" 'Does the imagination dwell the most upon a woman won or woman lost?' " Asher asked Renfield as he stood in his bedchamber and waited for the valet to finish tying his cravat.
"Tennyson, my lord?" Renfield asked politely. He had been the earl's human servant for over sixty years. With a flourish he finished tying the Oriental, a clever new twist in a long list of cravat styles, at all of which the valet knew he was the master.
"Yeats."
"I take it Baron Huntsley is the reason for your question?"
"As always, you are correct. How does this look?" Asher asked as he glanced into the oval gilt-framed mirror, studying his reflection.
"Outstanding, my lord," Reinfield replied somberly, brushing a speck of lint from a black superfine evening jacket. "I take it you are still annoyed about the opera singer and that unfortunate wager several years ago."
Asher scowled, soothing back a tangle of chestnut hair from his forehead. "She should have been mine. Bloody embarrassing losing the chit to Huntsley, especially after half of White's knew of the wager. Who knew the silly creature would prefer to give her favors to Huntsley rather than me? I had no idea the hussy had such deplorable taste."
"I can't understand it, Master," Renfield replied dryly. He put down the coat and held up two jeweled stickpins. "Diamond or ruby?"
"Ruby, I think, tonight."
"You know, sir, you could have cheated on the wager and mesmerized the singer."
"That, Renfield, would not be sporting. A wager is a wager." Placing the ruby pin in his cravat, Asher turned to face his valet. "How does this look?"
"Perfection, my lord."
Turning back to the mirror, Asher waited for Renfield to slide his evening jacket over his shoulders. "This time, Huntsley will be the one with egg on his face. The baron will be devastated to lose Clair Frankenstein to my sweet seduction. It is the perfect plan. What makes it even sweeter is that Clair is special. She has a quality I've not seen or tasted before." After he uttered the words, Asher felt again just how true they were. Clair was unique, and she would be his. And somewhere deep inside his glacial heart, a tiny sliver of ice melted, warming him. He knew instinctively that Clair would never bore him. She had a passion for life that would remain long after her death and quite likely would spice up their mating rituals.
Renfield made a final yank on Asher's jacket, smoothing its line. "Ah yes, the Frankenstein female. Isn't she the one that chases pigs? Are you sure you want her, my lord? Eternity is a very long time."
Though the valet spoke in a flat tone, Asher could sense the man's disapproval. "Quite." He gave Renfield a thoughtful look. "I am only giving Clair her first mark tonight." He knew his valet was not sure about the upcoming addition to their household. A new mistress would change the routine and rhythm of the house. Renfield would not take that lightly, being the old stick in the mud that he was.
"Hmm… The first mark. That will enable you to read any intense feeling she might have."
"Yes. It will enable me to tell just how passionately she feels for the baron."
"And the other six marks which will enable you to make her your consort? When will those be given?" Renfield asked stiffly.
"Do not fear yet, Renfield. I will give her marks two and three at the house party, but the rest will have to wait a month at least. You know it is dangerous to bring a human over too quickly," Asher said, thinking of the methods of marking a mortal for eternity. Mark two would enable him to read her dreams. Mark three would make her susceptible to his will. Marks four and five would make her stronger, sensitive to sunlight, and entirely under his control. The last two marks would make mind communication between the two of them possible and complete her transformation to the living dead.
"This will be our little secret." The warning was a command, one that Asher's valet could not willingly break.
"I hope the baron doesn't get wind of this. Won't he see the bite on her neck at the houseparty?" Renfield asked worriedly. "And Miss Frankenstein strikes me as a rather independent sort of lady. I don't think she will go gently into that good night. I take it, my lord, that you will be using your mesmerism talents?"
"You are a master of strategy, Renfield," Asher quipped as he placed his wolfhead ruby ring on his finger. "I won't be biting her neck this time, although that is my favorite place. I will choose a less obvious spot, since Huntsley and Clair have not copulated yet. Perhaps those delicious breasts."
Facing the mirror, he scrutinized his reflection, a look of cold pleasure on his face. "What do you think, Renfield? How do I look? Shall I make the fair maiden swoon?"
"You are a god. Miss Frankenstein will be overcome by her good fortune," the valet remarked stoically.
"I don't pay you enough, Renfield. Remind me to raise your salary in the morning."
"Beg pardon, sir, but you will be asleep in your coffin in the morning."
Asher ignored him. Studying his reflection in the mirror, he suddenly considered vampire myths. In reality, the Nosferatu could see their reflections. They were physically strong, but only twice as strong as mortal men. Their hearing was average, along with their eyesight, although their night vision was exceptional.
"I am glad some of the myths of the vampire have been greatly exaggerated," he said. He gestured at the mirror, indicating his reflection. "To think all this would be wasted if I could not view my own person."
"A disaster of epic proportions," Renfield agreed, keeping his face straight.
Asher grinned. His fangs glinted in the candlelight. "Do you know Clair called me top-lofty?" he said.
"Hard to imagine."
Asher sighed. "I wish that some of the old myths held true. I would like to turn Clair tonight, in one go. Still, if all my drained dinners turned, think where that would lead." He shuddered. "The entire unwashed population would be undead. What a perfectly ghastly thought. All those plebeians in caskets trying to turn into bats or wolves."
Renfield wore a look of distaste. "Impossible. Vampires can't shape-shift."
Asher gave his valet a piercing look. "Yes, Renfield, I know that. And you know that. But they don't know that. Their knowledge of the Nosferatu is still in the Dark Ages," he sneered. "By the deuce, they think we fly off at night on those little bat wings, eating bugs. Bugs! Or they think we shift into furry dogs. As if I would ever lower myself to become a wolf, running about on four legs in all that mud. The whole thought is revolting!"
Renfield nodded. "Yes. To be a werewolf would be a curse. There isn't much dignity in becoming hairy every full moon," he went on, tidying up the bedchamber now that the earl was dressed. "I certainly would find no pride in being the human servant of a flea-bitten master."
"Well, let us be grateful our dignity is intact," Asher said. "And be grateful that the only shape vampires metamorphose into is mist. One of my favorite inherited characteristics."
A movement in the corner of his eye caught his attention, and Asher whirled around, glaring as Wilder strolled into his private sanctuary.
"What is your favorite vampire trick?" the man asked, his interest obviously piqued.
"Dematerializing into mist or fog," Asher replied, his gaze narrowed on Wilder's sudden frown. "I forgot. You're still a hundred years too young to turn into mist," he mocked. "Now, why have you invaded my sanctuary? I have an appointment shortly." He made his voice like ice. He didn't like anyone in his lair unless he had personally invited them, even members of his own vicious nest.
"I came to discuss the Frankenstein problem. She is a danger to our race." Wilder's expression was cruel.
"I told you it has been taken care of," Asher warned, his eyes glittering with fierce impatience. "When she sees me waltzing the night away under the full moon and remaining both upright and devoid of fur, Clair will know I am not a wolf man."
Wilder paced the room anxiously. "What if she then decides you're a vampire, like she did me?"
"She won't. Her mind is on wolves. Now leave it be," Asher hissed, not wanting to reveal his plan to make Clair his vampire queen. It was too dangerous to let anyone know until he had the high council's approval. A master vampire was only allowed to turn two mortals every century. He had filled his quota over eighty years earlier. One result had been disastrous, the other not as bad.
The council would give their consent, Asher believed, due to the unusual circumstances, but he wasn't a hundred percent sure. He was also shrewd enough to realize that Wilder would be jealous. As master of the nest, Asher had turned down Wilder's request to turn a human female only a few scant years ago in 1795.
It was a decision Asher didn't regret. Wilder was too selfish to nurture a fledgling vampire. He was also extremely moody and extremely cruel, sometimes exhibiting a ferocity that bordered on insanity.
Wilder shook his head. "She's a Frankenstein, for deuced sakes. They don't quit once they've got the bit between their teeth."
Asher growled, his blue eyes beginning to burn with golden flames, his fangs elongating. "Are you challenging me?"
Nervously, Wilder backed up a step. "I am many things, Asher, but a fool is not one them." He retreated to the door, his features frozen in a mask of rage, his fingernails needlelike points. "I'll leave you to your appointment. I just hope Clair Frankenstein isn't the end of us all!" And with those parting words, Wilder was gone.
Asher shook his head, the flickering fires in his eyes damped. "Ah, Renfield, the foibles of youth."
His valet only nodded, still staring at the door where Wilder had disappeared. "You must take great care, my lord," he said. "That one will rip out your throat. And I noted last night that Lady Montcrief was not well pleased with your interest in Miss Frankenstein."
"Were you spying on my boudoir playmates, Renfield? Shame on you."
Renfield sniffed. "Of course not, my lord. I was merely passing to refill the brandy decanter."
Asher smiled as he picked up his many-layered cape. "Now let us hope my bewitching Clair will soon be arriving at the cemetery."
"She is a most unusual female," Renfield agreed. "Most ladies," he said, stressing the word "ladies," with a doubtful look in his eyes, "would do anything to avoid meeting a man alone. A man they believe to be a wolf, and in a cemetery… ?"
"Most ladies are not Clair Frankenstein," Asher replied.
"The world must rejoice," Renfield snipped, thoroughly vexed at his master. "And please, my lord, do try not to spill your dinner all over your cravat again. Bloodstains are terribly hard to soak out of white linen."
The earl arched an aristocratic eyebrow. "Renfield! You try my patience at times."
He descended the stairs, a tiny doubt in the back of his mind. Clair was a lady, and meeting him alone at night as his note requested would put her in a compromising position. Would she come? His eyes flamed. She was a Frankenstein through and through. She would be there with her pulse racing. And if her heart wasn't racing when he arrived, it would be after just one kiss.