Haunted Honeymoon (11 page)

“Word travels fast with our kind, and the thralls have their own network,” Wil said. “As to the sustainable foods, we’re not the ones living in the Dark Ages.”

“Wil, if I wasn’t enjoying these eggs, I might have to give you a beat-down.”

He laughed and said, “You can do that later.” Then he outlined his plans for the day.

“Fine, but there are some things that I want to do.” I pulled a
Time Out
from my bag and flipped open to the first Post-it marker. “I must see at least one Shakespeare play and I’d also like to see something utterly new. I’ve got four must-visit exhibits and a list of places mentioned in some of my favorite books.” I unfolded a map that had dozens of locations circled.

When I saw the dismayed look on Wil’s face, I said, “It’s okay. I can find my way around on my own.”

“I wouldn’t think of abandoning you. I only hope I can keep up with you.”

The day was marvelous. Wil seemed amused by my ecstasy at seeing literary landmarks, and I was delighted when he showed me his five favorite pieces in the National Gallery. We bought leather jackets at a Notting Hill vintage shop, and we had a vampire tea at a private lounge in a posh hotel near Harrod’s.

“My mother used to bring me here once a year,” Wil said. “It’s more of a ladies’ place.”

“Speaking of ladies, I’ve heard that you have lots of girlfriends.”

“Who told you that? Naughty Nettie? She fancied you,” he said. “We can make her bon voyage party
extra
special if you’ve a mind.”

“Yes to the party, but no to the extra-special activities. Girls are pretty, but I’m at the other end of the sexuality scale.”

He shrugged. “I’m happy to swing whichever way the wind blows, but I don’t like to be tied down. Actually, I do,” he said, and we laughed.

He didn’t go to the theater with me that night, but I loved sitting in the dark and watching a harrowing
Othello
. During the intermission, as I waited in line for the ladies’ room, an older woman asked, “Are you enjoying the performance?”

“Very much, even though I always want to warn Othello not to listen to Iago.”

“But he must,” she said with a smile. “There’s synergy between Othello and Iago. Iago must tell the lie as surely as Othello wants to hear it. His insecurity and violent nature must out.”

“Do you think that some people want to be around those who encourage their darkest desires?”

“Most certainly! Who could be more seductive than someone who knows our secrets, yet loves us anyway?” she said, and I was reminded of Ian’s claim that we choose our partners because of what we need.

I saw the woman after the play and waved good night, wishing I could discuss the play with her, but Wil was waiting for me at a nearby pub.

We went to Nettie’s farewell party. The houseboat was both run-down and lavish, two stories tall with battered antiques, primitive paintings of cows, massive silver candelabras, a kick-ass sound system, and a badass DJ.

We danced, talked, flirted, and there was a lot of booze, smoke, and friendly blood play. Nettie was the center of attention, dancing atop a table in a short silver dress, and I noticed Wil staring at her wistfully.

The main lounge became packed and airless, so Wil and I went to the deck. The noise from the crowd was muffled there,
and I could hear water lapping at the houseboat and against the shore. A trio shrieked at the other end of the deck and I heard splashing and laughing.

“What are you thinking?” Wil asked.

“I’m thinking about Dickens and fishing bodies out of the river.”

“That really turns me on,” he said in a sexy growl. Then he started laughing. “You believed me!”

“I did not!”

“You wondered if I’m a necrophiliac. I tell you in dead earnest that I am not a necrophiliac.”

I laughed and said, “I wondered if you’re a nitwit.”

He wrapped his arms around me. “Come to my place and I’ll show you what I am.”

I thought of Ian’s mouth on Cricket. I thought of the scabs and bruises on her body from the times he’d fed on her. I imagined them having sex and I felt ill and angry and miserable. “Sure, Wil, let’s go.”

Wil’s flat was the top floor of a three-story row house. I barely paid attention to the interior, but my general impression was of a smart dude’s place: piles of books, papers, and magazines as well as surf gear and posters.

We made it to the bedroom and fell onto the bed. Wil’s elbow jabbed my rib, and then his arm came down on my hair, tugging it. “Ow.”

“Sorry.”

“It’s okay,” I said as I tried to pull his shirt off. His torso was lovely, narrow and smooth, and he had a tribal tattoo of a snake on his pec. The scent of his sunscreen aroused me, and when he peeled down his jeans and snug boxers, I was pleased to see how pleased he was.

“Strip for me,” he said, and leaned back against the pillows.
He turned on his sound system, and Jimmy Hendrix’s “Foxy Lady” blasted out, which seemed really funny.

I gyrated around the bed, slowly taking my clothes off. When I was in only a purple leopard-print bra, panties, and my heels, Wil’s expression changed and he groaned and rubbed himself as I teased him by dancing just out of reach.

When the song was over and I stood naked in my heels, he said, “Come here, you,” and took my hand.

I tried not to compare Wil to anyone else, because he was wonderful. He was young and single and enthusiastic and fun.

I wanted to be the girl I was before … before the vampires, and I was glad I could control my reactions so that I didn’t automatically fling Wil across the room when he picked up a small knife.

I took his wrist carefully so I wouldn’t crush the bones and pushed his arm back.

“Why not?” he said.

“Too soon.”

Wil lay back on the bed, breathing heavily, and I thought I might have hurt his feelings. But he dropped the knife on the floor and said, “Do you want to tie me up?”

We improvised with bungee cords and surf leashes, and I took him at my own pace, for my own pleasure, which was also his. When I was finished, I slid atop his sinewy, sweaty body and said, “Cowabunga, dude.”

“Damn, Mil, that was crazy good. I’m totally noodled.”

After I untied him, we sat on the bed, ate currant yogurt, and watched videos of Wil night surfing in Cornwall.

He massaged my lower back. “It’s a rush knowing that I was snaking the Dark Lord’s chick.”

“One, I’m not his chick, and we’ve never made any promises to each other. Two, ‘snaking his chick’ is not a felicitous turn of phrase …”

Wil opened his mouth in an O and made a pumping gesture with his hand. “You said felicitous.”

“Why do guys always do that? Three, I wouldn’t recommend gloating over Ian. Not that he’s jealous.” I remembered how he’d acted as if my love for Oswald was a temporary annoyance. “And, four, this is just a travel fling. Nothing counts when you’re on a trip,” I said, even though this hadn’t exactly worked for me in the past.

“It counts to me, cutie,” Wil said, and I was touched by his tenderness.

“Do you play Hendrix for all your dates?”

“Advance planning. I’d hoped you’d come back with me,” he said. “You’re a natural top.”

“Thank you.” I arched my back to display my ample assets. “They’re genuine.”

He laughed. “No, I mean sexually. You’re a top.”

“I don’t think so. I believe that relationships should be between equals.” I was going to say other things, too, thoughtful things, but then Wil’s hand went between my thighs and literary references didn’t seem so important.

I awoke in the early morning when I heard the bedroom door open. I pulled up the sheet to cover myself and shook Wil, who put a pillow over his head.

A middle-aged man in a dark suit stood in the doorway. His stern expression and conservative haircut and clothes made him seem as if he was from a different era. “Good morning, Mr. Spiggott. Will you take tea in bed, or the breakfast room?”

Wil took the pillow away from his head and twisted around toward the doorway. “I can get my own tea, Matthews. I told you, just Wil.”

“As you please, sir. Would your lady friend like anything?”

“Milagro, this is Matthews. Matthews, this is my friend, Milagro.”
Wil sat up and asked me, “Do you want toast or eggs or anything?”

The man had entered the room and picked up the plastic snack debris on the table. I didn’t want him to see anything else, including the ropes we’d used.

I said, “No, thank you very much, Mr. Matthews. If we could have privacy, please?”

“Certainly, Miss de Los Santos.” He left and closed the door.

“So he knew who I was. You were right about word getting out fast. Who is he?”

“My houseman,” Wil said. “His family has been with mine forever.”

“It’s a little creepy.”

“I’d rather have his hot bitch daughter, but my parents and Matthews objected, and she wouldn’t oppose her father. They thought we were consorting in too equal a fashion.”

“Were you?”

“Not at all. She was definitely, as Americans say, the boss of me.” He smiled and looked off.

“Do you like having a thrall?”

“I could do without.” He rubbed his eyes with his fists, like a kid. “One doesn’t throw them out in the street. One tries to empower them. Not that my man wants to be empowered. I tried meeting with the leadership of their association, and they said, ‘Thank you kindly, sir, but we are satisfied with our situation.’”

“I didn’t know they had an organization.”

“Yeah, they’ve been organized for centuries. Matthews is a chapter leader.’”

“Will he talk about anything he sees here?” I’d been so set on making Ian jealous that I hadn’t considered that Oswald might find out about my antics.

“Oh, no, Matthews believes that thralls should be utterly faithful to their masters,” Wil said. “Now can I have a cuddle?”

“That’s all?” I traced my finger over his tattoo.

“Well, I believe that someone’s been naughty and needs a spanking.”

“How naughty?”

“Extremely,” he said.

“Well, if discipline is needed …”

We didn’t get out of bed until noon, and then we took a slippery, sudsy bath together that left water all over the marble tiles. When we were mopping up, we started a towel fight that had us sliding on the floor and laughing as we snapped at each other.

After we had dressed and I was putting kohl around Wil’s golden-brown eyes, he said, “I think I’ll take the week off.”

“Wil, you don’t have to do that.”

“You’re on holiday. I want you to enjoy it. Leave your hotel and stay with me.”

“You want me to stay with you
and
your houseman?”

“I’ll give Matthews the week off.”

“Well, okay, then.”

Wil took me to clubs, parties, art exhibits, and to hang out with his friends. We wore our vintage leather jackets, shared hair products, danced every night, had enthusiastic bouts of sex, and talked about our ideals for a world in which everyone was treated with respect.

While I kept so busy that it was easy not to think of my life back home, I worried that I was taking Wil away from his important work as an activist.

“Can’t I help you?” I asked him. I was trying to sort through the piles of paper on the dining table he used as a desk. “We can draft a mission statement and a rollout plan.”

He took the documents away from me and said, “Chillax. If you need to do something with your hands or your mouth, take hold of this.”

One morning while Wil slept in, I wrote a plan of action with suggested timelines, talking points for the media, and ideas for a website and social networking.

I was working on this project, sitting with my laptop and stacks of papers at the dining table, wearing panties and Wil’s Tuska Surf T, when the door to the flat opened. I yanked down the hem of the T over my bottom just as Matthews came in.

“Good morning, miss,” he said glumly.

“Hello, Mr. Matthews.” I smiled and said, “Wilcox is still sleeping.”

“I came to pick up his clothes for cleaning,” he said as he looked around at the mess of empty wine bottles, wrappers from salt and vinegar crisps, and dishes. His eyes went upward, where a cerise lace thong dangled from the mod frosted glass and polished chrome chandelier. Then Matthews looked down to the graphs and charts I’d spread on the table.

“Sorry about the mess,” I said. “We’ll clean up.”

“There is no need, miss. I am pleased to stay and be of service.”

I spied a condom box under a chair and said, “I think Wil would rather have you just take his clothes to be cleaned, and I don’t need any help, thanks.”

Matthews followed my glance and saw the box. “As you wish, Miss de Los Santos.”

While Matthews went into the bedroom to collect Wil’s clothes, I picked up our trash and tossed it in the kitchen bin. I could hear the clatter of wooden hangers, so I quickly climbed on the dining room table to reach for the wayward thong.

When Matthews cleared his throat behind me, I yanked the thong down, setting the chandelier swinging, and hopped off the
table, hiding behind a chair. The man was holding a plastic basket filled with Wil’s clothes.

“Yes, Mr. Matthews?”

“Enjoy the rest of your holiday, miss.”

“Thank you. I’ll tell Wil you came by.”

After Matthews closed the front door behind him, I latched the chain lock so I wouldn’t be surprised again.

I went to the bedroom, but Wil had slept through his houseman’s visit. My handbag, on the dresser, had fallen over, and a few things had spilled out. I put back the lipsticks, pens, and tourist trinkets I’d bought.

Wil got up, drank a pot of tea, and played
Grand Theft Auto
for thirty minutes while I wrote postcards.

Then he said, “What’s the real situation with you and Ian Ducharme?”

“I’m a free agent.”

“Are you sure? Because as crazy hot as I think Ducharme is, I don’t want him showing up to kill me.”

I’d checked my messages when Wil wasn’t around, and Ian hadn’t called me. “Ian doesn’t give a damn what I do, and I don’t give a damn what or whom he does.”

Will gazed at me for a moment and said, “You sound quite angry for someone who doesn’t care, and you don’t want to do any blood play with me.”