“You should have guessed when we went for each other like we were in heat instantly right after we met. That kind of lust only comes when like meets like.”
“So I’ve heard. Hey, the lust had me pretty distracted. That and starring in orgies and fighting the Saxons and that whole Matter of Britain thing we had going.”
He sighed. “Matter of Britain, my ass.”
She stroked it. “It’s a very nice ass. I have a nice big bed it might fit in upstairs,” she told him.
He helped her to her feet, even though she groaned in protest when he stopped touching her breasts. “I’d be delighted to spend as much time as possible in your nice big bed.”
“Good.”
“But first,” he added, “I did come here to ask if you’d like to go on a date this evening. I’ve got tickets for a revival of an old musical I think you’ll enjoy.”
Curiosity nibbled away some of her lust. “What would that be?”
He grinned. “Spamalot.”
She hooted, and they held each other tight, shaking with laughter. What other production could possibly be more perfect for their first date?
LIFE IS THE TEACHER
Carrie Vaughn
EMMA SLID UNDER THE SURFACE OF THE WATER and stayed there. She lay in the tub, on her back, and stared up at a world made soft, blurred with faint ripples. An unreal world viewed through a distorted filter. For minutes—four, six, ten—she stayed under water and didn’t drown, because she didn’t breathe. Would never breathe again.
The world looked different through these undead eyes. Thicker, somehow. And also, strangely, clearer.
Survival seemed like such a curious thing once you’d already been killed.
This was her life now. She didn’t have to stay here. She could end it any time she wanted just by opening the curtains at dawn. But she didn’t.
Sitting up, she pushed back her soaking hair and rained water all around her with the noise of a rushing stream. Outside the blood-warm bath, her skin chilled in the air. She felt every little thing, every little current—from the vent, from a draft from the window, coolness eddying along the floor, striking the walls. She shivered. Put the fingers of one hand on the wrist of the other and felt no pulse.
After spreading a towel on the floor, she stepped from the bath.
She looked at herself: she didn’t look any different. Same slim body, smooth skin, young breasts the right size to cup in her hands, nipples the color of a bruised peach. Her skin was paler than she remembered. So pale it was almost translucent. Bloodless.
Not for long.
She dried her brown hair so it hung straight to her shoulders and dressed with more care than she ever had before. Not that the clothes she put on were by any means fancy, or new, or anything other than what she’d already had in her closet: a tailored silk shirt over a black lace camisole, jeans, black leather pumps, and a few choice pieces of jewelry, a couple of thin silver chains and dangling silver earrings. Every piece, every seam, every fold of fabric, produced an effect, and she wanted to be sure she produced the right effect: young, confident, alluring. Without, of course, looking like she was trying to produce such an effect. It must seem casual, thrown together, effortless. She switched the earrings from one ear to the other because they didn’t seem to lay right the other way.
This must be what a prostitute felt like.
Dissatisfied, she went upstairs to see Alette.
The older woman was in the parlor, waiting in a wingback chair. The room was decorated in tasteful antiques, Persian rugs, and velvet-upholstered furniture, with thick rich curtains hanging over the windows. Books crammed into shelves and a silver tea service ornamented the mantel. For all its opulent decoration, the room had a comfortable, natural feel to it. Its owner had come by the decor honestly. The Victorian atmosphere was genuine.
Alette spoke with a refined British accent. “You don’t have to do this.”
Alette was the most regal, elegant woman Emma knew. An apparent thirty years old, she was poised, dressed in a silk skirt and jacket, her brunette hair tied in a bun, her face like porcelain. She was over four hundred years old.
Emma was part of her clan, her Family, by many ties, from many directions. By blood, Alette was Emma’s ancestor, a many-greats grandmother. Closer, Alette had made the one who in turn had made Emma.
That had been unplanned. Emma hadn’t wanted it. The man in question had been punished. He was gone now, and Alette had taken care of her: mother, mentor, mistress.
“You can’t bottle feed me forever,” Emma replied. In this existence, that meant needles, IV tubes, and a willing donor. It was so clinical.