Mémère stops before a foppish young man and greets him warmly. She glances at me, but I shake my head.
‘George is a very promising young artist,’ Marianne says as Mémère offers the young man her cheek for bisous.
When the young man leans in, Mémère seems to blur for a second. At first I think it’s the absinthe, but then I notice the faint flush to Mémère’s cheeks – one that wasn’t there seconds ago. She thanks him with a charming smile that’s all sweetness and light and takes her leave so he can greet others who have come to join him. As the man turns, two very fine pinpricks just under his jaw, practically invisible in the dim light, confirm my suspicions. She’s just fed from him, here in the open, nearly unnoticed. I am awed by her skill.
Mémère moves to the next mortal. ‘Jacques,je te présente ma petite fille, Lady Jing.’
Dark curls blanket the man’s chest. I’m curious whether the curls continue but I keep my gaze at eye level. He tries to take my hand. Instinctively I hide my hands behind my back. I don’t like strangers touching me. He’s drunk enough not to notice and leans in for a kiss. His breath is hot and stinks of cigars.
‘Bonjour,’ I blurt and take three quick steps back. He stumbles forward a little, but Mémère grabs hold of his arm and keeps him from falling on his face. I bow deep, whisper,’ Not this one please. He smells terrible. And he’s so hairy!’
Marianne barks a laugh and hurriedly coughs. She whispers to Mémère. When I unfold myself, Mémère’s eyes crinkle with silent laughter.
Mémère introduces me to ten more pursuivants. I shake my head no to each one, so she performs her ‘tastes’ for me instead. Each taste flushes her pale cheeks a delicate pink.
She must sense my growing panic and fear. Marianne murmurs in my ear, translating as Mémère says, ‘There is no rush. Find someone you like the smell of. You will see, it is very easy and enjoyable.’ She waves an elegant hand at the room. ‘I love these artistic types. Their blood is so sweet.’
‘But they’re all so naked. I’m not used to it.’
Drunk pursuivants hang off the arms of sometimes even drunker vampires. The vampires all seem to taste in different ways. Some are entwined like lovers, nuzzling throats. Others hold animated conversations, whispering a joke or confidence, leaning back each time with a soft pink flush to their cheeks. A few are already in the noisy throes of fornicating.
‘The absinthe gives the mortals a sense of euphoria, which makes the tasting more enjoyable on both sides,’ Marianne says.
The mortals stumble about, stopping to greet various vampires, exchanging bisous and tastes. Two hotel staff drag a vampire by his arms, his body almost as red as a boiled lobster. I wonder how much blood he’s drunk. The vampire mumbles cheerfully into his chest, his hand occasionally jerking upwards as if making a point.
Marianne tsks. ‘They always forget the house absinthe is very strong. He’s not the first to be carried out and he definitely won’t be the last.’
The bonhomie is catching – laughter and arms slung over shoulders surround us, both mortal and vampire. Something tantalising wafts towards me – buttery and sweet, with a singed edge. My fangs snick out immediately. I can think of nothing else but finding the source.
Mémère chuckles.
‘So you like the dark knights,’ Marianne whispers in my ear.
I startle. When did she get that close? Marianne speaks but I forget to listen. All my attention is focused on finding that mouth-watering scent. There are too many mortals here, theirscents mingling together and confusing my search. I bite my lip in frustration, forgetting my fangs, and draw blood.
‘Jing.’ Marianne pokes me but I don’t respond because the mortal with delicious blood prowls straight towards us.
The first thing I notice – well, the second thing after the scent of his blood – are his eyes: a light amber bordering on gold and ringed in charcoal. His white shirt is unbuttoned to his navel, revealing a golden expanse of well-defined muscles.
‘Mémère,’ the mortal says, taking her hand and pressing his lips to her fingers.
Mémère inclines her head with a smile. She is about to introduce him but is interrupted by a tall blond newcomer. For a moment I mistake him for Lord Aengus, the hale version. But this man lacks the violentally violet velvet suit.
A full head taller than Lord Aengus, instead of spun gold, his hair has a copper sheen. He’s shirtless, his chest smeared with red lipstick marks, and wears, like most of the men here, crisp black trousers. He leans down to give Mémère the customary three bisous. Her cheeks pink and I stare. I’m sure she hasn’t fed from him. Mémère giggles and excuses herself, but not before giving me a saucy wink.
Marianne watches her grandmother go with an odd expression. Not quite disapproval, but not approval either. She turns to me. ‘This is Olivier, Lady Jing.’
‘It’s my pleasure to meet such a fragrant flower,’ Olivier says in Mandarin.
He bends forward in a bow, but he doesn’t break eye contact. This close, his scent is overwhelming, making it hard to think. Did he really speak in Mandarin or am I so drunk I imagined it?
Olivier tilts his head, contemplates me with an expectant smirk. Inexplicably my face heats. He chuckles. The sound is a low rumble that I feel right in the pit of my stomach. It tickles.
‘Is my Mandarin so rusty, Marianne?’
‘Oh,’ I say, a wholly inadequate answer. I clear my throat. ‘How do you speak so well?’
‘I’ve travelled here and there,’ he says, his smile growing wider until it’s all teeth.
