D2D_Poison or Protect Read Free Page A

stealth bouquets or subversive finials. There wasn’t even a yappy dog. Or a yappy drone, for that matter.
    Oh, yes! Gibson Moontjoy opens that new opera tonight. What is it called? The Baker of Little Beasley?
    Preshea gave a delicate shudder. She loathed the opera.
    She slid into the vampire’s main hallway. The gas was turned down, making sinister shadows out of dancing cherub statuary. Preshea became one with their devilish waltz.
    One might think a creature that set no traps had no secrets. But Lord Akeldama held everyone’s secrets, even Preshea’s.
    Foolish old fangs.
    She chose the sitting room over the drawing room. This was a private matter, after all. Lord Akeldama kept his drawing room for more showy pursuits.
    The sitting room was beautiful – mahogany and brocade furnishings, heavy velvet curtains, and a Persian rug. Everything was trimmed with a surfeit of fringe. She could not make out the colors. The only light came from an old streetlamp through a large bay window. It turned everything brown and yellow.
    Preshea settled into the window seat, drawing the curtains closed behind her. She curled up her soft booted feet and pulled off her gloves (both were leather; anything less interfered with dexterity). Lady Villentia had no qualms about paying good money for shoes and gloves – hers must be attractive and functional (unlike those of most gentlewomen). She also relished the fact that something had died in order for her to dress properly.
    She tucked her clothing under and around. Thank heavens fashion plates were calling for narrower skirts next season. Preshea was petite, and the ridiculously wide silhouette of the last five years did her no favors. Oh, she wore de mode and wore it well . Such fullness was excellent for hiding things (be they goods or services) but she had never liked it, and never wore the cage crinoline. She abhorred the idea of being caged in any way.
    Tonight, Preshea’s evening gown was of bombazine with braid trim, but not because she was still in mourning (she grieved only when it suited her purposes). No, it was because lady intelligencers required dresses of nonreflective fabrics that did not wrinkle. Preshea’s was the highest quality bombazine, with intricate detail around the neck and cuffs. She was no fading flower, even when fading into shadows.
    Curled in the corner of the bay window, she would look like a statue from the street, were anyone able to see in. But she was confident that the lamp reflecting off the ripples in the glass, plus the heavy curtains behind her, made her invisible from inside or out.
    Two gentlemen alighted from a carriage and walked up the front stairs. The conveyance was expensive and discreet – not Lord Akeldama’s (he favored the first but not the second).
    One of the men wore equally expensive and discreet evening dress. A gentleman of quality and means but not flash. He wore discretion awkwardly, as ill fitting as a cheap waistcoat.
    The other gentleman was Lord Akeldama – an undersized absurdity, all pompadour and no circumstance. He sported a monocle he didn’t need, an accent not his own, and an attitude forever tempting disregard. He was also the deadliest creature Preshea knew. And she knew a great number of deadly creatures, including herself.
    Soon enough, they entered her sitting room. Their conversation was a flow of erudite commentary, moist with the syrup of a superior education.
    She recognized Lord Akeldama’s melodic tenor with excess cadence. “Please sit, my lord.”
    Deferential, thought Preshea. His visitor is a man of property and power or the old vampire wouldn’t bother with such niceties .
    “I prefer to stand.” This voice was deep and tinged with a quiver of fear or age.
    There came the clink of glass decanter on silver tray. “Claret?”
    “I think not. How long will this take?”
    “Not long.”
    “Where is she?”
    “It’s not yet two. Dear Lady Villentia is never late.”
    Preshea smiled at Lord