Blood Truth, page 2
So where the hell was he among this enviable wardrobe?
As there would be no answer to that one coming, he strode out of his dressing room and through his bedroom and sitting area. Out in the hall, he passed by flower arrangements on demilune tables, a gallery of oil paintings, and then the closed doors of his blood mahmen’s former suite of rooms. From what he understood, the quarters were left as they had been when the female had died twenty years before, the lock turned one last time, ne’er to be released again.
But not, he gathered, because of his sire’s mourning.
It was more a case of done and dusted. His father’s next shellan had been installed, like a painting, a mere six months later, with all the rights and privileges accorded thereto. Including the expectation that she be referred to as Boone’s mahmen.
The fact that the female did not play that role, even on a step level, was never taken into account, and the same was true of Boone’s feelings both about the loss of who had birthed him. Then again, Altamere didn’t believe in giving emotions any airtime, and he extended that dubious courtesy to his new mate. Once their mating ceremony was over, Boone never saw them together outside of social engagements.
The female didn’t seem particularly bothered by the cold distance. In fact, she didn’t seem any more thrilled with her hellren than Altamere was with her, although going by the regular deliveries from Chanel, Dior, and Hermès, the arrangement certainly suited her closet.
Her suite was the one next to Boone’s blood mahmen’s. And if she ever was called unto the Fade? Boone was willing to bet one of the two sets of rooms would be cleaned out, redecorated, and given to someone else of female persuasion. It was rather like throwing out dead batteries and replacing them with new ones, as if some part of this mansion, this life of his father’s, required the component of a shellan to be automated—and thank God you could get one quick on Amazon Prime when the old one ran out of juice.
As Boone thought of what was waiting for him downstairs, he decided he shouldn’t be too hasty to judge.
On that note, his sire’s suite was next in line.
Boone had never been allowed in there, so he couldn’t comment on the decor one way or the other. But he would bet two-thirds of his liver and one whole kidney that nothing was out of order, and most of it was navy blue.
Altamere had probably come out of the womb in a navy blue sport coat, gray flannels, and a club tie.
As Boone continued on and hit the curving staircase, the subtle creaking under the plush red runner was so familiar, he could not imagine what it would be like to live anywhere else. His home—his father’s home—had never been a place of joy, but as with an insidious expertise in all things considered to be “in good taste,” as well as his relentless need to do the right thing, such constrictors were all he knew and thus a dispositive part of who he was.
Unchosen, but undeniable.
Rather like this arranged mating he found himself in.
Bottoming out on the first floor, he went over to the sitting room on the right. Where the female awaited him behind closed doors.
“Is there something with which I may assist you.”
Boone halted. The words were, assuming one translated them properly, a question. The attitude and tone were an accusation.
He pivoted around. Marquist, the household’s butler, was not a doggen, but rather a civilian vampire. Other than that non-typical, the male fit the bill of head servant of a grand estate to a T: Formally dressed in a uniform right out of Buckingham Palace, he had lacquered-back gray hair, suspicious eyes, and an upper lip so stiff you could get a paper cut from it every time he opened his mouth.
The guy also had an uncanny ability to show up where you didn’t want him.
Boone checked the knot of his tie with his fingertips. “I am receiving a visitor.”
“Yes. I was the one who let her in and summoned you.”
Boone continued to meet the stare coming back at him. “And?”
“Your father is not here.”
“I am aware of that.”
“You will be alone with her, then.”
“We are in a receiving parlor with security cameras. I am very sure that you will be monitoring their feeds. We are hardly by ourselves.”
“I am going to call your father.”
“You always do.”
Boone turned his back on the male and meant to enter the parlor. But as his hands gripped the brass handles, he could not move. Meanwhile, there was a huffing sound behind him, and then Marquist snob’d off, the hard soles of those polished shoes clipping like curses as he retreated to his lair of polish cloths, table settings, and tight-assed glowering.
Boone’s hesitation hadn’t been about the butler, but the fact that it had gotten Marquist to leave was a bonus.
“Shit,” he whispered.
His body refused to move, and it was a toss-up as to why. There was a lot to choose from. In the end, he closed his eyes to take a deep breath, and that was what did it. As with knotting the tie, provided he couldn’t see, he was good to go.
As he opened the double doors, his lids flipped up.
The female was standing at one of the floor-to-ceiling windows that faced out the front of the manse, her back to him, the fall of raspberry damask drapery setting off her blond hair and her pink-and-black Chanel suit. In the glass panes, her grave reflection was like the portrait of a beautiful female from the past, the profile a remote, though faithful, representation of something no longer among the living.
Rochelle, blooded daughter of Urdeme, looked over her shoulder as he shut them in together—and the instant their eyes met, he knew.
And was relieved.
“Boone,” she said roughly.
He exhaled a breath that he hadn’t been aware of holding for the last month. “It’s okay. I know why you came.”
“You do?”
“When you called me directly, instead of going through proper channels, I knew it had to be because you wanted out of this arrangement. And as I said, it’s all right.”
She seemed surprised, as if she had expected to have to explain herself. As if she had anticipated a hard conversation. As if she had braced herself for anger and indignation on his part.
“No . . . it’s not all right.”
“Yes, it is. Come here.”
As he held out his hand, she walked over to him, but their palms did not make contact. He was careful to drop his arm before she was close, and he drew her over to the sofa by indicating the way across the formal room. When they were both seated on the soft cushions, he had a thought in the back of his mind that they were cardboard cutouts of their parents. In spite of being out of their transitions some fifty years, he and Rochelle were dressing and behaving as if they were three or four hundred years old: Suits and court shoes. Discreet jewels for her, pocket squares for him. Perfect manners.
Inside, he knew it wasn’t right. None of this was right, and not just the arranged mating. None of this household, this bloodline he had been born into, was as it should be, and abruptly, as he contemplated the reality that he had been prepared to follow through on a lifelong commitment he knew was wrong for him, anger took hold.
Thank the Virgin Scribe Rochelle was braver than he.
“I am so sorry,” she said with a sniffle.
He shifted and took his handkerchief out of his inside pocket. “Here.”
“What a mess.” Taking what he offered, Rochelle dabbed carefully at her eyes. “What an . . . absolute mess I am making out of everything.”
More tears came for her, and he wished he could put a friendly arm around her shoulders for comfort. But he hadn’t touched her in any way yet, and now was hardly the time to start.
“We can choose not to do this.”
“But I want to. I truly do.” She pressed under one side of her nose and looked at him. “You’re amazing. You’re everything I should want, but I just don’t—oh, God. I shouldn’t say that.”
Boone smiled. “I take it as a compliment.”
“I mean it. I wish I could love you.”
“I know you do.”
Abruptly, she shook her head over and over again, her blond hair breaking across her shoulders in thick waves. “No, no, we have to press on. I don’t know why I came here. There is no getting out of this, Boone. Arranged matings can’t be broken.”
“The hell they can’t. Tell them all you do not find me acceptable. It’s your right. That’s how you—how we—take care of this.”
“Except that’s not fair to you.” Tears glistened in her eyes. “There will be all kinds of judgment on you, and—”
“I’ll handle it.”
“How?”
He didn’t know. But what he was sure about was that having the glymera believe he was undesirable as a hellren for a fellow member of the upper classes seemed a better lot than forcing this mating. It wasn’t that he didn’t like Rochelle or that he found her unattractive. She was smart and funny, and she was classically beautiful. Over time, there was a possibility of things developing between them, but they were essentially strangers.
And as they sat here alone for the first time, the question he had been asking himself since night one was finally answered: The only reason he had gone down this path of expectation was because he’d thought maybe he could make it work better than his father had. In fact, he had been determined to succeed where his sire had failed by meeting the expectations of the glymera and yet still living a life that was authentic.
Except winning that kind of a race would only get him a hollow trophy, wouldn’t it—in the form of a mating to a female he wasn’t in love with . . . just so he could prove a point to a male who would undoubtedly not notice the nuances outside of “normal.”
“It’s going to be all right,” he repeated.
Rochelle took a deep breath. “I don’t want you to think I was being hasty in calling you. Or impulsive.”
Impulsive? he thought. What, like signing on for seven hundred years of mating, the possibility of young, and the certainty of death’s hard stop, even though the pair of them had shared just two supervised greeting teas, the required parental dinner, and the announcement cocktail party? All told, he had spent maybe five hours in Rochelle’s company, and until now, it had all been witnessed.
“Boone, I want to explain. I’m in love . . . with someone else.”
As he smiled, he wondered what that kind of connection felt like.
“I’m really happy for you. Love is a blessing.”
Rochelle looked away, her face turning into a mask of composure. “Thank you.”
Boone wanted to ask questions about the male. But again, even though they were technically engaged, as the humans would say, they were essentially strangers, and that was what made all this so crazy.
She thought it was hard breaking the engagement? Try ending a full-blown mating.
“Just tell them I am not worthy,” he insisted. “And then you’re free to mate the other male.”
As Rochelle’s eyes came back to him, he reflected that they were the same color blue as his own, and for some reason, that irritated him. Not that there was anything wrong with her; it was just . . . enough already with the proper-bloodline stuff. They were so alike in terms of coloring, save for his dark hair, that they could have been brother and sister, and how creepy was that.
Rochelle flattened the handkerchief he’d given her on her lap, smoothing the square, running her fingertip over his monogram in the center.
“So you . . . you don’t want to do this, either?”
“I think it would be better if we knew each other”—at all—“and we were choosing this. I know that’s not how our kind do the mating thing, but why? My sire and my birth mahmen were never happy with each other, and they had an arranged mating. After she died, my father went and did it all over again with the same result. A part of me thought maybe I could show him how it’s properly done, but honestly? Especially if you’re in love with someone else? Not only what are the chances of a happily ever after for us, but why bother.”
“I can’t leave you with all the social stigma. It’s not fair.”
“Don’t kid yourself. If we end this for any reason other than me being unacceptable, the social fallout on you is going to be downright brutal. That male you love? He will not be allowed to mate you. You will be considered ruined and ineligible for a proper hellren for the rest of your life. On top of that, your whole bloodline will be shamed and they will blame it all on you. Are you saying you’d rather enjoy that result?”
Rochelle winced. “You’re going to be shunned to some degree, though.”
“It will be nothing compared to what the glymera will do to you. I’d rather be the talk of the party circuit for a year and get side-eye for a decade than know I ruined your life and the life of your male.”
Rochelle shook her head. “You’re getting the bad end of this. Why would you do this for anyone?”
“I don’t know. I guess . . . love is worth sacrificing for. Even if it’s not my own.”
“You are such a male of worth,” she whispered. “And you are so brave.”
Was he really, though? Maybe in the context of the glymera, but the realist in him knew that true bravery was not facing the slings and arrows of haughty stares and disapproving comments. After the raids, after the Lessening Society had killed so many innocents in their homes, how could anybody suggest that arbitrary social mores were the be-all and end-all of anything worthwhile? Or that thwarting them for a good reason should get you the vampire equivalent of the Purple Heart?
Rochelle searched his face as if trying to assess whether he could handle the pressure. “You really don’t care about what they think of you, do you.”
Boone shrugged. “I’ve never been a big fan of the social scene. There are people here in Caldwell who don’t have any idea that Altamere even has a son, and I’m fine with that. My father will take some heat, but I assure you, after the way he’s dismissed me all my life, I’m perfectly comfortable with not worrying about his problems. And please don’t feel guilty. This is the best for both of us.”
Rochelle dabbed at fresh tears. “I wish I were like you. I’m a coward.”
“Are you kidding me? You’re being brave here. And don’t make a hero out of me.” He smiled bitterly. “I’ve got plenty of faults. Just ask my sire. He’ll give you a list longer than your driveway.”
As she fell silent, the sadness that came back into her eyes made him want to hold her. But Marquist was watching on the closed circuit—and more to the point, Rochelle was not his to comfort.
Calling off the arrangement was so the right thing to do—
“No,” she said in a stronger voice. “I will take responsibility for this. I am not going to let you—”
“Rochelle. I don’t know who your male is, but if he’s in our class? You cannot be the one who breaks things off. If you refuse to perform on this arrangement, his family will never allow you two to be together.
You know this. You will be sullied, and it will haunt you for the rest of your life. Let me take the hit.”
“I still don’t know why you would do this for me.”
“If I had someone to love, I would want to be with her. But I don’t.” He frowned and considered all of the females he knew or had met. They were all aristocrats. “And honestly, I can’t see where something like true love would come from for me. So I want to help the two of you.”
Rochelle dabbed her face with his handkerchief again. “I really wish I could love you. You are a male of true worth. But no, I can’t let you—”
The double doors burst open, the heavy panels thrown wide by Marquist.
Boone’s sire, Altamere, strode in, his wing tips clipping over the marble until they hit the carpet and were silenced. The male’s dark hair was brushed back from his finely boned face, and his pale eyes were the color of steel in his anger. Absently, Boone noted that the suit his father had on was made of the exact same fine wool his own was. The slate blue color was flecked with threads of heather and pale gray, the speckling so subtle that one could not notice it without pressing a nose to the lapels.
The cut of the jacket and slacks was not the same, however. Boone had always taken after his mahmen’s side of things, his shoulders broad, his arms thick, his legs long and muscled. He had always been aware that his father disapproved of his physique, and could remember a hushed comment after his transition, made under his sire’s breath, that Boone had the body of a laborer. As if that were a birth defect.
Or maybe something that made him doubt the fidelity of his shellan.
Boone had always wondered about that.
“Whate’er are you doing,” Altamere demanded.
As that hard stare locked on Boone, it was not a surprise that the male ignored Rochelle. To him, females were nothing but background, something pretty on the periphery, an accessory rather than an active participant in one’s life.
Boone got to his feet. “Rochelle has come to tell me I am not worthy of our arrangement. She has rejected me, and because she has honor, she wanted to do it in person. She is taking her leave the now.”
He could feel Rochelle looking at him in shock, but he was prepared to shoot down any attempt she might make to deny what he’d laid out. Meanwhile, over Altamere’s shoulder, Marquist was a watchful presence, a living, breathing camcorder that was taking everything in.
“You are not going to embarrass me like this,” Altamere hissed. “I will not allow it.”
As if he sensed there was a deeper story.
The anger that had curdled in Boone’s chest found further purchase in his very soul. “The choice is not yours to make.”
“You are my son. It is no one else’s—”
“Bullshit.” As his sire blanched at the curse word, Boone’s voice grew deeper and louder. “We’re done with me trying to please you. I was never very good at it, anyway—at least not according to you, and it is beyond time that I stand up for myself.”
In the back of his mind, the tally of his sire’s neglect and condescension was like an electric meter going haywire, the count spiraling up into the stratosphere: Boone’s body type. Boone’s desire to read rather than be social. Boone’s mahmen’s death ignored. Boone’s stepmahmen entering the house like a cold draft. Boone’s never measuring up no matter what the standard.
