long as he swore loyalty like the others.
Ben doesnât resent Reynauld. But heâs still close to Naylor, and that way danger lies. Benâs bad at spotting danger, though: he lives his life â if thatâs the word â on too much of a high. Ironically, these days heâs completely straight, chemically speaking. Psychotropic drugs donât work on vampires. He canât even get drunk â except on blood, of course.
Thatâs all thatâs left to him now: blood and sex.
2: Nine for the Nine Bright Shiners
âCome on. Oh, God, yes â come on!â
And I do. Like Iâm told. Filling her.
Sometimes I feel like all she wants of me is the gush of fluid, that Iâm nothing but a donor to her. Itâs the tiniest bit demoralising. I mean, donât get me wrong; I want this baby as much as Penny does. Iâm totally committed to the effort. Iâve given up coffee and alcohol and even fish, to my dismay â theyâre supposedly caked in pollutants that depress sperm count â and Iâve switched to boxer shorts instead of briefs to keep the Boys optimally cool. I take my mineral supplements: zinc and selenium and vitamin C. Itâs just as important to me as to her.
OK, so if Iâm honest it isnât. It couldnât be. Itâs all she thinks about these days. Sometimes I look at her and wonder how the dance-till-dawn party chick I first met turned into this macrobiotic-organic obsessive with the body honed by swimming and Pilates into a lean, mean, baby-bearing machine. Fitness is considered vital in the mum-to-be, these days, it turns out. No one just gets pregnant and carries on any more; it has to be conducted like a military campaign instead. Not that I object to a toned tum and a firm butt, obviously; itâs the look in her eyes that worries me, the way theyâre like holes going down into a big dark place. Whenever we meet someone with a pushchair she tries to hide it but I see. I can see her hunger.
* * *
I get called away from the table during a dinner the mayorâs hosting at his official residence. Itâs not a particularly formal do, luckily: just a Spanish business delegation and some potential local investors and a couple of members of the European Parliament. Not exactly exciting stuff, but not much potential for messing things up either; theyâre all happily chowing down so no oneâs going to miss me for a few minutes. Penny has turned up at the front gate, and security have rung through to me.
âItâs all right,â I tell them: âSheâs my wife.â And I bring her inside. Sheâs dressed up enough not to look out of place, thankfully, in a little cobalt-blue number Iâm rather fond of because of the cutaway back. âIs anything wrong?â I ask, drawing her into a corner of the hall, under a portrait of Gladstone. There are waiting staff at practically every corner so I keep my voice low. Itâs odd seeing your wife in a work context. Two halves of my brain are in collision.
âIâm ovulating, Richard.â
I try not to frown, though Iâm secretly exasperated. âCouldnât it wait?â
âWell, youâre not planning on coming home tonight, are you?â Thatâs true enough: with the mayoral elections coming up in a fortnight, once the guests are gone weâre all likely to be in a strategy meeting until the small hours. Iâm going to have to sleep over here or else Iâll get back home by taxi somewhere near 4 a.m., at a guess. âAnd I have to be up early tomorrow,â she continues, âto catch the train to my seminar.â
I nod reluctantly. Penny is a freelance consultant for the hotel industry and gives talks all over the country.
She switches tack, from rational argument to tease: âBet you canât guess what Iâm wearing under this dress.â Her eyes glitter and she moistens her lips with the tip of
Pierre V. Comtois, Charlie Krank, Nick Nacario