Undesireable: Chapter 2
TITLE: Undesireable (An original vampire novel)
RATING: NC-17 (This chapter PG-13)
GENRE: Porn with plot -- heavy on the plot. Action/adventure, some black humor, some romance.
PAIRINGS: George x everyone. Mostly Slash, some het, three and moresomes. Vampire sex.
WARNINGS: Lots of non-con and coercive themes -- oh howdy Lots of swearing. Some sexual props. Some bondage. Heavy dominance/submission themes.
WORD COUNT: 2924
CHAPTER TWO
So why am I all worked up into a froth about something that tens of thousands of others have just gritted their teeth and dealt with? Here's the problem: I might not be as Undesirable as I've been claiming. Yeah, it's possible I've been blowing smoke out my ass to everyone on the subject for over a decade.
What I am is truly "uncategorized." Of the twelve variables, eight of mine are rare enough that no one can guess how well they combine - could be good, could be bad. Think of them as ingredients to a recipe. Wally's got apples and cinnamon and sugar, etc, and that makes a nice pie - common, but pretty much universally yummy. Me? I'm made up those weird looking fruits and vegetables you see in Asian markets. I have "acquired taste" written all over my numbers.
To make matters more confusing, one my variables is actually unique - as in I'm the only one in the whole fucking world with it. Not even my parents have it. I'm a mutant. Go me.
The three that remain are common enough but they only deal with the intensity of flavor, not it's pleasantness or unpleasantness. So all anyone really knows is that I taste strongly of something. But what that something is is anyone's guess. It almost certainly is not "puke" much as I would like it to be.
Puke is what I did on the Lady Dingaling's arm and what she subsequently wrote in my file, but I'm getting ahead of myself here.
So what the hell happened, and how is it completely not my fault? It's important to note this lie got started in '95. The first synthetic taste test had just come out a year before, mass testing the populace was still very novel, and even the vampires weren't sure what it all meant. Before this, Vampires kept harems of attractive young adults on the assumption that if they looked pretty, they must taste good, too. Most non-fashion-model types went about their business comfortable in the notion that the only thing the vampires would ever take from them was their taxes.
With the invention of the taster, all that got thrown to the wind. The vampires had the first opportunity in their existence to become connoisseurs. The harems briefly went out of vogue in favor of random sampling based on pure curiosity. In the first months, they'd gone a bit batshit with the random part.
Unless you were born under a rock, you should have an inkling of the sort of things vampires like to do to their food. So imagine what my parents must have thought when they received notice that their eleven year old son was being called up to Serve. Can you blame them for trying to shield me?
About two weeks after my annual physical, a very fancy vellum and gold envelope arrived in our mailslot, addressed to "Mr. George Handle" as if I were some kind of adult. I puzzled over the envelope wondering if maybe I'd won something, but the letter inside implied that I had some vague kind of duty I was supposed to perform. I handed it to my mom. She looked it over and her face went pale.
"This is nuts," she said. Then she turned to me and in all seriousness said, "We'll see what we can do about this." I vaguely understood that something wrong was going on with the letter, but she wouldn't go into details why. A short phone call later confirmed it. I knew I'd been called up, but I didn't have the foggiest idea for what.
And rather soon after I stopped really caring, because, for a bit, life got really good for me. With a week's worth of notice, my parents went to business. Simply ditching the appointment was not an option, but making me out to look unpalatable was a subtle enough rebellion that it had half a chance of working. The first thing that happened is that my bedtime curfew got lifted. I stayed up late, watched movies, played video games on my PC, and generally got very little sleep. My schoolwork suffered, but no one got on my case for it. It was like a little slice of preadolescent heaven. By the end of the week, I had bags under my eyes so dark they could be mistaken for shiners and I stumbled around with a zombie stare.
Then on the day I had to go in to Serve, my mother - a nutritionist mind you - gave me a heaping mound of my favorite candies as an afterschool snack. I did what you'd expect any seriously sweet deprived eleven year old would, I pigged out with complete abandon.
I remember how long the drive was from Canby to Skyline Drive, fighting rush hour traffic most of the way. Mom was dressed up in her out-to-dinner clothes, her nails freshly painted, she'd even gone so far as to curl her hair, but she'd let me wear my ordinary jeans and t-shirt and didn't even insist I comb my hair.
Something about that just seemed wrong to me, in a way being allowed to stay up late and eat candy somehow hadn't. I noticed that when she switched on the headlights her hand was trembling. And that's when it finally sunk in that maybe something really bad was about to happen. Maybe that candy was my last meal.
I didn’t dare ask, fearing to have it confirmed, so we drove together in silence until just after sunset we made a right at the cemetery and entered the land of the filthy rich. Lady Darlene Strobel's estate was a fair way down the gravel road. I was vaguely distracted by the million dollar mansions, which teetered precariously on the clifflike downward slopes. In order to even get to the Lady's estate we had to drive down a terrifyingly steep driveway but it wasn't until we passed through her gates that things got truly hairy and uncomfortable.
We parked between a Mercedes Benz and a Lexus with custom rims on the pavers outside the four-car garage. I was torn between being impressed with the cars and being self-conscious about our unwashed Honda Civic. That underdressed feeling I had in the car intensified to the point where I could feel a blush start to heat my face.
"Do we have to be here?" I asked.
"Yes." There was a spooky brittleness in Mom's voice. "I'm sorry."
She took my hand and squeezed it, then started walking towards the house still holding it like I was a toddler. I pulled away with embarrassment, then realized with a pang that it wasn't so much that she wanted to baby me, as she wanted to hold onto me as long as she could, to reassure herself that I was there. That slightly queasy feeling turned into full on nausea.
We got up the steps to the entry way to the main house and rang the bell. Wouldn't you know it, an honest to god butler answered it. His appearance was unlikely enough to lift my spirits a bit, and I stifled a laugh as he led us to the "small reception parlor." The room turned out to be decked out like some old ladies living room. It smelled like Endust and potpourri. I got about twenty seconds to balance myself on an overstuffed couch before the butler returned to fetch me.
Just me.
I tried to be brave and pretend I wasn't intimidated by the situation, but the whole place was spooky and old and I really had no idea what was expected of me or why I was even there. I was led to an office and left in the hands of a nurse who had me strip to my Fruit-of-the-Looms then peered into my mouth and ears. I think she was rather taken aback by my size. She was used to checking up on adults, and thanks to my father's Lilliputian genes, I was short for my age. She kept asking me if I was sick a lot even though I told her no, and after a while it got on my nerves.
I wondered if this check up might be the thing that was scaring Mom, but no. After fifteen minutes, the butler was back to take me to yet another room in the house. I wasn't allowed to dress before going with him, so I ended up padding about this strange person's house half-naked and hunched, my arms crossed over my scrawny chest for warmth. Yeah, that was awkward and uncomfortable.
Just as I thought I couldn't feel more creeped out I was proved wrong again. New place the Butler took me to turned out to be some kind of huge bedroom suite - one where the bathroom was separated from the main room only by the transition from shag carpeting to tile. There were mirrors everywhere, and one wall was nothing but glass with a fantastic view of the valley all the way out to the Coast Range. The sun had just set and there was just the lingering hint of purple to the clouds. In the shadow of my own reflection I could see the lights of the city below.
Any other time that would have held my interest, but here my eyes were inexorably drawn to the room's obvious focal point. In the middle of the suite, not attached to any wall, was the biggest damn canopy bed I'd ever seen in my life. And attached to one of the cherry wood posts was a pair of handcuffs.
And that's when I started to really freak out.
I was a kid yes, but I wasn't completely innocent. I'd flipped curiously through a couple of naughty magazines. I'd listened to the school yard gossip and indulged in raunchy talk of virgin boys. I knew what that handcuff was for.
In the way you might poke at a sore, I reached out and touched the cuffs, just to be absolutely sure they were real and not some dime store plastic and silver-paint toy. It felt cold and solid. As I lifted them up I noticed the lacquer on the wood was scraped, as if whoever had worn that cuff had struggled. That pair of cuffs took on enormous significance to me.
I was going to get molested, like those stranger danger videos warned. That's why my mom was freaked out. Right then my gut told me in no uncertain terms that I was not interested in sticking my prepubescent wiener in some ancient vampire lady. Nuh-uh. No way. Gross.
In what had to be the most perfect timing ever, Lady Darlene chose that moment to walk in the door. I spun around and took her in with saucer-scared eyes. The vampire wore nothing but black leather and not much of that. She had what people call a "handsome" face, rather than a pretty one. Her jaw was a bit too square and severe. Her black hair was in a smooth glossy bob, and her eyes were framed by a scary amount of eyeliner. In retrospect, I recognize she was a knock out - curvy, big bosomed, synched waist, round butt. I'm sure she raised the masts of her usual fair with no trouble, but my current fascination with tits hadn't manifested yet, and all I saw was a weird grown-up in a weird outfit, and it didn't turn me on in the least.
She looked at me and I dropped the cuffs like I'd been caught stealing gum. She glowered and I ran to the far corner of the room shrieking my lungs out.
This put the Lady off somewhat. And by somewhat, I mean a lot. The first words out of her mouth were a series of cusses that would make a sailor wince. Then, mercifully, she turned her ire in another direction. "Is this child it?" She yelled at the butler, who stood two steps behind her, politely holding the door. "This thing?. Oh tell me this is some kind of joke."
The Butler murmured something I couldn't quite make out.
"Well I don't care about Chauncey's priorities," she said sharply. "If not eighteen, he damn well can wait until it's a teen. What is it, six? Is he going to give me babies next?"
The butler murmured something that apparently mollified her enough that she grumbled "Very well," and reached out an arm and perfunctorily gestured I come close.
I refused to leave the corner. There was something really wrong with this woman.
As if switching tactics, Lady Darlene suddenly put on a sugary smile, and waggled her red talons at me in a more gentle way. "Aw come on," she said in this high ootzy-cutsy voice. "I'm not going to hurt you, baby. Just gotta find out if you really taste as awful as you look, because you are just… so … unique … and my boss is afraid you will move out of his jurisdiction before he has a chance to sink his … teeth… into you. Well, we wouldn't want him to be deprived of such a sweet little boy, would we? So, just hold still. I'll do a quick nip, a suck, and then send you right back to your momma."
Yeah, you know I don't think that would have convinced a kid who wasn't terrified shitless. I certainly didn't go for it. Instead, I looked for an even more inaccessible corner I could fit myself into. Spying one in the bathroom, between the curved edge of the raised tub and the pedestal sink, I dashed across the room.
I didn't make it past that horrific canopy bed. One moment Lady Darlene was by the door, the next she right in front of me, intercepting my flailing body with her own.
Things went very fast then. I realized I'd been caught and shrieked. Lady Darlene leaned forward so that her head was near my shoulder and began to close her arms, I assume to embrace me, but she never got that far.
And just then my stomach rebelled. There was no preamble, the first notice I had I was going to vomit was when I felt it rising up my throat. I had precisely half a second to turn my head and try to throw up over her arm rather than spew down her cleavage. You know, in retrospect, I kinda wish I hadn't tried to miss her, because it would have been hilarious if I had got her boobs. Though it was probably for the best I didn't. I mean, I managed to leave her house alive and with no broken bones. I'm not sure I would have if I'd actually upchucked into her bustier.
Anyway, I had one second to think "Oh shit!" And the next moment I was flying over the bed. I hit the mattress with enough spin to roll sideways before falling off the far side. Other than bruises from where she'd picked me up, I was uninjured, though I did puke again on the carpet next to where I came to rest.
"I want that sick brat out of my house!" Lady Darlene stormed from somewhere across the room. "Now!"
And out I went.
I didn't even get a chance to put on my clothes, which were piled in my Mom's arms as we literally ran out the door. We stopped the car a quarter mile down the road so I could dress myself and get my act together.
Mom was great. By the time we got home she'd managed to convince me that I'd played a marvelous practical joke on a rich stuck up snob. We agreed it would have made a hilarious icebreaker at parties if only we didn’t have to keep it all a deep secret. Framed that way, it really wasn't that bad an experience, reasonably trauma free even. I did have a couple of nightmares, but nothing I'd consider lasting. And being classified as Undesirable has turned out to be hugely convenient. Well worth half an hour of raw terror, I say.
Really, the only bad thing to come out of the whole adventure is that I'm still irrationally frightened of canopy beds. Those damn things creep the fuck out of me.
Which brings me back to my current situation. Much as I am happy that Lord Jeffrey wasn't interested in tanning my undeserving hide, unless I could get myself out of this, he was still apt to be plenty put out with me. If he's looking for a truly masochistic taste treat, he's probably going to be disappointed when I turn out to be simply odd, or worse, vaguely pleasant. And then all kinds of awkward questions will arise, and the family secret won't be a secret anymore, because you can't lie to a vampire, not face to face.
And shortly after that there will be not just one, but two vampires annoyed at me. I've already insulted Lady Dingaling in the most visceral way possible. I rather suspect she won't be happy to have me come back twelve years later and publicly show her up as a lazy liar who didn't do her job. And my so called "patron vampire" isn't going to be that thrilled at finding out that I managed to pull one over on him. Make that three pissed off vampires.
So is my paranoia beginning to make a bit of sense now?
Back to Chapter 1
On to Chapter 3
RATING: NC-17 (This chapter PG-13)
GENRE: Porn with plot -- heavy on the plot. Action/adventure, some black humor, some romance.
PAIRINGS: George x everyone. Mostly Slash, some het, three and moresomes. Vampire sex.
WARNINGS: Lots of non-con and coercive themes -- oh howdy Lots of swearing. Some sexual props. Some bondage. Heavy dominance/submission themes.
WORD COUNT: 2924
CHAPTER TWO
So why am I all worked up into a froth about something that tens of thousands of others have just gritted their teeth and dealt with? Here's the problem: I might not be as Undesirable as I've been claiming. Yeah, it's possible I've been blowing smoke out my ass to everyone on the subject for over a decade.
What I am is truly "uncategorized." Of the twelve variables, eight of mine are rare enough that no one can guess how well they combine - could be good, could be bad. Think of them as ingredients to a recipe. Wally's got apples and cinnamon and sugar, etc, and that makes a nice pie - common, but pretty much universally yummy. Me? I'm made up those weird looking fruits and vegetables you see in Asian markets. I have "acquired taste" written all over my numbers.
To make matters more confusing, one my variables is actually unique - as in I'm the only one in the whole fucking world with it. Not even my parents have it. I'm a mutant. Go me.
The three that remain are common enough but they only deal with the intensity of flavor, not it's pleasantness or unpleasantness. So all anyone really knows is that I taste strongly of something. But what that something is is anyone's guess. It almost certainly is not "puke" much as I would like it to be.
Puke is what I did on the Lady Dingaling's arm and what she subsequently wrote in my file, but I'm getting ahead of myself here.
So what the hell happened, and how is it completely not my fault? It's important to note this lie got started in '95. The first synthetic taste test had just come out a year before, mass testing the populace was still very novel, and even the vampires weren't sure what it all meant. Before this, Vampires kept harems of attractive young adults on the assumption that if they looked pretty, they must taste good, too. Most non-fashion-model types went about their business comfortable in the notion that the only thing the vampires would ever take from them was their taxes.
With the invention of the taster, all that got thrown to the wind. The vampires had the first opportunity in their existence to become connoisseurs. The harems briefly went out of vogue in favor of random sampling based on pure curiosity. In the first months, they'd gone a bit batshit with the random part.
Unless you were born under a rock, you should have an inkling of the sort of things vampires like to do to their food. So imagine what my parents must have thought when they received notice that their eleven year old son was being called up to Serve. Can you blame them for trying to shield me?
About two weeks after my annual physical, a very fancy vellum and gold envelope arrived in our mailslot, addressed to "Mr. George Handle" as if I were some kind of adult. I puzzled over the envelope wondering if maybe I'd won something, but the letter inside implied that I had some vague kind of duty I was supposed to perform. I handed it to my mom. She looked it over and her face went pale.
"This is nuts," she said. Then she turned to me and in all seriousness said, "We'll see what we can do about this." I vaguely understood that something wrong was going on with the letter, but she wouldn't go into details why. A short phone call later confirmed it. I knew I'd been called up, but I didn't have the foggiest idea for what.
And rather soon after I stopped really caring, because, for a bit, life got really good for me. With a week's worth of notice, my parents went to business. Simply ditching the appointment was not an option, but making me out to look unpalatable was a subtle enough rebellion that it had half a chance of working. The first thing that happened is that my bedtime curfew got lifted. I stayed up late, watched movies, played video games on my PC, and generally got very little sleep. My schoolwork suffered, but no one got on my case for it. It was like a little slice of preadolescent heaven. By the end of the week, I had bags under my eyes so dark they could be mistaken for shiners and I stumbled around with a zombie stare.
Then on the day I had to go in to Serve, my mother - a nutritionist mind you - gave me a heaping mound of my favorite candies as an afterschool snack. I did what you'd expect any seriously sweet deprived eleven year old would, I pigged out with complete abandon.
I remember how long the drive was from Canby to Skyline Drive, fighting rush hour traffic most of the way. Mom was dressed up in her out-to-dinner clothes, her nails freshly painted, she'd even gone so far as to curl her hair, but she'd let me wear my ordinary jeans and t-shirt and didn't even insist I comb my hair.
Something about that just seemed wrong to me, in a way being allowed to stay up late and eat candy somehow hadn't. I noticed that when she switched on the headlights her hand was trembling. And that's when it finally sunk in that maybe something really bad was about to happen. Maybe that candy was my last meal.
I didn’t dare ask, fearing to have it confirmed, so we drove together in silence until just after sunset we made a right at the cemetery and entered the land of the filthy rich. Lady Darlene Strobel's estate was a fair way down the gravel road. I was vaguely distracted by the million dollar mansions, which teetered precariously on the clifflike downward slopes. In order to even get to the Lady's estate we had to drive down a terrifyingly steep driveway but it wasn't until we passed through her gates that things got truly hairy and uncomfortable.
We parked between a Mercedes Benz and a Lexus with custom rims on the pavers outside the four-car garage. I was torn between being impressed with the cars and being self-conscious about our unwashed Honda Civic. That underdressed feeling I had in the car intensified to the point where I could feel a blush start to heat my face.
"Do we have to be here?" I asked.
"Yes." There was a spooky brittleness in Mom's voice. "I'm sorry."
She took my hand and squeezed it, then started walking towards the house still holding it like I was a toddler. I pulled away with embarrassment, then realized with a pang that it wasn't so much that she wanted to baby me, as she wanted to hold onto me as long as she could, to reassure herself that I was there. That slightly queasy feeling turned into full on nausea.
We got up the steps to the entry way to the main house and rang the bell. Wouldn't you know it, an honest to god butler answered it. His appearance was unlikely enough to lift my spirits a bit, and I stifled a laugh as he led us to the "small reception parlor." The room turned out to be decked out like some old ladies living room. It smelled like Endust and potpourri. I got about twenty seconds to balance myself on an overstuffed couch before the butler returned to fetch me.
Just me.
I tried to be brave and pretend I wasn't intimidated by the situation, but the whole place was spooky and old and I really had no idea what was expected of me or why I was even there. I was led to an office and left in the hands of a nurse who had me strip to my Fruit-of-the-Looms then peered into my mouth and ears. I think she was rather taken aback by my size. She was used to checking up on adults, and thanks to my father's Lilliputian genes, I was short for my age. She kept asking me if I was sick a lot even though I told her no, and after a while it got on my nerves.
I wondered if this check up might be the thing that was scaring Mom, but no. After fifteen minutes, the butler was back to take me to yet another room in the house. I wasn't allowed to dress before going with him, so I ended up padding about this strange person's house half-naked and hunched, my arms crossed over my scrawny chest for warmth. Yeah, that was awkward and uncomfortable.
Just as I thought I couldn't feel more creeped out I was proved wrong again. New place the Butler took me to turned out to be some kind of huge bedroom suite - one where the bathroom was separated from the main room only by the transition from shag carpeting to tile. There were mirrors everywhere, and one wall was nothing but glass with a fantastic view of the valley all the way out to the Coast Range. The sun had just set and there was just the lingering hint of purple to the clouds. In the shadow of my own reflection I could see the lights of the city below.
Any other time that would have held my interest, but here my eyes were inexorably drawn to the room's obvious focal point. In the middle of the suite, not attached to any wall, was the biggest damn canopy bed I'd ever seen in my life. And attached to one of the cherry wood posts was a pair of handcuffs.
And that's when I started to really freak out.
I was a kid yes, but I wasn't completely innocent. I'd flipped curiously through a couple of naughty magazines. I'd listened to the school yard gossip and indulged in raunchy talk of virgin boys. I knew what that handcuff was for.
In the way you might poke at a sore, I reached out and touched the cuffs, just to be absolutely sure they were real and not some dime store plastic and silver-paint toy. It felt cold and solid. As I lifted them up I noticed the lacquer on the wood was scraped, as if whoever had worn that cuff had struggled. That pair of cuffs took on enormous significance to me.
I was going to get molested, like those stranger danger videos warned. That's why my mom was freaked out. Right then my gut told me in no uncertain terms that I was not interested in sticking my prepubescent wiener in some ancient vampire lady. Nuh-uh. No way. Gross.
In what had to be the most perfect timing ever, Lady Darlene chose that moment to walk in the door. I spun around and took her in with saucer-scared eyes. The vampire wore nothing but black leather and not much of that. She had what people call a "handsome" face, rather than a pretty one. Her jaw was a bit too square and severe. Her black hair was in a smooth glossy bob, and her eyes were framed by a scary amount of eyeliner. In retrospect, I recognize she was a knock out - curvy, big bosomed, synched waist, round butt. I'm sure she raised the masts of her usual fair with no trouble, but my current fascination with tits hadn't manifested yet, and all I saw was a weird grown-up in a weird outfit, and it didn't turn me on in the least.
She looked at me and I dropped the cuffs like I'd been caught stealing gum. She glowered and I ran to the far corner of the room shrieking my lungs out.
This put the Lady off somewhat. And by somewhat, I mean a lot. The first words out of her mouth were a series of cusses that would make a sailor wince. Then, mercifully, she turned her ire in another direction. "Is this child it?" She yelled at the butler, who stood two steps behind her, politely holding the door. "This thing?. Oh tell me this is some kind of joke."
The Butler murmured something I couldn't quite make out.
"Well I don't care about Chauncey's priorities," she said sharply. "If not eighteen, he damn well can wait until it's a teen. What is it, six? Is he going to give me babies next?"
The butler murmured something that apparently mollified her enough that she grumbled "Very well," and reached out an arm and perfunctorily gestured I come close.
I refused to leave the corner. There was something really wrong with this woman.
As if switching tactics, Lady Darlene suddenly put on a sugary smile, and waggled her red talons at me in a more gentle way. "Aw come on," she said in this high ootzy-cutsy voice. "I'm not going to hurt you, baby. Just gotta find out if you really taste as awful as you look, because you are just… so … unique … and my boss is afraid you will move out of his jurisdiction before he has a chance to sink his … teeth… into you. Well, we wouldn't want him to be deprived of such a sweet little boy, would we? So, just hold still. I'll do a quick nip, a suck, and then send you right back to your momma."
Yeah, you know I don't think that would have convinced a kid who wasn't terrified shitless. I certainly didn't go for it. Instead, I looked for an even more inaccessible corner I could fit myself into. Spying one in the bathroom, between the curved edge of the raised tub and the pedestal sink, I dashed across the room.
I didn't make it past that horrific canopy bed. One moment Lady Darlene was by the door, the next she right in front of me, intercepting my flailing body with her own.
Things went very fast then. I realized I'd been caught and shrieked. Lady Darlene leaned forward so that her head was near my shoulder and began to close her arms, I assume to embrace me, but she never got that far.
And just then my stomach rebelled. There was no preamble, the first notice I had I was going to vomit was when I felt it rising up my throat. I had precisely half a second to turn my head and try to throw up over her arm rather than spew down her cleavage. You know, in retrospect, I kinda wish I hadn't tried to miss her, because it would have been hilarious if I had got her boobs. Though it was probably for the best I didn't. I mean, I managed to leave her house alive and with no broken bones. I'm not sure I would have if I'd actually upchucked into her bustier.
Anyway, I had one second to think "Oh shit!" And the next moment I was flying over the bed. I hit the mattress with enough spin to roll sideways before falling off the far side. Other than bruises from where she'd picked me up, I was uninjured, though I did puke again on the carpet next to where I came to rest.
"I want that sick brat out of my house!" Lady Darlene stormed from somewhere across the room. "Now!"
And out I went.
I didn't even get a chance to put on my clothes, which were piled in my Mom's arms as we literally ran out the door. We stopped the car a quarter mile down the road so I could dress myself and get my act together.
Mom was great. By the time we got home she'd managed to convince me that I'd played a marvelous practical joke on a rich stuck up snob. We agreed it would have made a hilarious icebreaker at parties if only we didn’t have to keep it all a deep secret. Framed that way, it really wasn't that bad an experience, reasonably trauma free even. I did have a couple of nightmares, but nothing I'd consider lasting. And being classified as Undesirable has turned out to be hugely convenient. Well worth half an hour of raw terror, I say.
Really, the only bad thing to come out of the whole adventure is that I'm still irrationally frightened of canopy beds. Those damn things creep the fuck out of me.
Which brings me back to my current situation. Much as I am happy that Lord Jeffrey wasn't interested in tanning my undeserving hide, unless I could get myself out of this, he was still apt to be plenty put out with me. If he's looking for a truly masochistic taste treat, he's probably going to be disappointed when I turn out to be simply odd, or worse, vaguely pleasant. And then all kinds of awkward questions will arise, and the family secret won't be a secret anymore, because you can't lie to a vampire, not face to face.
And shortly after that there will be not just one, but two vampires annoyed at me. I've already insulted Lady Dingaling in the most visceral way possible. I rather suspect she won't be happy to have me come back twelve years later and publicly show her up as a lazy liar who didn't do her job. And my so called "patron vampire" isn't going to be that thrilled at finding out that I managed to pull one over on him. Make that three pissed off vampires.
So is my paranoia beginning to make a bit of sense now?
Back to Chapter 1
On to Chapter 3