much convincing.

 

There are firm rules on who may feed from me. It might be surprising to learn that some vampires like to feed on the undead. While not particularly nutritious, it's extremely intimate. One of Julien's very few rules is that only he may feed from his fledglings. The only time that rule is adjusted is when his wife comes to visit. He denies his wife nothing, and he's right to do so. The woman's gorgeous, intelligent, deadly, and is gripped by an insatiable wanderlust. Most of the time she's in some exotic locale, meeting with vampire courts and charming them, spreading the good name of their house. In any case, she's so very far away, and I'm getting close to tearing off my dress right here and now.

 

My swarthy paramour kisses and suckles along my neck, toeing the line of breaking a house rule, the bad boy. I can feel his right hand lift my satin skirts in back while his left hand unfastens his pants, and before another moment passes he's pushing his hot, thick cock between my smooth thighs. The cap rubs along my needy sex, my honey making him slick with every teasing thrust. Tonight I haven't bothered with any undergarments, mostly in the hopes of finding myself in a situation just like this. Don't judge me.

 

Soon enough the curve of my bared ass presses against his hips, and my fingers curl gently against the glass in anticipation. “Close your legs” he purrs, and I do. The snug press of my inner thighs sandwiches his dick up tight against my hidden flesh as he saws slowly, clearly enjoying it. Every grind rubs against my pearl and makes me shiver. “Tighter!” he breathes against my neck, and I squeeze my knees together, the fleshy fullness between my thighs hugging his cock tighter and tighter. I can feel his cock harden and fill fully, and I dip my back just so to angle my hips to let him take me easily. Yet his hands grip my hips and suddenly I frown, realizing that he's getting close.

 

“Sir? Don't you want...” But I don't have time to finish before I feel hot spurts of his seed glazing my legs and crevice. My nose wrinkles in frustration and disgust, and with a laugh he pulls away, tucks himself back in, and leaves the greenhouse.

 

Perfect. My second chance at a dinner party, and my first secret tryst ever results in this mess. God, I can feel his cum make my thighs slide together as I push my skirts back down. If I can get to a bathroom I can wipe it all away. No, not if. When. I'm getting this train wreck to a bathroom ASAP. My frustrated anger plays on my face as I storm out of the greenhouse, and it doesn't get any better as I walk through the rooms used by the serving thralls. I can hear the giggling whisper of a few fledgling guests, and there's my paramour, describing in detail what just occurred. With as much dignity as I can muster I walk past them all and find a bathroom near the kitchen, where I promptly lock myself in it.

 

At the last party I had caused a scene over something far less insulting, but I'm going to prove the rest of the harem wrong. I can handle myself, and whatever stupid indignities I'm put through aren't going to make me lose my cool this time. What's a little embarrassment compared to an eternity of power? I grumble and plot a long and complicated campaign of revenge against the bastard while I wipe away all traces of his use, feeling confident that I'm ready to head back out. And then with one last wipe between my legs to make sure I've gotten everything, my fingertips brush against my stiffened pearl and I nearly fall to my knees.

 

“Oh... Jesus....” I gasp quietly. It would seem that he'd aroused me more than I thought, and I nibble on my lower lip as I brace my hands on the sink. The tips of my fangs just indent the pillow of my lower lip, and as I look at myself in the mirror I realize how fragile I look. Even the slightest caress of a hand between my legs now might finish me. Should I finish myself?

 

No. No, I refuse to hide in the bathroom and pathetically relieve myself at the beginning of a party. Trysts happen all the time at these events, as evidenced by my experience in the greenhouse and the stories I've heard from the other fledglings. Perhaps another guest will take a liking to me, and it would simply be rude not to make myself available for their needs.

 

“You can do this. You can!” I hiss, jabbing a finger at my reflection. With that, I pick myself up, make sure my hair's perfect, smooth down my skirts, and head back out once more into the breach.