Read Online Blood Bank by Tanya Huff - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Tanya Huff
Tags: Fantasy
Ads: Link
it?"
"That she was a French spy? Not likely, they're all too busy talking about how she snuck out of Lady Glebe's party and into Sir William's carriage." He clucked his tongue. "The upper classes have got dirty minds, that's what I say."
"Are you including me in that analysis?"
Varney snorted. "Ask your poet. All I say about you is that you've got to take more care. So you saved Wellington's army. Good for you. Now..." he held out a pair of biscuit-colored pantaloons. "...do you think you could act a little more suitable to your condition?"
"I don't recall ever behaving unsuitably."
"Oh, aye, dressing up so fine and dancing and going to the theater and sitting about playing cards at clubs for gentlemen." His emphasis sounded remarkably like that of Carmilla Amworth.
"Perhaps you'd rather I wore grave clothes and we lived in a mausoleum?"
"No, but..."
"A drafty castle somewhere in the mountains of eastern Europe?"
Varney sputtered incoherently.
Henry sighed and deftly tied his cravat. "Then let's hear no more about me forgetting who and what I am. I'm very sorry if you wanted someone a little more darkly tragic. A brooding, mythic persona who only emerges to slake his thirst on the fair throats of helpless virgins..."
"Here now! None of that!"
"But I'm afraid you're stuck with me." Holding out his arms, he let Varney help him into his jacket. "And I am almost late for an appointment at White's. I promised Sir William a chance to win back his eleven hundred pounds."
His sensibilities obviously crushed, Varney ground his teeth.
"Now, what's the matter?"
The little man shook his head. "It just doesn't seem right that you, with all you could be, should be worried about being late for a card game."
His expression stern, Henry took hold of Varney's chin, and held the servants' gaze with his. "I think you forget who I am." His fingertips dimpled stubbled flesh. "I am a Lord of Darkness, a Creature of the Night, an Undead Fiend with Unnatural Appetites, indeed a Vampyre; but all of that..." His voice grew deeper and Varney began to tremble. "...is no excuse for bad manners."
* * *
Author's Note:
The real Henry Fitzroy, Duke of Richmond, bastard son of Henry VIII, died at seventeen on July 22, 1536, of what modern medicine thinks was probably tuberculosis. Modern medicine, however, has no explanation for why the Duke of Norfolk was instructed to smuggle the body out of St. James's Palace and bury it secretly.
All things considered, who's to say he stayed buried?
T he Cards Also Say
*
Surveying Queen Street West from her favorite perch on the roof of the six-story CITY TV Building, Vicki Nelson fidgeted as she watched the pre-theater crowds spill from trendy restaurants. Usually able to sit, predator-patient, for hours on end, she had no idea why she was suddenly so restless.
Old instincts honed by eight years with the Metropolitan Toronto Police and two years on her own as a PI suggested there was something wrong, something she'd seen or heard. Something was out of place, and it nagged at her subconscious, demanding first recognition then action.
Apparently, observation wouldn't tell her what she needed to know; she had to participate in the night.
Crossing to the rear of the building, she climbed swiftly down the art deco ornamentation until she could drop the last ten feet into the alley below. Barely noticing the familiar stink of old urine, she straightened her clothes and stepped out onto John Street.
A dark-haired young man who'd been leaning on the side of the building straightened and turned toward her.
Hooker, Vicki thought, then, as she drew closer and realized there was nothing of either sex or commerce in the young man's expression, revised her opinion.
"My grandmother wants to see you," he said matter-of-factly as she came along beside him.
Vicki stopped and stared. "To see me?"
"Yeah. You." Running the baby fingernail on his right hand over the fuzzy
"That she was a French spy? Not likely, they're all too busy talking about how she snuck out of Lady Glebe's party and into Sir William's carriage." He clucked his tongue. "The upper classes have got dirty minds, that's what I say."
"Are you including me in that analysis?"
Varney snorted. "Ask your poet. All I say about you is that you've got to take more care. So you saved Wellington's army. Good for you. Now..." he held out a pair of biscuit-colored pantaloons. "...do you think you could act a little more suitable to your condition?"
"I don't recall ever behaving unsuitably."
"Oh, aye, dressing up so fine and dancing and going to the theater and sitting about playing cards at clubs for gentlemen." His emphasis sounded remarkably like that of Carmilla Amworth.
"Perhaps you'd rather I wore grave clothes and we lived in a mausoleum?"
"No, but..."
"A drafty castle somewhere in the mountains of eastern Europe?"
Varney sputtered incoherently.
Henry sighed and deftly tied his cravat. "Then let's hear no more about me forgetting who and what I am. I'm very sorry if you wanted someone a little more darkly tragic. A brooding, mythic persona who only emerges to slake his thirst on the fair throats of helpless virgins..."
"Here now! None of that!"
"But I'm afraid you're stuck with me." Holding out his arms, he let Varney help him into his jacket. "And I am almost late for an appointment at White's. I promised Sir William a chance to win back his eleven hundred pounds."
His sensibilities obviously crushed, Varney ground his teeth.
"Now, what's the matter?"
The little man shook his head. "It just doesn't seem right that you, with all you could be, should be worried about being late for a card game."
His expression stern, Henry took hold of Varney's chin, and held the servants' gaze with his. "I think you forget who I am." His fingertips dimpled stubbled flesh. "I am a Lord of Darkness, a Creature of the Night, an Undead Fiend with Unnatural Appetites, indeed a Vampyre; but all of that..." His voice grew deeper and Varney began to tremble. "...is no excuse for bad manners."
* * *
Author's Note:
The real Henry Fitzroy, Duke of Richmond, bastard son of Henry VIII, died at seventeen on July 22, 1536, of what modern medicine thinks was probably tuberculosis. Modern medicine, however, has no explanation for why the Duke of Norfolk was instructed to smuggle the body out of St. James's Palace and bury it secretly.
All things considered, who's to say he stayed buried?
T he Cards Also Say
*
Surveying Queen Street West from her favorite perch on the roof of the six-story CITY TV Building, Vicki Nelson fidgeted as she watched the pre-theater crowds spill from trendy restaurants. Usually able to sit, predator-patient, for hours on end, she had no idea why she was suddenly so restless.
Old instincts honed by eight years with the Metropolitan Toronto Police and two years on her own as a PI suggested there was something wrong, something she'd seen or heard. Something was out of place, and it nagged at her subconscious, demanding first recognition then action.
Apparently, observation wouldn't tell her what she needed to know; she had to participate in the night.
Crossing to the rear of the building, she climbed swiftly down the art deco ornamentation until she could drop the last ten feet into the alley below. Barely noticing the familiar stink of old urine, she straightened her clothes and stepped out onto John Street.
A dark-haired young man who'd been leaning on the side of the building straightened and turned toward her.
Hooker, Vicki thought, then, as she drew closer and realized there was nothing of either sex or commerce in the young man's expression, revised her opinion.
"My grandmother wants to see you," he said matter-of-factly as she came along beside him.
Vicki stopped and stared. "To see me?"
"Yeah. You." Running the baby fingernail on his right hand over the fuzzy
Similar Books
