Page 62 of Bought for Blood

“What can I say? He’s adorable. And, of course, he fucks like a jackhammer.”

“I really wish I didn’t know that about him,” I mutter.

“This is the house,” Théo announces to the room generally, “where you actually live? Odile said ‘a friend’s place.’ I didn’t expect Buckingham Palace.”

“Théo,” Odile says, “sit down and stop showing your roots.”

“I’m not ashamed of my humble beginnings. I bring a lot to the table.”

“You bring a very good bottle of Sancerre, which is the main thing we want at the table.” She takes it from Julian without looking at him, which he seems used to. “Bastien, this is Théo and Julian. They’re both delightful, and neither of them will remember your name by morning, so introduce yourself as often as you like.”

Théo takes it as a joke rather than the exact truth, and laughs. Julian just grins and offers me his hand, warm, easy, no idea in the world what he’s shaking.

Rouvel and Tavora come at half past, out of the same car.

Tavora is small and exact and four hundred years old, and she has kept the same two houses and the same three friends for most of them. Rouvel is younger and richer and wears it. He takes my hand in both of his, which nobody does to me. Then he sees Serenity, and his nostrils move.

Odile’s chin comes around. Tavora stops two steps inside the room and doesn’t come further.

“Sébastien.” Rouvel isn’t looking at me. “You’ve been keeping a secret.”

“I’ve been keeping a guest.”

“Of course. Of course.” He crosses to Serenity, bows over her hand, and stops his mouth an inch above her knuckles. “Etienne Rouvel,” he says to her hand. He holds it there one second longer than I’m comfortable with.

She takes her hand back. “It’s Serenity,” she says, and turns to Tavora, who dips her head.

“Ana Tavora,” she says. She doesn’t move closer.

Serenity smiles. “You’ve come the furthest, I’m told.”

“I’ve come from Lisbon.” Tavora’s hands are folded in front of her. “Forgive me. I’ll stay near the window.”

Yves arrives to let us know that dinner is ready, and we sit. Seven of us tonight, which the room hasn’t held in a decade, and the kitchen sends up a feast that only Serenity, Théo, and Julian eat, while the rest of us hold glasses and watch.

Odile’s boys keep up a constant patter, and I’m glad of it, because Serenity is entertained.

“Not hungry, angel?” Julian asks Odile, whose fish dish is untouched before her.

“Not tonight, pet.” Odile pats his hand.

“She never is.” Théo, three glasses in already, leans toward Serenity like they’re sharing a secret. “Honestly, I’ve never asked. I assumed it was a diet thing.”

“It’s not a diet thing,” Serenity says, slanting a look at me.

“See, that’s what I said. I said, ‘Odile, is it a diet thing?’ and she just laughed at me for ten minutes.”

“It was closer to fifteen,” Odile says.

Serenity looks down the table, decides against explaining any further, and picks up her own knife.

“So this is theater,” she says, and cuts into the fish, and eats it without hurrying.

Odile laughs into her wine. Even Tavora’s mouth moves.

She’s good at this. She asks Tavora what the oldest building is that she remembers, and gets a story about a bridge that fell down twice. She asks Odile what I was like when I was young.

“Insufferable,” Odile says. “And he’s kept some animal underfoot the whole time I’ve known him. Horses, dogs. Now there’s a cat who runs the house better than Yves does, and won’t come when anyone but Bastien calls him.”