The Key (Sanguinem Emere) (17 page)

“Are you blushing, Doctor Shane?”

“Don’t be ridiculous, Eva.”

“Good. Because if you can’t make it through this, you won’t survive the rest of it.”

The doctor avoids my eyes, but resumes his impassive I’m–listening face. It’s clear that I’ve made him uncomfortable. And I can’t for the life of me understand why.

It’s natural. We all do it. I suppose I could ease up on the descriptions, but that would break the cycle.

It’s vivid for me, so it should be for everyone else.

Shane finally finds his voice, “So you’re saying that these intimate moments with Levi become a trend?”

“Yes, and no.”

“There are other such occurrences?”

“There always are when creatures like Dimitri are involved.”

“And what sort of creature is he, Eva?”

“I’m getting to that.”

I stop. Poised at intensity, juggling my fear as I remember we are not alone in this house.

Dimitri’s face intrudes on my thoughts again, as if he knows exactly what I am doing. Why I am doing it. What I did last night. What I’ve been thinking of all day. He hovers in my mind as though he’s been there the whole time, a secret interloper.

A god seeing all I do. Omnipotent. Perfect.

I sit up straight, shoving Levi out my path with my slickened fingers and pull the gown back over me.

Fucking idiot that I am! He can’t do this to me. How could I be so blind?

He would never tell Dimitri. Not now that he’s come this far. Dimitri would kick his ass all over the house for getting off on even looking at me, letting alone having me take liberties under his own orders.

I can’t believe I’ve been this gullible.

Me.

Levi gracefully reasserts his tranquil ownership over the room, handing me clothing as he smiles a grimace. I refuse to meet his lecherous glances as I slip the dress I picked out earlier over my head. The material catches over my back, rolling up embarrassingly. He tries to pull it loose with his sly hands and I flinch away from him, having to reign myself in so as not to hiss at his grotesque amusement, or the clear signals of his arousal, pressed up to me while he invades my personal space.

“Fine. I’ll see you downstairs then. Don’t be late, Dimitri will be waiting.”

I ignore him and scrabble through the bathroom for mascara and eye-shadow. Added to my own feeling of betrayal of the man I adore, I will now, in all likelihood, be late.

“Oh, and Eva?”

I look up, itching to fling one of the thick-based brandy tumblers at his smug, fucking face.

“Do clean yourself up before you leave, you smell like a whore.”

THURSDAY 21 November 2008… 20:05

Whore.

The word echoes in my head, bounding through my skull like a malicious rabbit from some horror pornography. I want to be angry at Levi. I know I should be for his blatant disregard of me, the manner in which he threw his jibes and insulted my virtue. I should be furious that he can speak to me in that way, despite the intimacy of the moments that preceded. But I have to concur with his assessment.

I am a whore. A vile one at that. I live in the house of the man I love. Under his charity and grace, and still I flirt and conspire through my sexuality with this other man. A man that treats me like a whore.

And even worse is that I want to say it is simply a matter of coercion. That I only partook of such pleasure because otherwise I would have faced persecution from Dimitri. Or even banishment from his presence. A more emotionally debilitating thought. But the truth is a thing of more complexity.

It was not all bad. Levi makes tiny, twanging wires pull in my abdomen. Sickening that I should find his debasement of me to be so like an aphrodisiac in nature. The more cruel his mannerisms, the more I seem to want him.

Under normal circumstances I would turn to Delilah. But somehow I don’t think she’ll be of much support during this trial. I’ve brought it on myself. And I suspect she may be even more fiercely loyal to Dimitri than I am. She even went so far as to conspire against me to aid him. Me. Her best friend, or so she has said.

But this assessment still does not diminish my love of him. Odd that in the last few days, it seems like only a handful, I have grown accustomed to this strange love. I had been attracted to him before, true. But now I feel I would kill for him. Love him. Want him. Truly need him.

Which may all be the reason that, regardless of how violated I feel, I will not try to get back at that serpentine man. I would rather accept what has happened and deal with my own feelings of inadequacy and deceit, rather than risk losing the man that has made me feel such powerful devotion.

I have dressed to appease my guilt. To keep it from pointing unkind, accusatory fingers at me. I feel resplendent in a crimson, velvet dress, plunging neckline exposing the one feature of my body I feel at ease with, my expansive bust. Often a bone of contention for me (being viewed as a side of meat is not always what a girl likes to see herself as), but an attractive element of my form, nonetheless. My legs feel too touchable in the black, silk stockings chosen for the occasion. I admire the way my calf curls with definition as I slip into the black, suede heels, seated on my bed. If I cannot feel like a goddess on the inside, I shall at least portray such an image without. Dimitri must not suspect anything, other than the honesty of my intrepid lust for him.

I relish in the feel of my curls bouncing from their somewhat-loose bun captivity as I head down the stairs, noticing, but not really caring about the interspersed lamps lighting my path, adding a spark of enticement to my demeanour with each flicker of glowing sphere, illuminating in detail the artwork scrolling over the walls and rugs.

If I can accept that I am a whore, as my would-be lover so adequately stated, I can revel in it, to some extent. Allowing myself the freedom to pursue my Master as he did me, perhaps with even more ferocity.

My ears twitch at the sounds emanating from beneath me as I approach the stairs. Many voices, a varying mass of laughter, colouring the air about me. Are there more girls I do not know of? The thought makes my jealous gland snarl within, but the sex appeal I poured into deliberating over - and finally choosing - my outfit, makes me clutch the stair rail in a moment of pride. I feel the pull of my clothing, the contact with Levi, even, as a spotlight upon me, highlighting my attraction, outlining my seduction. The sensation causes my feet to become unsteady as my ears are assaulted, once more, by the stereo laughter and undefined hum of pleasant conversation.

No. Too many voices. Not just girls, but men as well.

I descend the stairs into a pool of light and sound as if I am slowly dipping my toes into the shallow end of a deep, obscured pool. All eyes do not turn to gaze at me avidly, as I had almost expected, peering at me to search for signs of the “whore” I am. Rather I am near wholly ignored but for a few cursory glances in my general direction. Generally this would make me feel less than worthy, but for the moment, the absence of attention to my dirtied self makes me feel safe.

But I’m not safe! The rage hits me suddenly with a force I can’t keep in. I’m a fucking whore! I practically laid myself out like a buffet for another man in my Dimitri’s home!

I should be stripped naked in front of all the people right now! Stripped down to the whore and displayed for ridicule! I want to tear at my hair, scream and shriek obscenities.

Breathe, Eva.

He doesn’t know yet. Only I have to live with what I’ve done. Keep it to myself.

If I do that, I’ll be fine.

I am safe. Within the knowledge that my behaviour has not been noted, within my cocoon of sexual attraction – an impression of myself I haven’t had for a very long time – and within the sanctity of Dimitri’s metaphysical embrace. Though I know that façade is vulnerable. I fear he will read my actions of an hour earlier on my face, in the crease of my lips, and know that I have committed an unforgiveable act.

That I am nothing more than a dirty whore. Vying for any man’s affections.

But for now the sexual buzz keeps me safe.

As the feeling of being cast out to sea in this sudden swirl of partying faces takes me, for a moment my footing is off-balance, but I right myself steadily as a warm arm slides around my waist and I smile as Delilah’s smell wafts over me.

“Hey D.”

“Pet, you look ravishing,” She speaks as loudly as she can whilst maintaining some social decorum. That’s my Delilah. Always aware of the effect her words and tone can have on the world around her. She’s sweet to say so. And I know it’s true. For the first time in a long while, I know what she says is true. I may have inherited the crow’s nest hair, but tonight it radiates blanket-tumble hair. My body may be plump, but tonight it’s curvaceous and luscious. I look to the thin girls, the clothes’ wracks, the skeletal beauties and I feel only pity.

She smiles a proud grin at me and opens her mouth to speak but swiftly closes it again.

“What?” I’m distracted. I can’t stop my eyes roving the sea of faces, hunting out my master. Searching for Dimitri’s face. And seeing one I do recognise.

“Oh, nothing,” She hedges, though her tone is back to being light and playful, a sign that her concern over my situation and anger at me for failing her and our master has passed in a haze of something else, “I just didn’t expect it to work so fast.”

I pause in my search and look at her - I’m sure I just saw Saskia Hunter. Distracted, I really look at Delilah. Her face is the way it has always been. A mask of decorum, of perfect little-lady manners with a hint of spice that has constantly garnered her the “wicked” label by women and men within and without of her peer group. But it is just that, a mask. Delilah has never been the shallow-waters type. But it seems I’m seeing it properly for the first time. I always wanted her to be the blonde bubble head that I could accuse of being less intelligent than me, even if she is far prettier than I am.

But she is so much more than that.

The dull low-light of worry clouding her eyes for the last few days – that was all for me. And here I am missing the perfection that is my best friend right before my eyes. Completely oblivious as to why Dimitri chose her.

Shame floods me, but I stifle it under my new-found self-assurance and tilt my head to her. “What do you mean?”

“Listen, Sugar,” I settle into the knowledge that I am about to be graced to the closest thing Delilah has ever gotten to an authentic lecture, “For months now I’ve had to see you being meek and mild and casually self-depreciating all because of some ass who, quite frankly, never deserved you in the first place. Now, you may not believe this, but I really had your best interests at heart when I mentioned you to Dimitri-”

“I know, Honey,” I whisper, but she continues undeterred, oblivious to my meek acknowledgement of her consideration of me, her southern drawl gaining in accentuation with each self-assured syllable.

“And I’ll be damnded if I wasn’t totally right. Hardly five nights in this place – in the den of vice -” She giggles salaciously and pinches my cheek with that annoying habit of hers, “And my sweet, puckered friend is once more the roving goddess I always knew you could be.”

She smiles at me from her natural height advantage, looking down on me for all the world like a condescending older sister, but her eyes gleam with pride. And vast affection.

I squeeze her to me, still trying to hold back the wave of sadness at my actions, my distasteful disregard for Dimitri’s love, my shame at having thought badly of her, but also now embarrassedly awash with love for my Delilah.

The only thing that could perfect this moment would be if all the dirt of the last few hours could be cleansed from me. Sadly though, I’m lost in my own sexual abandon.

I still haven’t decided for certain if that is a good or a bad thing.

Delilah, seeing everything, takes stern note of my wandering eyes. “Yeah,” She mutters, her mood falling marginally, “I haven’t seen him yet either. Didn’t even know he was having a party tonight. You’d think Cecily would have said something,” She mutters harshly, her jealousy shimmering like an eel beneath a calm ocean’s surface, “I would have dressed to suit.”

I give her the once over and scoff, drinking in her ridiculous beauty in folds of green velvet.

“What? I can do better,” She winks pleasantly at me, giving me a hint at the self-mockery in what would otherwise be a perfectly vapid comment. 

“Why should Cess know about it and not us?” I try to keep the jealousy from my tone, no place for it now with the two women I feel closest to in the world, but it seeps through anyway.

Delilah gives me a surprised, if somewhat pitying, glance, “I keep forgetting you’re new to how he works. You know Cecily is great with organisation. So she arranges all his “self-hosted” events.”

“Oh,” Understanding finally dawns. Delilah may know everyone, or so it seems, but she’s no good at actual clear organisation. In fact, if it weren’t for all her ‘helpers’, Crème would have probably collapsed under the pressure by now. Cecily, on the other hand, is beyond exceptional at hosting events and is also fanatically good with money. Now that I think about it, it does seem slightly ludicrous of me not to have noted that she would not just be a flapper for Dimitri, but he would naturally make use of her skills as a business woman as well.