Mercy's Danger: Montgomery's Vampires Trilogy (Book #2) (Montgomery's Vampires Series) (8 page)

“So sneaky!”

“Indeed. But it works, right?”

“I certainly had no idea,” I agreed. “Is she married?”

“Sometimes. She’s like Leopold in that respect. She likes her . . . romantic freedom.”

“Hey, I just thought of something. Doesn’t Seraphim have a young daughter? She’s about ten, I think. Melanie.”

“She does. But she’s another actress-daughter.”

“So that means . . .”

“Seraphim is going to suffer a tragic accident within the next few years,” Robert confirmed. “Leopold says she’s thinking about staging her own murder because violent tragedy drives up sales. Shoppers tend to feel sorry for deceased designers if their life has been robbed from them. The other option she was toying with is paparazzi-related, like being driven off the road. I think
that
is the option she should go with. It would serve those vultures right.”

Robert detested the paparazzi. They were constantly pestering him. They followed him around in public and sometimes loitered around the front of our house (well,
his
house) on the street. Why they did that was beyond me, since nothing interesting could be seen from out front (like our balcony lovemaking). Their main objective was to catch a powerful business tycoon partaking in an unsavory activity. The paparazzi’s animosity towards Robert seemed to grow with his success. You show me a decent man earning an honest living and I’ll show you dozens of lazy, jealous jerks trying to tear that good man down. Haters, all of them. Sometimes the photographers baited Robert by shouting nasty things, but he never lost his cool. He couldn’t afford to back when he was a vamp, or else his fangs would have
truly
come out. And I mean that in the most literal sense: Robert’s fangs sprouted out of his gums when he lost his temper. It was something he couldn’t control, the same way he couldn’t control it when his fangs came out if he’d skipped drinking blood at lunchtime.

“I’ve never been out of the country,” I mentioned.

Robert said, “You’re going to love London. It’s one of my favorite cities in the world. I’m honored that I get to share the experience with you.”

“And I’m honored that I get to share it with you.”

Out of the blue he asked, “Would you prefer it if we went as backpackers?”

“Backpackers?”

“I’m referring to those young people you see trekking through the city with giant packs on their backs like turtles. And why do they always seem to have dreadlocks and smell like that awful earthy perfume? Petunia, is it?”

I snickered. “I think you mean
patchouli
.”

“That’s the one. Isn’t that what tourists your age like to do? Travel with a backpack?”

“I guess some do.” Some but not me. Frankly, I’d rather gnaw off my own leg. I was one creature who liked her comfort. “But . . . No, um, I’m good on the whole backpacking thing.”

“Are you sure? As it’s your passport’s christening, I will go along with any plan you wish.”

Was he kidding? Clearly Robert didn’t know me as well as he thought he did if he even entertained for one second that I’d trade in comfortable first-class luxury travel for a sore back and overcrowded hostels with bunk beds that smelled of b.o. and feet.
Look at you, a few months of being around Mr. Moneybags and you’ve become a prissy princess
, a voice in my head scolded. It sounded a lot like Grams.

“I appreciate the offer, honey, but can we go backpacking on another trip?” I said, feeling guilty. “Maybe we can go trekking in Peru up to Machu Picchu? But for my first time overseas, I’m thinking we should stick to more traditional travel. What do you think?”

“Shew!” Robert’s hand flew up and rested over his heart. It was such a human thing to do. “I’m so happy to hear you say that. For a moment there I was worried that you were going to take me up on the offer.”

“So you don’t want to go England as a backpacker?”

“And spend my whole trip smelling like petunia? Forget it,” he said and I cracked up.

“I only wish we were travelling under better circumstances. I know how much you want to return to being a vampire.” I tested Robert’s temperature. “And I’m concerned about your fever. I don’t understand why it keeps coming and going.”

Robert kissed the back of my hand. “You worry too much. Leopold sounded hopeful on the phone. He said he has a surprise for us.”

“What kind of surprise?”

“Don’t know. I tried to pry it out of him but he wouldn’t budge. He said he wanted to wait and tell us once we got there. Leopold is big on surprises.”

I grinned. “If the news is as great as getting a Seraphim Blythe vacation wardrobe, then I can’t wait to hear it.”

8

My jaw dropped open when we arrived at Leopold’s estate, though “Leopold’s private district” would have been a more suiting description. The property, located a few miles outside of London in a village called Epsom, was so sprawling that I was surprised it didn’t have its own grocery store.

“Leopold lives here all by himself?” I asked. “It’s so . . .”

“Ridiculously massive,” Robert smiled.

“Yes, though I was going to use a more polite term, like
vast
. Leopold likes his space, doesn’t he?”

“He’s not completely on his own here. There’s some staff living on the premises: cleaners, landscapers, his butler—”

“Leopold has a butler? Don’t tell me, his name is Jeeves.”

“Edgar, I think.”

“What does he do with all this space?”

“I have no idea,” Robert said. “Don’t tell Leopold I said so, but when I was here under his employment I could have sworn that he got lost in his house more than a few times. I think it’s the real reason he hired me—to make sure he got back to his casket by daylight.”

I chuckled. “I nearly forgot that you used to be a caretaker here.”

“Back then it was called
steward
.” Robert pointed at an area near the center of the manor. “Those used to be my sleeping quarters, though the house has since been extended. That used to be the end of the house there,” he said, indicating a large stained-glass window.

“Looks like he added a mile or two.”

“Once I became vampire, I moved into that area.” He gestured toward to the opposite end of the house and was silent for a moment. “My human existence ended right over there. That’s where I died of tuberculosis and Leopold bit me back to life.”

“You mean where that giant oak is?”

“There used to be horse stables in that exact spot.”

“That’s where Cobalt was kept? In those stables?”

“Yes.” His voice was miles away.

“What’s wrong?”

He blinked away whatever it was that he’d been thinking. “Not a thing. It just struck me that the last time I saw this place in the sun was on the day I died. It’s strange being here in daylight again.”

“Wow, that must be a weird feeling.”

“But I haven’t a clue what that building is,” Robert said.

Off in the distance and towards the left was a flat slab of a building, two stories high. Its construction was simple, concrete and glass, but its dimension was great. It was roughly the size of university library. It made me uneasy. I had the weirdest feeling of déjà vu, which was impossible, as I’d never been to England.

“It looks like one of those modern prefab buildings. But why would Leopold have one of those out here? Why put a prefab next to an estate that’s centuries old?”

“What is a prefab?” Robert asked.

“It’s a building that’s delivered to a lot in pieces and then put together on-site. Believe it or not, some of them are really trendy. There’s a few two-story prefab homes scattered around San Francisco, and a couple coffee houses down on the Wharf. They can be assembled in a few days. They’re very ecofriendly.” I lifted my chin toward the building. “This one’s nice—not nearly as cool as the ones I’ve seen back home, but it’s nice. But it looks so out of place next to Leopold’s house.”

“Trendy or not, why would Leopold have this building built on his property?”

“Beats me,” I said. “You know him better than I do.”

“Look, the lights came on,” Robert pointed out. “There must be a dozen people milling around in there.”

“Seems like they’re all upstairs. Who do you think they are?”

“No idea. You can ask Leopold once he gets up.” Robert glanced up at the setting sun. “Should be any minute now. Shall we head into the house?”

Once we got settled inside, Edgar the butler let us know that Leopold would be down soon. He offered us glasses of blood.

“We’re human,” I said gently.

“Oh my, I’m terribly, terribly sorry,” he apologized repeatedly. “You arrived when the sun was out, so I should have realized . . .”

“Not a problem,” Robert assured him.

“I should have seen it sooner,” Edgar said, coloring. “I’m human myself, but I get so accustomed to seeing Leopold’s kind around here that I assumed . . . I’ve been working here for a couple of weeks, so I’m still adjusting to things.”

Edgar’s use of
Leopold’s kind
over the term
vampire
was interesting. He’d obviously been made aware of the ban on humans discussing vampires with other humans.

“I sometimes forget, too,” I said, hoping to make him feel less embarrassed.

Leopold came down while Edgar was making us cappuccinos. Besides wine, cappuccino was the default drink vampire hosts and hostesses offered human guests. It’s like they were taken aside in vampire school (if such a thing existed) and told that the key to being popular with humans was a well-used espresso machine.

Most vampires, it seemed, were under the impression that every human old enough to drive drank coffee. In my case, it was true. I needed some desperately after our long journey across the Atlantic. Robert, whose taste in beverages was surprisingly fussy for a former blood drinker, was still getting used to the bitterness of coffee. He especially considered drinking it over ice vile, and elaborate lattes with caramel and whipped cream—forget it! He was so outraged by the concept of “bastardized coffee” (his actual term) that I thought he was going to incite a riot in Starbuck’s one morning by holding up the line.
They did not prepare it that way in my day!
was what he’d bellowed, to my great embarrassment. He looked especially crazy because he didn’t look a day over thirty.

Now that Robert was consuming human food and drink, I’d heard that phrase more times than I could count on all my fingers and toes.
They did not prepare it that way in my day!
At first I couldn’t figure out why he was so shocked, as he’d ordered plenty of human cuisine as a vampire to keep up appearances. But, as Robert had pointed out, ordering meals and actually
consuming
them were two entirely different things.

I pecked Leopold on the cheek. “Good to see you again. Thanks so much for having us. Your home is a-mazing!”

Leopold kissed me back. “Darling, it’s my pleasure.”

The swankiest households I’d toured in my whole life had been Marlena’s, who resided at Dignitary headquarters, and Robert’s. Growing up in a trailer park, I did not associate with the ultra wealthy. For a home to be deemed “fancy” in my old neighborhood, it needed nothing more than air conditioning and natural hardwood flooring. The swankiest hotel in Pelville, Marine Tides Inn (a misleading name in view of how far from the ocean it actually was), was a shack compared to Robert and Marlena’s. (Let’s face it, Marine Tides Inn was a shack compared to Motel 6.) But compared to Leopold’s, the homes of Robert and Marlena looked like crack dens. To state that the inside of Leopold’s dwelling was extravagant would be like calling Dolly Parton just a little bit busty.

Locating a space wider than three square feet that wasn’t embellished was a challenge. The three sofas in the main sitting room all had dramatic scalloped edges, and the chairs had high backs and swirling arms suitable for royalty. There were also mirrors with gold frames, lamps with carnival glass, bureaus with marble tops, and throw rugs with muted flower patterns—in the rooms without floor mosaics, that is. After being alive for centuries, I presumed it would have been difficult not to amass a lot of possessions.

None of the items in Leopold’s home were to my personal taste—the excess and frilliness of it all made the rooms feel claustrophobic—but I could still appreciate the craftsmanship required to create such treasures. Everything was the real McCoy—none of this offensive replica nonsense for our dear Leopold. No, his items were true antiques: stuffed with horsehair, not foam, and crafted by hand, not machine. It was the sort of furniture you’d never feel comfortable kicking back on while reading a book, a steaming cup of tea pinched between your thighs. It was stuff that would probably start to smell musty fast if not properly attended to—not that this would ever apply to Leopold’s wares. If I would have put on white gloves and caressed the surface of every statue and painting in the place, my fingers wouldn’t have greyed in the slightest.

“You two made excellent time!” Leopold exclaimed. His tiny hands flitted to his hair and smoothed it down. “I’m afraid I had to put myself together in a hurry!” If this was him disheveled, I thought, he must look downright swanky when he made an effort.

Leopold’s look matched his swish home. He looked smashing for somebody who’d just gotten out of bed (or coffin), though it was difficult to imagine Leopold being the type to loaf around in shapeless sweatpants. He wore a burgundy velvet jacket, a plush brushed cotton tee that gleamed of luxury origins, tailored navy trousers, and black patent leather oxfords. Around his neck was a navy and mustard yellow dotted silk cravat. Pinned to the lapel of his jacket was a tiny gold rocket pin, the Seraphim Blythe streetwear logo. The outfit was a bit much because of all the textures and colors, but it worked on Leopold because he owned his look. His slight stature didn’t hurt, either. If he were taller, the clothes might have looked like a costume.

“Looks like your vanity hasn’t changed as much as your house,” Robert teased.

By way of formal greeting, Robert and Leopold embraced the way old friends do. Leopold kissed Robert on the cheek and then Robert kissed him back without hesitation. It was far more graceful than a handshake or rowdy high-five. It wasn’t often that I got to see two male associates pecking. It was a lovely, old-fashioned act that spoke of more gentile times when men weren’t exceedingly concerned with appearing macho. I liked it.

“Better to look the bomb than the bum,” Leopold smirked.

Robert shook his head.

“Is that still hip to say, Mercy? It’s ‘the bomb?’ Fast cars are
the bomb
. . . Rock-and-roll music is
the bomb
. . .” Leopold’s posh tongue did not sound right uttering slang. The two complimented each other about as well as hammers and chocolate ice cream. “I’m not up with the speech trends of young humans these days.”

Since when did I become the “it” girl of trendy human colloquialisms—Marlena with her
BFF
inquiry and now Leopold with
the bomb?
I bit back a smile. I didn’t have the heart to tell Leopold that declaring something
the bomb
was as outdated as men wearing cravats.

“Oh?” Robert chided. “Have your supermodel girlfriends not yet learned to string together complete sentences?” He clasped his hands together and then splayed them apart, wiggling his fingers. “Maybe you could try hand gestures? Shadow puppets. Picture books.”

Leopold furnished him a dour look, but he was laughing. “Har-har.”

“Leopold, anything you say will sound cool.” It was the most diplomatic thing I could think to say. I tugged on his sleeve. “And look at you! Is your whole outfit Seraphim Blythe or just the pin?”

“You have an eye for detail!” Leopold beamed. He looked down at his clothes and dusted invisible lint of his lapel. “The Jacket, pin, and trousers are by Seraphim. The cravat is old—I’ve had it for about a hundred years.” He was being serious about the cravat. “Not sure where the tee is from. Can you see?” He pulled up his collar so I could make out the tag.

“Ooh,” I said indulgently. “Givenchy.”

“Is it?” he asked, as if he believed he might have gotten it at Target. Fat chance.

I nodded. I didn’t show him the tag of my shirt, which actually was from Target.

“While we’re on the subject, did Robert tell you that I’ve booked you an appointment with Seraphim?” Leopold asked.

“He may have mentioned it,” I said coyly. I managed to get a hold on myself before I peed my pants and followed up with, “Woo-hoo! Hell yah he did!”

“Are you familiar with her designs? You must be if you recognize her logo.”

“It’s all Mercy has been able to talk about since I told her,” Robert answered for me. I was mortified because what he’d said wasn’t much of an exaggeration.

“Seraphim
is
my favorite designer ever!” I gushed. “She designs for all females, which is genius. She can make any woman look beautiful—not just stick figures. And I don’t care what anyone says.” I placed my hands on my hips defiantly. “I think Smokescreen was fabulous.”

Leopold chuckled. “Ah, the great Smokescreen debacle of twenty-ten! I’m surprised that you’re familiar with the look—it came out so long ago. And those who do remember it try to block it from memory. If you ask me, it was one couture look that should have stayed on the runway. But do tell Seraphim that you liked the collection when you meet her. You might be the only one in the world who did.”

I said, “That can’t be true.” But it probably was.

“I’m sure it was as
horr
ibly received in America, but the British press tore her apart for that one. I can’t say I blame them.” Leopold looked like he’d just sucked on a lemon. “I don’t know
what
she was thinking when she designed it. It nearly ended her career!”