"What a wet blanket," Asher remarked, still chuckling as he walked through the door to the guest suite he'd been given. Seeing Jane resemble a drowned cat had cheered him immensely. He was in a much better mood than when he'd previously awakened.
He was never a morning person—rather, a late sunset person. But today he had awakened with a fierce hunger, both physically and spiritually. And it was due to a spinsterish virgin with only passable looks, even if she did have a neck to die for.
As he entered his guestroom, he spied his valet, Renfield—a gaunt older man with slightly graying hair—setting out his evening clothes. The human had been in his service for over sixty years and was the perfect valet and servant. The lines on his face were a testimony to his age, experience and exasperation with Asher's decided lack of concern regarding clothing.
Asher's nose twitched. "Bloody hell! What's that smell?" he asked.
"Garlic, sir," Renfield answered. He wore an expression of disgust.
"What the hell is garlic doing in my room?" Asher grimaced. Garlic was one of the old antivampire wives' tales that didn't hold water. Sometimes at early sunset his kind would gather in a crowded pub for myth hour, laughing at the fallacies of vampire legends and lore. Mirrors, garlic and turning into bats were a few of the most misguided notions. But it was best to keep the legends speckled with lies. That gave vampires a leg up and out of the grave, so to speak.
Glaring at his valet, Asher raised a brow. Garlic wouldn't hurt him, but he really couldn't abide the herb's smell—or even the way the silly plant looked.
"It was spread in the sheets, my lord. I took the liberty of having them replaced, but I'm afraid that, with your sense of smell, a trace remains." Renfield helped Asher out of his coat. "Do you think someone is on to us, master?"
Asher shook his head. "No. I doubt it. This party is mainly weres and humans who are in league with them. No vampire hunter would come here."
"Then who, my lord? Who would play such a smelly trick?"
Yanking off his breeches, Asher ripped a seam. His blue eyes darkened. "Huntsley did this. It sounds just like him. One of his bizarre practical jests."
"Really, master!" Renfield's tone was sharp. "Those breeches you just ripped are brand new. I just received the bill from Weston the other day. My lord, I must protest. You are forever ruining your clothing. Only three weeks ago you came home with blood soaking your cravat. I had to throw it away!"
"Yes, well, we had a bit of an orgy at the Granville estate after the will was read. Besides, I have plenty of cravats."
Renfield stared stoically at his master. There was a long-suffering look on his homely face. "You are always splitting heirs, sir, as well you know."
"I am a wealthy vampire," Asher replied, stepping into a pair of midnight black pants. "What should buying clothes matter?"
Not to be discouraged, Renfield continued his tirade. "Last week you came home smelling like gypsy girls and drunken revels. Your brand-new jacket of superfine reeked. It smelled like a winery. It took four days to air it out properly."
Asher cocked his brow at his valet, who was now fully enraged and looked like a bantam rooster flapping his wings. "The brandy-soaked jacket was not my fault," he argued. "In fact, the lady who did the deed, a Miss Paine in the Royal Ass, is here at the party."
"She should be boiled in oil, sir," Renfield said. "You only wore that black superfine once."
"My, my, Renfield. You are becoming a bloodthirsty little monster, aren't you."
"It must be your influence, master," the valet replied. He helped Asher into a forest green coat that brought out the copper and gold highlights in his master's collar-length hair. "But I quite despair that you will reach the grand old age of four hundred with any proper attire left at all."
Asher had to agree. For centuries people had been trying to sneak up and stake him. It was quite tedious. And not only was it ruinous to his jackets, but especially trying to his undead soul, always having to watch his back against people like those fanatical nuts the Van Helsings. No vampire wanted to have to watch his back against someone trying to stick him, but most especially was it inconvenient when that vampire was at the sticking point with his mistress, which was when the Van Helsings he'd encountered invariably tried to stake him.
When the hunter became the hunted, things could get downright nasty.
"Have no fear, Renfield, I have the Midas touch in business."
"If only you were as concerned about your wardrobe, my job would be much simpler. And I am a simple man," his valet protested modestly.
"You, simple? Ha! Why, you're quite the old tartar—always ringing a peal over my head and searching out exotic hiding places for my coffin away from home."
"As I said before, sir, your influence must be rubbing off on me," the valet replied, handing over a comb.
Glancing in the mirror, Asher cocked his head to one side to study himself, glad that the myths of vampires lacking reflections were just that. It would be such a shame to waste reflective surfaces on other people's beauty and not his own. Brushing a hand through his hair, he reminded himself that he wasn't getting older, just better.
"I promise I will be careful of my clothing tonight, Renfield," he told the valet. "After all, I promised Clair that I would take only a small snack per night, not a full meal. And only with the snack's permission. Which leaves me only shape-shifters to choose from, which shouldn't be messy. Although why Clair is worrying about me hurting her guests is beyond me. I would only take a drink or two from them, while the werewolves here would eat them whole."
Renfield shook his head, remaining silent as he finished tying the oriental, a new knot, for Asher's cravat. "Done, my lord."
"You are quite the artiste," Asher acknowledged, stepping closer to the mirror and studying himself. He shuddered momentarily at what he glimpsed in the mirror. Was that a gray hair?
Examining the thick curl by his ear, he noted it was merely very light blond. He shook his head. He was way too young, barely out of his fledgling years, to be set upon by the signs of aging.
"You don't think I am getting wrinkles, do you?" he asked. Asher examined his eyes and forehead.
"Wrinkles on your face, my lord? Why, they wouldn't dare," Reinfield replied benignly.
Asher gave a curt nod. "Then, how do I look? I want to impress Clair and irritate Huntsley," he added slyly.
"Like a god. Zeus come down from Olympus," the stiff-necked valet answered.
"Of course I do," Asher agreed thoughtfully. But a hint of worry filled his words. That wasn't a silver hair, was it?