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Index
aldemar was in the building that had once been the Royal Theatre. During the seventies, the immortals of the city had saved many such buildings from the urban blight, though not always in their original form. Valdemar was one such—the theatre had been saved by the vampire known by even René’s master as Mistress, and had been for many years run as her private domain. Like the humans of the city, the vampires had also segregated—Mistress had never considered herself part of René’s master’s domain, and simply annexed the parts of the city he had neglected, most of them in black neighbourhoods. For his part, René’s master had been unfailingly polite to her, and she to him, and there had been an unspoken peace between them for decades, and the political waters of Baltimore’s vampires hadn’t even but rippled softly when she’d taken over the Royal.
With the rise of the new media, however, and her power shifting to other avenues, she had sought someone who could take over the theatre, at the dawn of the new millenium, and that was when the black boar and his large family had come to town. Displaced—as so many were—by the Louisiana hurricane of ’05, they successfully revitalised the neighbourhood by turning the Royal into a fine restaurant, whose revenue was used to run a grocery store that had full services—a butcher, a baker, even a candy shop, the walls of the grocery store paying homage to the rich history, their music still echoing to all corners with bounce and swing of jazz. The neighbourhood had domain of the lower floor, and the visitors from Canton and Riverside with their ritzy money largely ignored the grocery store, going up into the mezzanine and upper levels to have their fine cooking—and it was fine cooking, the finest, with truffles.
And the truffles were a bounty the neighbourhood enjoyed too, not that there ever were any for certain people who tried to come get them. Mr Honeycutt and his family guarded the truffles as carefully as any mushroom-hunter guarded their harvest, and were devoted to fighting gentrification.
Nobody dared pester a building that, at any time, might have half a dozen or more of the fanged aristocracy entertaining guests in its walls. Philadelphia Avenue was no longer a stop in the black jazz circuit, but it was nevertheless, in the 21st century, a thriving black community—there was a recreation park next door, and the rowhouses surrounding gradually revived, in the years following, the neighbourhood fed by the Royal Grocery Basket.
Aix heard all about this as he and René made their way the few blocks down Philadelphia Avenue. The streets were quiet, and the pavement was a little difficult in places—but Aix only had to stop, the first time, fold his hands in his lap, and René noticed immediately.
‘Are you well?’
‘Could you push me? It’s a little too uneven here for my current skills.’
And so they went on with the history lesson like that, with René pushing Aix along the sidewalk, until they arrived. Aix learned that the reason the station was so far from Valdemar was because that would have run it too close to the human subway.
He also learned that Valdemar’s elevator was currently unavailable. The sign was very apologetic, explaining they had decided to time the repair to take advantage of the decreased traffic owing to the plague. The stairs that curved up to the second level were beautiful—Aix was reminded of the beautiful staircase he’d found in a theatre in his first days in New York, years ago—but there were a lot of them, because theatres were very tall. He sat in silence for a few moments, trying to think of what to do.
‘What do you want to do, cher petit? Shall I carry you?’
Aix considered it, looking René up and down and pushing the brakes on, getting up to get a better sense of how they compared in size. René was thin, and only a couple of inches taller, and Aix was sure René was strong enough to carry him, but the problem was how awkward it would be, carrying someone basically the same size as you. The Princess Carry wasn’t really made for that, and that was the only socially acceptable one in this situation.
‘I’d have to leave my chair behind, and that concerns me,’ Aix said, because he knew better than to comment on the height and size of a man who was smaller than what was considered masculine. ‘How far is it?’
‘It is this staircase up to the main entrance, and then up a small step into my box. It is perhaps…’ he thought only a moment, ‘Thirty-six steps, and a hallway.’
‘And vampires can’t actually fly, can they?’
‘Alas, no. But I can go up myself, and request they send a brace of strong people to help carry you, hm?’
‘Oh yeah, two people making a chair out of their arms would work,’ Aix said thoughtfully, sitting back down in his chair.
‘Bon. I will only be a moment.’
Shortly after René disappeared around the last visible bend of the stairs, Aix’s phone rang. It was Victoria, so he answered it.
‘Hello?’
‘Oh dear, I was going to leave you a message, since you’re busy.’
‘I have a minute; the elevator’s out of service, so René is getting me some help upstairs.’
‘Oh of all the nights for it to be out! Well, they’ll treat you right, don’t fret, darling! Now, what I wanted to tell you—Dmitri and I are staying at the Ivy Hotel in Mount Vernon. It’s run by the local wererats, when you come see us—in your own time, dear, no rush!—we’re in room five, and do say you’re a friend of the Arrowsmiths, dear, I’ve told Effie all about you and she’s simply dying to meet you!’
From the exceedingly heavy and breezy colour of her accent, Aix figured Victoria was in very high spirits. ‘I’ll do that. I’ve decided to stay and be the Baltimore Witch; also I’m trying to adopt Pippin and I made friends with the local clownkeepers.’
‘Oh how lovely!’
‘Also like, everybody wanted to talk to me, on the train. Oh! And prince Garnet? Lives here?’
‘Do you know him? Oh my goodness, Aix, you rascal! You never said!’
‘I didn’t know he was real—long story. Oh, I hear footsteps, I gotta go. Love you bye.’ Aix didn’t realise what he’d said until after he’d hung up and was tucking his phone away, but decided—as always—not to be mad about it. There was no reason to be embarrassed about telling someone something nice.
René had brought back two muscled people—one was a woman with very dark brown skin and a soft expression on her face with her obviously copious natural hair pulled back in a white turban that matched her chef’s whites, her mask the same houndstooth as her pants; and the other was a man that was likely a relative—he had a neat little beard with a silver streak in it, his hair in short twists, and was in a suit that said he was probably something front-of-house, but not the owner, because René had said the owner was also the head chef. Both had very, very dark brown skin, it was almost luminous, and were not simply large in the sense of tall and burly, but also had plenty of fat padding the muscle. He didn’t have a mask on, which made Aix slightly nervous—but then, for the past few hours, nobody immortal had been wearing a mask, either, and Aix had asked, and knew by now that the plagues didn’t jump from humans to anybody else. Maybe he was one of the boar family.
‘On behalf of all of Valdemar, we are so very sorry about the elevator being out of comission for repair, madame,’ the man said with a little bow.
‘It happens,’ Aix said, always very easy-going about it, almost to a fault. The Cripple Smile, Victoria called it. ‘I’m Aix.’
‘I’m Mr Sweet.’
‘I’m Queenie, I’m the patissier-boulanger.’
‘Oooh, I love bread,’ Aix said, and she laughed, and Aix was smitten instantly.
‘Monsieur Charbonneau said you could stand well enough to climb into our arms?’ Mr Sweet asked.
‘Yes, do you, um, do you know Chair Arms? I don’t—I don’t actually know what else it’s called.’
‘I know Chair Arms, Uncle Earle,’ Queenie said, and explained it to him. Aix got up when they were in position, and did a pretty good job of not feeling embarrassed about being carried. René followed, easily carrying Aix’s purse and the empty chair up the stairs.
‘My wife and I do this for our daughter sometimes,’ Queenie said, as they went up the wide stairs. She had a bubbly sort of voice that was always at the edge of a laugh, and reminded Aix pleasantly of one of his Aunts that he’d only met once. ‘We didn’t want to stop picking her up when she got big.’
‘Aww,’ Aix said, charmed even further. ‘That’s so sweet. How old is she?’ Because he never asked names, ever. Especially given his new position of power. People kept giving them to him (except the fae), but he never asked.
‘Eight now.’
‘That’s a fun age,’ Aix said. ‘I liked being eight. That’s when Disney’s Hercules came out.’
‘Oh we’re the same age! I remember seeing that here, when it was still a theater.’
‘Oh wow, that must have been amazing. René told me the history of Upton on the way here. I can’t believe I’m in a building that Cab Calloway performed in!’
‘I never missed a performance,’ René said quietly, and Aix figured that meant these two people were part of the nightfolk.
Queenie kept Aix chatting while they slowly made their way up the spiralling stairs, and because of the setting, Aix’s conversation naturally began to mention his childhood in Hollywoodland. She asked him questions about Disney secrets, and he was happy to tell her all the little things he’d grown up with backstage. When they got to the top of the stairs, Aix knew he had to reassure them they could set him on his feet, but waited for René to have the chair set up and braked.
‘Okay, I can stand long enough to get into the chair, thank you so much Ms Queenie, Mr Sweet.’
Queenie stayed to make sure he was settled. ‘What’s your favourite bread?’ she asked.
‘Sourdough, because Californian,’ Aix said, arranging his skirts so they wouldn’t get caught in the wheels as he answered. By the time he looked up, she had disappeared. Well, she was the bread baker, she was probably busy, Aix reasoned, admiring how silently she’d disappeared.
A younger woman with lots of pretty eye-makeup and her natural hair in very fancy updo—with the fancy little plastered-down kiss curls that Aix knew had a special name but couldn’t remember, at the moment, what it was—came up to them, dressed in a waistcoat and a violet shirt and matching mask that made her skin glow a little bit. Her nails were very pretty, a French style but the white parts were subtly lace patterned.
‘Mr Charbonneau, madame. I can show you to your table now.’
Aix happily followed, enjoying how his wheels glided smoothly over the velvety purple carpet of the floor, but made note that he needed to ask where to wash his hands. Constantly wheeling yourself around meant your hands were always grubby, which Aix did not like, but he hadn’t gotten gloves yet, even though they’d poked around in sports stores looking at various kinds of gloves for everything from biking to archery, with no luck. Victoria had a custom pair, and what Aix really wanted were those—they were padded in exactly the right places, with full-grain leather.
The restaurant was beautiful, with a big crystal chandelier that was obviously from the old theatre, lit with soft neutral-white LEDs (Aix could always tell—LEDs strobed), with little flamless candles on every table. Aix made a note to turn theirs off or hand it back to the hostess when they got to the table. It was quiet, the sounds of people at their tables mixed with the sound of quiet music that Aix gradually realised was proper jazz, the kind that didn’t noodle all over the place but had a proper structure—stride, he realised after his brain recognised the tune well enough to start putting lyrics to it.
René kept pace beside him, and so Aix asked, quietly, ‘I need to wash my hands before we eat, is there a bathroom close to your table?’
‘There is a small sink for just that purpose,’ René said, and Aix was surprised, but pleased.
They left the main dining room—which was the old mezzanine of the theatre—and went into a wide hallway covered by a gauzy curtain of shot purple and red silk; it was lit by softer, blissfully incandescent lights that did not strobe or flicker, set into sconces on the wall that matched the deco style of the building.
‘Can I ask something?’ the hostess said, not stopping leading them.
‘You may,’ René said.
‘Sure,’ Aix agreed.
‘Are you the new huntress everyone says the Van Helsing brought into town? I know it’s not good to listen to gossip, I swear I’m just worried about the… her.’
‘I’m the new witch,’ Aix said, with gentle emphasis. ‘She’s gone now, she can’t hurt you anymore. She messed with the wrong monster and got eaten, finally.’ Aix figured she was the kind of person who’d had it coming, especially because of all the fear everyone used to talk about her, not even saying her name and all. Aix had only known her for like an hour, but the more he learned about her the more he hated her guts. ‘I don’t use violence, I use mouth-words like an adult.’
She chuckled, but it was a little more relieved than amused, René could tell. ‘I heard there was a witch, but nobody mentioned she was a Muslim lady.’
‘I’m not exactly either of those things.’ The linking of those two things was something he was starting to get anxious about; he didn’t want to ‘give a bad impression’ of Islam to other people, he certainly didn’t want other Muslims feeling he was being disrespectful, but he hadn’t figured out how to navigate any of that nuance yet, and had lost his teacher only a week after starting to dress in hijab. ‘I’m a changeling, and my Muslim teacher said that’s the same as being a djinn, and we’re a different people, so we do things a little differently than humans.’
Even explaining made Aix feel like it was the wrong choice, since one of the rules he’d learned was Rule Number One Of Islam Is Mind Your Business. Oh well. He was only one person, he couldn’t be perfect and he knew he had a very big struggle with holding himself to impossible standards of perfection. He was doing his best, and that was all he could do.
Even if he still felt anxious about it.
‘Oh, I see,’ she said, and Aix was glad she didn’t apologise. ‘Well, there’s a mosque a few blocks from here. I don’t know if we have any djinn or anything in Baltimore—do you know, Lord René?’
Ah, so the ‘mister’ was only for when humans were around, Aix thought to himself.
‘I imagine if there are Muslims, there must be a few,’ René said thoughtfully, ‘but they keep to themselves, and since our witch does not allow their Islam to intersect with their craft, I imagine that should not change much.’
Aix felt a flood of gratitude toward René for saying that. ‘Once I set up, anyone can make an appointment,’ he said. ‘And I can sort of get a feel for what people need from me, and they can get a feel for what I’m able to do for the community. I hope I can help.’
‘You’ve already helped a lot, believe me,’ she said, opening the heavy, padded door and holding it. ‘There’s some steps, do you want help?’
Aix stopped at the softly-lit threshold, saw there were two steps down into the small rounded box, which looked out over a darkened space, the stage curtains light only by the faintest ghost light that shone on the red velvet of the draping. ‘Nah, I’m good.’
He pushed the brakes on and got up, taking his purse, and lifting the brakes again to push the chair down the steps and tuck it out of the way, then set his purse down in one of the three velvet-padded chairs around the table, sitting in the one next to it. René followed.
‘Tyrone will be with you shortly,’ she said, and closed the door silently. After she did, René gestured to a curtain a foot or so from the door.
‘The sink is behind that curtain,’ he said.
Aix got up and crossed, pulling the curtain carefully aside to find there was a small black sink set into a niche, with a brass tap and his favourite X-shaped knobs, and a mirror with soft lighting to either side, it looked as vintage as the building. He washed his hands thoroughly with unscented soap and felt much better, and decided to just take off his niqab for the duration of the meal. You couldn’t eat very well with a niqab on, though Aix had just about figured out how to drink with one on (with a straw, but then again he always drank from straws). He adjusted his hijab, before the desire to just. Take it off. Occurred to him. It was terrifying as a prospect, but he resented that fear and he knew damn well that you weren’t suppsed to wear it because you were scared—even before he’d finally met a Muslim and investigated the whole matter, he knew enough to know that.
He took the pin out (it was one of his long quilting pins, and had a butterfly of yellow plastic on the end), and started unwrapping the thin black jersey. René could see him—the sink was just in a niche, it wasn’t in a room or anything—but, true to his polite nature, did not comment when Aix returned to his seat, tucking the fabric in his purse.
‘If we’re being served by people that can’t carry the plague, then there’s no reason to worry about it,’ Aix said. ‘And this is as much into boy mode as I can go right now, and it… helps.’
René was starting to understand that Aix had to talk through everything he was doing or thinking; he did not mind—Aix’s mind was so alien, even moreso than the usual modern person, that it was a welcome tutorial.
‘Would it be inappropriate to comment on how much I appreciate the privilege of being able to admire your face?’
‘Not if you put it like that, no,’ Aix said, shyly. ‘Seeing my face is a privilege, and a gift.’
‘It is,’ René agreed, smiling. ‘I am so pleased that you decided to stay with us. I can take you to see Mr Gold tomorrow, if you would like.’
Aix almost asked about seeing him tonight, since Aix was so excited about houses generally, but stopped himself just in time, remembering that this wasn’t simply dinner, that René was interested in him sexually. Which was so intensely hard to believe that Aix kept forgetting. When had he compartmentalised sex away from everything else to the point of forgetting it existed if anything else was happening? He hated that society did that, why had he fallen into the habit of it? Well, he knew why—survival—but he didn’t want to anymore!
‘Hey, so, um, I haven’t—I don’t remember how to talk about sex with someone. I’m a little rusty at all that kind of socialising. But I want to. Um. Do that. I was enjoying the flirting I’m just. Out of practise.’
‘We can start with simple truths, there is no need to be ashamed of that,’ René assured him. ‘You are a breathtakingly attractive boy, and I very much desire permission to make you come.’
‘Mmm, I love how you phrase things,’ Aix said, with a shivery laugh. ‘Mercy.’
There was a soft sound beyond human hearing, the signal that someone was outside the door, and René pressed the button beneath the surface of the table to signal them to come in. The door opened, and a server with light brown skin and tidy cornrows in a curvy pattern came in. He did not, because this was a high end restaurant, even flutter a lash at Aix not wearing a headscarf, even though Aix was sure he’d been told.
‘Good evening Lord René, madame. My name is Tyrone and I’ll be at your service this evening. Would you like to begin with appetisers? There is a fresh salad of baby greens with a summery vinaigrette and sugared pecans that is quite excellent, this time of year, and we have a full compliment of soft beverages and mocktails, including non-alcoholic wines.’
‘That salad sounds amazing. Does it have onion or garlic in any of it?’
‘There are spirals of vidalia onion, yes, and the vinaigrette is seasoned lightly with garlic and other herbs, including our famous black truffles.’
‘Ah,’ Aix said, ‘I’m allergic to garlic and onions, is there a way to leave those out? Maybe have a different dressing?’
He smiled. ‘The dressing is made fresh for every serving, madame. We can simply make it without your allergens, if that is sufficient to your needs.’
‘Yes, that’s enough, thank you,’ Aix said, relieved that their learned panic was being shown that not everyone would react with scorn and sadistically gleeful refusal to cooperate. ‘I would like the dressing on the side, please.’ He liked to add it a little at a time, or dip the fork tines before each bite, depending on what the dressing tasted like. ‘I’ve never had non-alcoholic wine before, what kind of wine do you have with salad?’
‘A tart white is our usual recommendation, madame. We have a lovely Sauvignon Blanc with no alcohol that I can bring for you.’
‘I would like that, thank you, and a glass of ice water with a straw, please.’
‘I shall have my usual syrah, Tyrone,’ René said simply.
Tyrone bowed and left them.
‘Oooh, syrah,’ Aix said. ‘That’s the vampire wine.’
René was startled into a laugh—he had a pretty laugh, Aix reflected, and it was the first Aix had really seen his teeth, which were lovely. His fangs were double-edged, flat across with the sharp edges along the sides, rather than the conical knife of a predator like a cat or a dog, with the sharp edge on the inside. It was interesting, evolutionarily and biomechanically. Teeth were an accidental interest of Aix’s, considering how hyperfocused on his own mouth everyone had been for his whole childhood. He’d always wanted fangs, and after meeting quite a lovely dentist during his time on the street in the bay area, he knew how to go about getting the permanent kind. However, meeting vampires had opened up the ideal possibility, which was to become one of them.
‘What makes it the vampire wine, petit?’
‘Oh, I don’t really remember why I think that, it’s just such a vampire sort of word. Also, when I was a young person I stumbled across the vampire winery, and that’s where I first learned syrah existed.’
‘Ah,’ René said. ‘Yes, them.’
‘Oooh,’ Aix said, half-laughing, ‘that bad, huh?’
René chuckled, shrugging expressively. ‘I do not like modern ideas of wine.’
‘Ah,’ said Aix, and René wondered at how knowing his tone was. ‘Yeah, I don’t either. It’s just a drink.’
‘Exactement. Once, everyone drank wine. There is good and bad, but all of this fluff about “notes” and “nose” and so forth—’ A derisive and queer little laugh, a sharp gesture of his hand. ‘You would think they were speaking of perfume!’
Aix canted his head. ‘…And are you from there?’
‘Hm?’ René’s enjoyment of their mutual irritation was paused by confusion. Aix seemed to do that a lot, René made note to observe more closely if it was a sign he was afraid or otherwise upset, or if it was simply how his mind worked on a different set of associations. ‘From where?’
‘Grasse.’
‘You are full of surprises, cher petit! How on earth did you learn that perfume comes from Grasse?’
‘I read it in a book somewhere,’ Aix said, which was true and misleading—the book had been called Perfume: The Story of a Murderer, and had been one of the many out-of-his-wheelhouse sorts of books he’d read when he’d first moved out, and wanted to try to read books that felt more grown-up than the genre mysteries he’d grown up reading. It had been delightfully clear the author had suddenly plunged into researching perfume, and loosely constructed a story around the desire to infodump. Aix loved that in a story, as it was his favourite way to learn things.
‘Yes,’ René said, ‘all those ages ago, when my heart beat, I was born in Grasse. And there I grew up, playing among the rows of lavender bushes of my family’s fields.’
‘Gosh, that must have been so amazing, all those fields of flowers. I still remember the smell of my family’s macadamia orchard.’
‘Ah, yes,’ René said, appreciating that Aix’s enjoyment of the idea was rooted in experience, not naïve imagination, ‘there is nothing like it. Perhaps you can visit, some day. I am good friends with Maestro Phrixus. Do you like opera?’
‘No,’ Aix said. ‘But,’ he added, ‘I appreciate the skill and training it takes, and I will defend the castrati to the death. I was opera trained, as a child, but I started wanting to learn how to sing more broadway style and my teacher couldn’t teach me, so I kinda stopped training. Didn’t stop singing though.’
‘Dance, opera, storytelling… the only thing I do not see is acting.’
‘I never stopped playing pretend, and I’ve always wanted to take classes for acting; but the thing is I’m really shy. Being the centre of attention is so terrifying if I’m not singing or dancing. And even then, it’s scary but I can shut it out because I don’t feel like I’m interacting. I close my eyes a lot when I’m singing. Which is frustrating. I don’t want to be scared. I know why, but what I need to overcome it is…’ Aix almost said ‘not available’ but checked himself—he didn’t know that was true, especially not now. ‘Well, I haven’t had access to any of that, before.’
‘And what do you need?’ René asked.
‘I need people who understand and accept that I’m very sensitive and that primarily I need to build up my confidence, or I won’t keep trying at all I’ll just give up immediately. You can’t give me the tough love treatment. You can’t have that “well if I don’t tell you what you did wrong how will you improve” bullshit with me. That’s why I’m like this in the first place. Being mean doesn’t help. Humiliating me doesn’t help. Assuming I am overconfident and you need to “take me down a peg” does not help. Punishment is not a good incentive, that just means I’m so terrified of punishment I don’t even start to begin with. I take everything personally that is part of my mental illness so I cannot actually change it.’
René put a hand on Aix’s shoulder, gently, grounding, knowing this kind of wind-up into frenetic panic while trying to be vulnerable was frantically covering up real terror from wounds that had never healed, had never been given any love or safety to heal. Cameron, George, Michel, Jasper… René had many boys who had been sent to him, René told they were broken and beyond repair or function. They were simply soft, and neglected, and needed someone to stop clawing at their wounds and calling it healing. ‘Someone humiliated you quite young, repeatedly, didn’t they?’
‘Don’t make me burst into tears on our first date, René.’
René knew a push, here, now, could either make or break this trust; he had the experience to know how exactly to do it.
‘As you wish,’ he said softly, wondering if Aix reacted the same to that phrase as Cameron did. After so many years with Cameron, René had grown to like the allusion for its own layers. ‘But Nepenthé is exactly the place you will find such encouragement and gentleness, when you are ready.’ He smiled. ‘We have needed a new M.C. for some time.’
‘Oh, yes, that would suit me,’ Aix said, brightening, and relaxing a bit. ‘That’s just being the storyteller of the show. I know I can do that.’
The salad and wine arrived, and this time it wasn’t Tyrone that brought them, but a very large, very black man with the long thin locks of hair decorated with many colourful beads and pulled back from his face in a rainbow scarf. He had a generous belly but his chef’s whites fit exquisitely, which always made Aix feel pleased—he liked people to have comfortable clothes, and knew what it was to have clothes fight your belly—and after he unloaded the small black tray, he pulled up the empty chair and flipped it around, straddling it.
‘Well,’ he said, with a bright smile and a voice like rolling thunder, with a strong Cajun shape. ‘I’m Chef Honeycutt, and you must be the witch. They said you were all veiled, though I suppose I shouldn’t say anything about it. But I’m not as polite as René, you know, cher.’
Aix chuckled. ‘I have many genders, only some of them wear a veil.’
‘Ah,’ he said, knowingly. ‘Well, that’s only right, for a witch. Tyrone tells me you have allergies to allium, which makes me think you have the ancient palette.’
‘Oh—I’ve never heard anyone else call it that before,’ Aix said, surprised and pleased—Auntie Sam had called it that, and it had made Aix feel a lot better than when all he had was the medicalised language that made him feel like some kind of failure of a human being. ‘Yes, I have trouble with sugars. Alliums are the worst, but I can have bread and dairy that’s heavy on butterfat. Milk is still a no, but cream and things are all right.’ Aix bit the inside right of his lip. ‘Fructose is something I’m careful with too—no honey, no super sweet cultivars of apple or grapes that are so popular. I’m not a huge fan of cane sugar, like it’s… I’m very sensitive. If I make whipped cream I put like… maybe a scant quarter cup per pint? Maybe. But I can taste cream as plenty sweet, and vanilla too.’
‘You bake! Well, that makes this conversation easier! I know meat is on your menu.’
‘Yes,’ Aix laughed, ‘meat is the safest—oh, but I’m slightly allergic to pork, and also bananas—genuinely allergic, I get itchy if I have them too often. I might have a deathly allergy to lobster, but obviously one doesn’t exactly want to test that theory.’
He pulled out a notebook and jotted things down as Aix spoke, and as Aix tried the wine and the salad (both were very good, and Aix really enjoyed being able to drink wine—it was one of those things that felt very grown-up, and it was rare he felt like an adult), they got into more and more detail about what Aix was going to eat tonight. Honeycutt seemed delighted the more Aix revealed they knew their way around a kitchen, and Aix was as always surprised at how much he knew—he hadn’t used the knowledge in so long that he’d forgotten it was there.
For his part, René was quiet—when he brought guests here, it was for the guests to be fed well. Vampires didn’t eat solids, though René didn’t know a single one that didn’t have a favourite wine. But Aix’s scent said he didn’t eat enough, and it was good to see it was a very traditional reason, rather than a modern one. René could understand, could fix hunger, and the nervous self-starvation that poverty trained into a boy—he could not fix dieting as easily, that was more complicated a problem. And Honeycutt was happiest when feeding those unused to feast—it was his calling, to feed the hungry. The restaurant was more of a way to give the neighbourhood a place to practise the skill of fine cuisine and hospitality, and to get the money from the rich circulating into a proper community, rather than simply moving from rich pocket to rich pocket—the feeding and tending of the community around it, the harvest he shared on the shelves of the grocery store beneath them—that was his life’s work. The more Aix admitted to missing this or that, the happier Honeycutt was in anticipation of giving it to him.
René had no idea why boars had such a bad reputation—he was perfectly happy to have them in his city, to watch how their presence made their territory flourish and bloom with green things and fine foods. For it wasn’t simply that they—like all porcines—could find truffles. No—a wereboar’s presence seemed to generate them within the soil, seemed to have an overall generative effect on the land where boars made their hearths. They were pigs, after all, in the ancient symbology of Plenty and of Feast, of Harvest and Fertility. It was a shame so many cultures painted them with contempt, René thought.
And too, René was no longer at all ignorant of the dynamics between races and nationalities—most vampires had to learn or they’d find themselves quite dead. To his advantage, René had always been more of a listener, an observer. His profession in the erotic performing arts also gave him a much more comprehensive education on social injustice merely by exposure, and because it had always been ill-favoured, despite only recently being made outright illegal. As well, the dynamic of power between individuals was one any vampire was very sensitive to, particularly after a few centuries, and particularly because so many had service or subjugation in their past. René paid his due to the community, and listened to make sure he was indeed continuing to do so. The methods for that tended to change, and quickly. And he had stumbled, ignorant and segregated, until the riots in the sixties and seventies had given him sharp awakening, and struggled to find ways to help without becoming yet another yoke. The Honeycutts choosing Baltimore as their home had been a welcome relief—people of colour were few, in the local nightfolk of Baltimore, which was a worrying contrast to how many there were in the human population.
Aix and Honeycutt worked out a menu for the evening, which included Aix’s very favourite dessert of tiramisu, and soon Aix and René were alone again, the salad finished, and the wine refilled.
‘Shall we negotiate sex, Domine?’ Aix said, and sounded—and moved—with much more confidence. Whether it was the wine glass, or having slowly settled into masculinity over the past few moments, or the way Chef Honeycutt had put him at ease and gotten him laughing again, René couldn’t say. Aix was a boy now, though—a type of boy that did not exist much anymore, the type of boy that was René’s long-abiding preference.
‘Shall I go first, and tell you my desires?’ René asked, a smile in his eyes but barely touching his mouth.
‘I think perhaps that would be best, though to be bluntly truthful, it will mean I rifle through my own and only pick the ones that match. Still, if I go first I won’t go at all, and we must start somewhere.’
So, Boy was where he kept all his confidence. René took a sip of his wine, gathered his thoughts. ‘I would like to bite you, once you are well-fed enough to take it without harm.’
‘I would like to be bitten,’ Aix said amiably, ‘say on, old thing, say on.’
Ah, and English charm, at that! Delightful. ‘Have you been fucked in the manner boys are fucked, before?’
‘So elegant,’ Aix teased, giggling and taking a sip of his wine, ‘yes, I adore anal sex. It’s been years, and it is so affirming, you know. The quintessential act for the male homosexual to assert his status as such, I always felt.’ It was amazing, Aix thought, what a glass of wine in one’s possession could do for one’s confidence. A prop was a beautiful thing, a prop such as a cigarette or a wine glass even moreso. It didn’t have to be alcohol, that wasn’t the point, the point was that it was adult, the very action itself.
‘Mm, and were you ever prepared properly?’
‘What, with an enema and stretching and toys? Yes, my ex husband was many terrible things, but he was not terrible at sex. And,’ he added, swirling the wine, watching it catch the light and sparkle gold, ‘you have hit upon a kink of mine: I have always adored being filled up, so I shall be a terribly good boy for you.’ He hid behind his glass a little, at that, shy after being so daring.
‘Mm,’ René said, deciding to remain breezy and conversational—they were negotiating, it was polite to remain merely flirtatious, theoretical, for the moment. ‘That is very gratifying, petit. Usually it is seen as merely something to be tolerated for the sake of hygeine.’
‘Oh no, not at all, not for me. Though… I do find myself a bit at odds with the usual fare for enema-focussed erotica. I don’t like punishment or humiliation, you see. For me it is about being full, and the fullness feeling safe and warm. Perhaps the dom is pushing me a little, but it’s always, you know, things like, “you can do it, I know it’s a lot but you’re being so good for me” sort of thing. Very encouraging.’
‘Ah, so you are disciplined, and like to be run through your paces.’
‘I do!’ Aix said, pleased. ‘Yes, I’m very disciplined, and I like to show it off for my Dom. Sort of… “look how good I am Daddy, aren’t you proud of me?”.’ He paused. ‘Ah, sorry, I was raised in the world of jazz, the “Daddy” sort of slips out.’
‘I have never heard that distinction.’
‘Well, I never used to make it, because I thought “Daddy, as used in jazz” was the tone everyone used it in. But then the internet purity movement exploded everywhere and started on this nonsense about “anyone who uses Daddy must be into ageplay”, which was both bewildering and rather terrifying. Ageplay is something of a squick for me, I must say. Oh, do you know that word?’
‘Cameron has explained it to me. A useful term. What do you think of as ageplay?’
‘Well, that I have no interest in pretending to be a child and in my dominant pretending to be my parent. And I don’t generally want to even be around it, though of course Thou Shalt Not Judge Others For Their Kinks.’
‘Of course. Being my age, I cannot have preference for my partner’s age. But, I do prefer to not have to teach them the fundamentals. It grows… tiresome.’
‘Yeah I’ve never wanted to be the more experienced partner. When I was a virgin I was with virgins, et cetera.’ He fluttered a hand, and then paused, sipping his wine thoughtfully, ‘Do you know, I don’t think I’ve been with anyone that wasn’t exactly the same experience level as me; and, honestly, I prefer that or my being the less experienced. Never understood the appeal of virgins. Girl, I don’t want to be a teacher! I want to bottom for some of this!’
They laughed together, and it was nice, and Aix was startled at how strange it was, to laugh with someone again. He’d been doing it a lot more lately, with everyone new that he’d met in the past… god, had it only been a few weeks? Not even a month, really.
‘Only some?’ René asked.
‘I’m a switch and a vers,’ Aix said.
‘It is so good to hear the old words,’ René said, with a wry curve of his lips. ‘It has been a very long time since I have submitted.’
‘Do you like to?’ Aix asked, curiously.
‘It is rare that I want to,’ René said. ‘Everyone is so very much younger than me, now. But I do bottom still, occasionally.’
‘Ah, chéri, so refreshing to be around someone who knows there’s a difference between bottoming and submitting!’ Aix said, laughing delightedly. ‘Well,’ he said, thinking on it, ‘I think—if you ever want to, of course—I would enjoy topping you for anal sex. I like service topping. It’s rather a lovely high, making someone orgasm under my fingers…’
‘They are,’ René said, eyes flicking to them. ‘Lovely fingers. So very long… I imagine you have grown very skilled with them, over the years.’ For it seemed Aix was quite sexually experienced, and René already knew he had been married to his ex husband for all of his twenties. If said ex husband had been ‘good at sex’….
‘I have, yes,’ Aix said, tracing the rim of his wine glass with the middle one of his right hand, knowing the pose was elegant and showed them off. But he had always been very pleased with his hands, they had always been very pretty and graceful. It was one of the few parts of his body that he’d never felt was ugly or unacceptable, and he cherished that. ‘I prefer using black latex gloves—and not simply for safety. It helps with friction and smoothing things out.’
‘And black latex lends a particular tone.’
‘Oh yes, well,’ Aix said, grinning, ‘I’m a little bit Überwald, you know. Just a touch of the old “throw the switch, Igor!”.’ He giggled, rolling the ankle of his crossed leg. ‘Are you familiar with Discworld?’
René quirked a brow. ‘Vampires are familiar with all stories we appear in. We have to be.’
Aix’s smile fell off so fast René could almost hear it hit the floor. ‘Ah, yes,’ he said, grimly. ‘Yes, I’m not best pleased with the anorexia-positive narrative Pratchett did, with them. I don’t think he meant to, but he didn’t think the joke through…. But I like Otto and Maladict quite a lot.’
‘Mm,’ René hummed, ‘I was very pleased with Maladict. He reminds me very much of one of Lord Roseblade’s boys.’
‘Now there’s a surname if ever I heard one. Love it.’
They were interrupted by the reappearance of Tyrone, who brought in the entrée: slices of steak and mushrooms in a cream sauce, served with a basket of fresh hot sourdough bread that smelled heavenly and had hot melted brie with truffle in a dish on the side, and more wine—red, this time, if Aix was recalling what little he knew of wine properly. The portion was not too generous, nor too small; it seemed just right, Aix thought, but put a hand over his empty wine glass in what he hoped was a polite refusal; he’d forgotten to talk about wine with Chef, and so hadn’t remembered about red wine headaches until now. Tyrone didn’t even ask, and simply refilled Aix’s water.
‘Could I have some iced black tea with mint and a straw, please?’ That was a similar flavour profile to red wine, Aix thought—and anyway, tea had a nice, astringent, palette-cleansing property that he very much liked with anything. And surely they had mint, they served lamb after all. They had to have mint.
‘Of course.’
Aix liked that he was leaving off the gendered honourifics. ‘Thank you so much.’ When Tyrone left, Aix finally was able to really take in the food, switch off the Be On Best (Least Autistic) Behaviour For Strangers mode and use the energy on sensory input. ‘Wow, this smells amazing.’
‘It does,’ René said. ‘May I kiss you, after you have a bite?’ He was ready to explain this, but Aix seemed to grasp it immediately.
‘Sure,’ he said, sipping the water, enjoying the narrow straw. The narrow straws of fancier restaurants were fun-small, and his straws at home were the reusable kind, so they didn’t have the same mouthfeel or nice thin edges. Tyrone came back with a highball glass of tea with fresh mint in it, and Aix thanked him automatically, before sampling the tea.
‘Ooh, this is very nice, Tyrone. Thank you.’
After he left, Aix knew they would be left alone for a longer time, and could therefore get back to the negotiations. He cut a slice of the meat off, and made sure to get a mushroom and sauce to taste, and it was. Wonderful. He wasn’t a moaner, but he wondered if the expression on his face was loud. He never knew what his face was doing, which was part of why wearing a veil felt so soothing. Still, he didn’t mind René seeing him, now. It was strangers that he hadn’t chosen to interact with that made him nervous.
‘Is it good?’ René asked quietly, and smelled the effect—Aix had been curiously unaroused despite their talking of sex, which was usually a good thing for such conversations; but now, with those three words, somehow Aix was flush and sweet with desire. Perhaps it was merely the sensual pleasure of his voice feeding the sensual pleasure of the food—Aix had already mentioned René’s voice was one he favoured, and Aix certainly wasn’t the first, nor would he be the last. But… there was something other than simply René’s voice. What was it? Not being watched, so…
‘Yes, Domine,’ Aix said, breathlessly, not sure how to mention the layers of meaning, the dynamic of a predator animal asking that of a prey animal, and how he really liked that tension….
‘What is it that I said that caused this, petit? Tell me what kink I have stumbled over.’
Aix dropped his gaze, tensed, but then the tension went from cringing away in fear to set with determination. ‘My fursona is a sheep, because… because I like being fattened up and teased about my dom eating me up.’
‘And, I imagine, there is a wolf somewhere in your life, hm?’
‘My best friend,’ Aix said. ‘I’m… I’m not sure if they’re a werewolf or just want to be. I’ve been wondering how to ask them without breaking the… masquerade?
‘Mummery,’ René said, hiding a gentle laugh at where Aix undoubtedly had pulled that guess.
‘Mummery. Ooh, very medieval. Anyway, if they aren’t, they should be! They’d make a good one. Can you like, nominate people? Sponsor them?’
‘I would speak to St Croix about that, chéri; but later.’ He leaned forward, contemplating his wine, tracing the rim with his middle fingertip with the same careless grace Aix had used to show off his own hands. ‘I am no wolf….’
‘No,’ Aix agreed. ‘Vampires are cats. You’re… my favourite kind.’
‘Mm?’
‘Lanky and with a long silky coat and a big purr. Do… it’d be neat if vampires purred.’
René purred at Aix—the way humans could, particularly Francophones. Aix shivered, giggling and actually wiggling in glee, kicking his feet a little.
‘Ooooh, take me now, Daddy,’ Aix said playfully, and René laughed.
‘Mange, mon petit agneau,’ he purred.
‘Oui, Domine,’ Aix said, showing he had a submissive’s ability to be demure and flirtatious at the same time.
Next❧