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Adventures in Decorating, part 10B

by A. Fraser and J. Hontz

Part 10B

© Copyright 2005 A. Fraser and J. Hontz. All rights reserved.

Note: this is the PG 13 rated version, with most of the naughty bits edited out. If you are looking for the XXX version, click here You have been warned.

"I am expecting a guest tonight, Elrich," said the lady of
the house. "You will show him 
into the drawing-room, and then you and Jared may retire for
the night." 

The ghoul--Gen preferred the term "little cousin" as being
less off-putting--nodded and 
showed his impressive, razor-sharp teeth. Poor, misbegotten
creatures that they were, he 
and his fellow "cousin" Jared had been overcome by the Relic
Guardians who had broken 
into the chateau to hunt for Claude's ring. They were
examples of what can go wrong 
with vampire turnings. Immortal, but carrion-eaters, not
blood-drinkers, and with 
severely reduced mental capacities. They made faithful but
slightly unnerving servants, 
and they worshipped Gen.

When she had arrived home the previous evening, the first
thing she had done was 
reassure herself that the little cousins were unharmed. Then
she had alerted Bertrand, the 
estate manager, of her return; and he had shown her the new
security alarms and other 
measures he had installed to ensure there was no repeat of
her finding uninvited men in 
her bedroom. (Invited men, however, Bertrand did not
mention.) Even Evan would have 
approved, although Gen regretted the necessity of turning
her home into a, er, fortress. 
The chateau had been built to withstand seige and
longbowmen, not modern thieves. That 
was now changed.

 "And the... garbage?" she asked. So many more of the monks
had died in the raid on 
Armando's headquarters. Regrets, more regrets. 

Bertrand shrugged. "Who notices freshly turned earth on
tilled land?" he asked. "All food 
for the grapes." He hadn't quite found it in himself to let
the monks be food for the, er, 
servants.

"You are a marvel, Bertrand. Remind me to increase your
salary." He would not, of 
course, remind her, but had a shrewd suspicion that it would
be done anyway. 

"I live but to serve," he said. 

"There will be a guest arriving tomorrow night," Gen told
him. "Should he wish to stay 
more than one night, please make him comfortable." 

"Yes, of course," Bertrand replied. He had walked off
grinning.                  


And now it was the following night, and Julian would be
arriving. Gen found herself 
looking forward to it. This would be more, she felt from her
judgement of the mage, than 
mere crude coupling. So she dressed with care, in a simple
but elegant gown, and twisted 
her hair up into a becoming style. Long, long practice
allowed her to do this without aid 
of a mirror or maid. Would he have eaten? She asked Madame
Bertrand to provide some 
simple food---brioche, cheese, fruit. Champagne, of course.
A fire was laid in the grate in 
the drawing-room, a very pretty room that Gen had
refurnished herself a few years ago. 
Aurore, banished from a Dior-clad lap, curled up slightly
petulantly on a cushion near the 
fire. The scene lacked only an interesting and amusing man.
 ----------------- 

The doorbell rang and one of the little cousins answered it.
A man stood there, blond, 
blue-eyed, handsome, of moderate height, and noticeably not
dressed in Dior. Instead he 
wore loose raw silk trousers, dark grey, and a simplbe if
obviously expensive tunic of 
fine white linen. He raised an eyebrow at the little cousin,
possibly because of the baring 
of rather impressive teeth, but seemed otherwise unperturbed
by the cousin's appearance 
or toothy grin.

"I'm expected," he said with a gracious bow. The little
cousin turned and Julian followed 
him into the - what was it? Fortress, chateau, dungeon?
Julian suspected dungeon fit far 
better than any other descriptor. The place exuded the
weight of the past, and Julian, an 
expert on that subject, already felt rebellion growing in
his soul. 

Prince. Master. He mused as he followed his guide through
the cold unyielding stone of 
the place. More prisoner, slave. Stuck with all the
pageantry, responsibility, weight and 
limitations with few of the perks. 

He'd noticed how quickly everyone boxed Gen in. They all saw
her position, not Gen. 
With the exception of Adele. Who seemed blessed with an
ability to overlook - or 
perhaps defy - societal expectations and see into and
sometimes through others. And he 
hadn't even had to teach her that. 

They came around the last stone wall, took the last dank
stone-smelling hallway, and 
came to a door. The little cousin knocked on said door, made
a motion to Julian and 
drifted off to its own musings, leaving Julian standing
alone in the hallway. He heard 
Gen's, "Entrez." He entrezed. 

The room was beautiful. The weight of the rest of the
building had somehow been 
banished from it. And it sang of Gen, not of the past, not
of her dead husband, not of her 
status and her curse. A slight smile curved his lips as he
saw her sitting there. He 
sketched a bow, but kept his eyes on her. 
"Genevieve," he said, scorning the titles, he gave the name
the full beauty it deserved. 
She deserved. 

Her eyes sparkled as she stood up. She moved so gracefully;
Julian hadn't seen her in a 
dress until now. Of course. She had been trained how to move
in good clothes. And then 
her lips were on his. 

"Julian," she said, genuinely happy to see him. "Welcome to
Chateau de Monet." 

He felt something butt against his leg and looked down. A
cat glared up at him. 

"Oh, this is Aurore," Gen laughed. "She is very friendly."
She took Julian's hands and led 
him over to a delightful little settee. "Have you eaten?"
she asked. "And would you do the 
honours?" she indicated the champagne. 

He sat, refraining from commenting regarding Aurore's
apparent sudden fascination with 
his shoes. "I've eaten lightly," he commented, as he
expertly dealt with the champagne. 
The cork expelled itself with that satisfying pop and he
filled the two flutes half way. He 
handed one to Gen and took the other one. He sat back, and
laid his arm across the back 
of the settee. He did not touch her. 

"May I offer a toast?" he asked. At Gen's nod, he replied,
"Forma flos, fama flatus." 

She considered this toast. Beauty a flower, fame is but a
breath. She moved her glass to 
touch his. As they each sipped their eyes met.

She didn't even once entertain the notion that she was being
unfaithful to Jean. They had 
long ago agreed that, when they were not together, their
love lives were their own. Jean 
hadn't been particularily happy to agree to this, mind, but
Genevieve had no patience with 
double standards.

 There was a modern stereo CD player, which did not look
that out of place in this lovely 
room, on a small table near Gen. She got up and slipped a CD
into it. 

"I missed out on the dancing last night," she said. "And I
do so love to dance. May I have 
the pleasure?" 

He rose and took her in his arms. "The pleasure is mine." 

It was a soft, sultry CD; setting the mood. They made quite
a dazzling couple for the 
amused audience of one fascinated cat. Gen sighed and put
her head on Julian's shoulder, 
enjoying the dance, enjoying having this unique man here
with her. When the second 
piece ended, he lifted up her chin and kissed her hard. 

She extended her hand to Julian. "Shall we?" 

He took her hand and let her lead him to the bedroom. There
was, indeed, a big bed. 
"Big" was an understatement. It was black, and massive.
Whoever had carved the posts 
had definitely gone for baroque. Julian wondered, as had
many others, how on earth it 
had been brought into the castle. 

"Do you like it?" Gen asked. 


"All the gods. It would be perfect for some wretchedly
gothic bodice-ripper." 

She laughed, and reached her hand up behind her head to
fumble at her hair. 

"Allow me," said Julian, and released the bindings that held
her hair in its complicated 
knot. 

It fell in glorious golden waves, past her shoulders. She
felt a strange sliding sensation 
around her neck, and realized that he'd also unfastened the
catch of the gold chain she 
always wore. 

"No!" she exclaimed, startled, but it was too late. Julian
held the chain and its attendant 
ring clenched in his fist. 

"Yes," Julian replied. "Don't worry, I won't lose it. But
I'd rather not have the spirit of 
your dead husband looking on, criticizing my technique." 

He turned his back on her so he wouldn't have to see her
expression and put the chain and 
ring safely in a convenient drawer. He continued talking. "I
never met Claude de Monet," 
he said. "but I'm quite sure I wouldn't have liked him." 

He risked a look at her. She was frowning, but in
puzzlement.

 "Why not?" she asked. 

"Because I tend not to like men who take something free and
beautiful and lock it in a 
cage."

 Genevieve raised her head and stared at him. "What do you
mean?" 

"I look around here," said Julian, "and everything I see is
Claude's. I see Claude's home, 
his servants, his winery, his version of the Brotherhood...
even his bed. You are Prince 
and master... why? Because _he_ was Prince and master, and
left you with that burden. Is 
there anything here that is _yours_, Genevieve? Is this what
_you_ want?"        

She stood as if carved from stone. "I loved Claude."

"I'm certain of it. He may even have loved you. Is that any
reason for you to live his 
life?"

Gen turned away, unable to answer. Julian sighed. 


"Genevieve," he crossed over to her and took hold of her
chin, forcing her to look at him. 
He was hoping like hell he had her off-kilter enough not to
kill him for the sheer effrontery.
 

"Yes?" 

"I didn't come here tonight to have sex with a master
vampire or a Prince. I've had sex 
with princes before. They're nothing special. But you..." he
released her. "You are a 
beautiful woman. When was the last time someone saw you for
who you are, not what 
you are? I would like to make love to that woman. If she'll
let me."

 Silence. That perfect vampire silence. Had he offended her
too badly? Hurt her too 
deeply? Then she took his hand. 

"Yes," she said. 

They were both experienced in the ways of love. They'd both
loved, hated, lusted, all at 
once and none at all. Still the conversation, the words,
echoed in Genevieve's mind, 
repeating endlessly: 'I want to make love to that woman.'
When was the last time she'd 
looked at a man and not see that instant look, that
immediate placement of her on a 
pedestal, the look that said she was apart, separate, that
deferential subtleness that killed 
spontaneity? 

She didn't see it in Julian's eyes. His eyes were aflame,
with her, with desire, with the 
anticipation of pleasure. Nor had he taken advantage of her
momentary confusion. He 
stood close to her. She could smell him. His own subtle
scent, his cologne, his arousal. 
One hand rested on her shoulder the other brushed her cheek.
He waited. Patiently. Not as 
still as a vampire, but not that far from it. 

He knew when she'd made her choice, and he leant toward her
lips. Hers met his, and she 
was never quite certain who led who back and down onto the
bed. They sank into the 
cool sheets. His body gave off heat in waves. Yet he took
his time, and when she started 
to hurry him he chuckled deep in his throat. "Not yet," was
all he said. 

One piece of clothing at a time, tongues, fingers exploring,
his heart beating against her, 
his breath on her body, the scent increasing as his skin was
more exposed, his body heat 
seeming nearly enough to make her burn too. At one point
their eyes met. He smiled into 
hers. "They've no idea what they're missing. The woman is so
much more worthy of 
worship than the ideal."

 She laughed, deep in her throat, causing delicious ripples
along her now fully-naked 
body. Then she gasped as his fingers, then his tongue, found
a sensitive spot. Ah, god, 
no-one had touched her there in... she refused to finish the
thought. He smiled more 
widely at her reaction. Ran his tongue yet again across her
skin. Her lips parted. 


"Julian..." it was a sigh. "Make love to me. I cannot take
much more worship." He 
laughed delightedly. And thought fled as passion took over
them both. 

Time passed, in passion, in a heartbeat, in an eternity.
Shadows danced and moved 
across the walls.

He shuddered in her arms, exhausted, satiated, but clutching
her still, his lips against her neck, his breath warming her
as he struggled to slow his pounding heart. He would never
know how much she longed, at that moment, to be able to stay
like this, snuggled against him, his breath tickling her,
until sleep claimed them both; natural sleep after the
physical extertion, with sweet erotic dreams. 

Dreams. Could she even remember dreams? There was so much
she'd forgotten. It was 
better so; the melancholy of remembering being human could
drive a vampire mad. She 
knew those it had happened to. 

He stirred, finally, and kissed her between her breasts.
Then on them. No, he couldn't 
possibly... so soon? 

"No," she said, firmly pushing him away and down, "you are
exhausted. I shall do the 
work." Her lips locked on his, smothering any protest he
might have made. 

More passion, searing them both, taking them both; passion
enough to shake even that 
massive bed, passion born of mutual desires, needs,
loneliness.

He finally gave it up and collapsed beside her, laughing
himself. "Gods. Anyone who 
takes sex too seriously lacks a sense of the absurd." 

"But you didn't finish," she said with a pout.

"There's always later," he said and pulled her into his
embrace. "I'm badly in need of rest 
at the moment and I enjoy the feel of you in my arms, just
like this." 

"Yes," she agreed. "Frankly, even I am in need of respite."

She drew the counterpane up to cover them both demurely,
making him laugh. They 
snuggled, listening to the old castle creak and settle
around them.

"Julian," she said, remembering something from the first
night, "tell me the truth.  Did 
you really plan to fall off the roof, to let Armando hurt
you like that?"

"Well, not exactly.  But I needed to see how powerful he
was.  To test his limits.  It was a risk."

"Crazy fool."

"Yes, dear," he replied with a chuckle.  Then, "So, tell me
of this White Lion."                  

"The White Lion was an inn in England.  Some evil
people-magic users and vampires-
had taken over it, and used it as a headquarters for their
game of harassing those who 
chose not to abuse their powers.  They attacked a group of
Druids who were travelling 
across the country..." she fed him the details of the
founding of the Brotherhood, of 
Alex's tempestuous arrival in Paris, of the execution of
Lucinda and the defeat of the 
little cabal in the inn.

He obviously enjoyed the telling, but as her story wound to
its ending, his breathing told  her he was asleep. 

Eventually, his breathing told her he was asleep. 

What a night! Julian was quite a lover. She ached in
delicious places. She was sure he 
did, too. She forebore making comparisons with... anyone
else. 

It was pleasant, after that frantic activity, to just lie
with a man sleeping at her side. 
Unfortunately, it was a situation that could not be allowed
to continue past a certain hour. 
She did not want him to see her dead. 

"Julian," she whispered into his ear. "It is nearly dawn.
Wake up." 

He came awake talking. "Oh, Genevieve, I'm so sorry. Why
didn't you wake me earlier?" 

"You've had a rough couple of days, cher." 

"Yes, well, it hardly excuses..." 

She put a finger over his lips. "Please. I would rather..." 

"Yes, of course. A kiss and I will leave you to peace." 

They kissed, he got up, collected his clothes, leant over
and kissed her again, and said, "I 
swear fealty to Genevieve. Not to Prince and master, but to
Genevieve. I am yours 
whenever you need me." And with that, he winked out of her
bedroom.

 ________ 

She woke alone, which did not surprise her, since she had
locked the door of the 
bedroom. She knew that wouldn't have kept Julian out, but it
was her habit to do so. 
Genevieve was not a brooder. She looked wistful for a
moment, then rolled out of the 
gigantic bed and prepared herself for another evening of
being... Prince and master. 

Non, je ne regret rien. 

She had a long, slow bath, smiling to herself as she
recalled high points of the previous 
evening. She found more practical clothes than the abandoned
Dior gown to put on, and 
put her hair up in a more simple knot than last night's.
Perhaps she should cut it? That 
would displease Jean, which appealed to her.


Something was missing, and it took her a moment to realize
what it was. She went to the 
nightstand beside that fabulous bed, and opened the drawer.
She looked down at the fine 
gold chain with its heavy, masculine gold ring, for a long,
long time. Then she shut the 
drawer again. 

The End
 

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