He’d never take a meal by force, though he rarely had permission for the actual donation . It was an easy thing, to take blood from a lover and heal the wound before they knew what had happened. With the vampire thrall he could convince anyone, but he only liked it when someone wanted to be with him of their own volition.
There were some people who knew about vampires and wanted to give up their blood and become walking donors. Holden hated that. Willingness and desperation were entirely different things.
Deep down he was still a predator, and part of the joy of the meal was in the hunt.
He wasn’t sure which way this girl would tilt—willing victim or eager lover—but based on the scent of her skin he was betting she’d be worth the work.
“I think this is where you’re supposed to tell me your name,” she prompted.
He realized too late he’d made the common vampire mistake of lapsing into stillness. He’d been so lost in thought he forgot to maintain a normal conversational pace.
“Holden Chancery.” He offered his hand and smiled when she gave it a firm shake.
“Felicia.” She drank a little more then asked, “Holden, like from Salinger?”
He loved the sound of her voice and the way she drew out the O in his name like it was a dirty word used fondly. But he hated the comparison. In the thirty-some years since J.D. Salinger had written Catcher in the Rye , Holden hadn’t gone more than a week or two without someone comparing him to the book’s hero, Holden Caulfield.
Just what he wanted, to have people think of a petulant fifteen-year-old schoolboy when they met him.
He’d hoped the book would be a flash in the pan, but in three decades folks hadn’t yet stopped talking about it. Typical luck.
And now his permanent thirty-year-old appearance made him the exact right age to be named for the little twerp.
“No. It’s an old family name.” He tried to keep his voice light, but the annoyance must have come through because she grimaced in a self-aware way.
“Sorry. You must get that a lot.”
“Probably not as often as someone named Hamlet, but it happens.”
“I dated a guy named Mercutio once.” She twirled the champagne in her glass, her eyes sparkling more than the bubbles.
“Liar.”
“Does this look like the face of a woman who would lie to you, Holden Chancery?”
God, her voice would kill him. Low and husky, like a jazz singer he’d known in the ’20s who might have been better than Billie Holiday if she hadn’t…well. Heroin was a hell of a drug, and things hadn’t ended happily for her. Yet here was this beautiful creature standing next to him who sounded like she’d stepped right out of a speakeasy.
He must have waited too long to reply, because she returned her attention to the print, and her cheeks took on a rosy hue.
“What was that like?” She tilted her glass towards the art.
He followed her gaze to the portrait. It was a black-and-white nude like all the others, but the subject was much more familiar to Holden, since it was a photo of himself. He pretended to take a drink and contemplated the piece. He was damn near life size with it blown up so large. He wasn’t entirely naked. Robert had strategically hidden his manhood with artfully placed female hands.
Holden repressed a smile when Felicia’s pulse sped up again.
She liked it.
“It was unforgettable.” He relieved her of her empty glass and placed it along with his on the tray of a passing waiter. “And a little cold.”
Her laugh was nervous but edged with excitement.
“Someone bought it.” She pointed to the red dot beneath the information placard.
Sure. He’d bought it. Not out of any self-involvement or vanity, though Holden could admit he was plenty vain. He just didn’t need it hanging in MoMA or some millionaire’s living room. He would eventually drop out of the public eye when his eternal youth started to become too conspicuous, but he’d still want to call Manhattan
There were some people who knew about vampires and wanted to give up their blood and become walking donors. Holden hated that. Willingness and desperation were entirely different things.
Deep down he was still a predator, and part of the joy of the meal was in the hunt.
He wasn’t sure which way this girl would tilt—willing victim or eager lover—but based on the scent of her skin he was betting she’d be worth the work.
“I think this is where you’re supposed to tell me your name,” she prompted.
He realized too late he’d made the common vampire mistake of lapsing into stillness. He’d been so lost in thought he forgot to maintain a normal conversational pace.
“Holden Chancery.” He offered his hand and smiled when she gave it a firm shake.
“Felicia.” She drank a little more then asked, “Holden, like from Salinger?”
He loved the sound of her voice and the way she drew out the O in his name like it was a dirty word used fondly. But he hated the comparison. In the thirty-some years since J.D. Salinger had written Catcher in the Rye , Holden hadn’t gone more than a week or two without someone comparing him to the book’s hero, Holden Caulfield.
Just what he wanted, to have people think of a petulant fifteen-year-old schoolboy when they met him.
He’d hoped the book would be a flash in the pan, but in three decades folks hadn’t yet stopped talking about it. Typical luck.
And now his permanent thirty-year-old appearance made him the exact right age to be named for the little twerp.
“No. It’s an old family name.” He tried to keep his voice light, but the annoyance must have come through because she grimaced in a self-aware way.
“Sorry. You must get that a lot.”
“Probably not as often as someone named Hamlet, but it happens.”
“I dated a guy named Mercutio once.” She twirled the champagne in her glass, her eyes sparkling more than the bubbles.
“Liar.”
“Does this look like the face of a woman who would lie to you, Holden Chancery?”
God, her voice would kill him. Low and husky, like a jazz singer he’d known in the ’20s who might have been better than Billie Holiday if she hadn’t…well. Heroin was a hell of a drug, and things hadn’t ended happily for her. Yet here was this beautiful creature standing next to him who sounded like she’d stepped right out of a speakeasy.
He must have waited too long to reply, because she returned her attention to the print, and her cheeks took on a rosy hue.
“What was that like?” She tilted her glass towards the art.
He followed her gaze to the portrait. It was a black-and-white nude like all the others, but the subject was much more familiar to Holden, since it was a photo of himself. He pretended to take a drink and contemplated the piece. He was damn near life size with it blown up so large. He wasn’t entirely naked. Robert had strategically hidden his manhood with artfully placed female hands.
Holden repressed a smile when Felicia’s pulse sped up again.
She liked it.
“It was unforgettable.” He relieved her of her empty glass and placed it along with his on the tray of a passing waiter. “And a little cold.”
Her laugh was nervous but edged with excitement.
“Someone bought it.” She pointed to the red dot beneath the information placard.
Sure. He’d bought it. Not out of any self-involvement or vanity, though Holden could admit he was plenty vain. He just didn’t need it hanging in MoMA or some millionaire’s living room. He would eventually drop out of the public eye when his eternal youth started to become too conspicuous, but he’d still want to call Manhattan
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