not,’ Florence agreed.
Cicely followed the Baroness through the house, throwing on a coat as she went, then out to the stable yard, where a double row of vacant stalls faced each other across time-worn flagstones. Her car stood to one side, the colour just evident under the brilliant moon.
‘And why so small?’ the Baroness demanded, picking up the conversation more or less where she’d left off. ‘A carriage should reflect a lady’s status. I had a beautiful black and gold landau once, drawn by a team of six greys …’
The Baroness continued her reminiscences, as Cicely started the car and drove out from the stable block and down the long curving avenue of intertwined beeches that hid the house from any curious gaze. Another mile and she was on the motorway, with her companion now silent as she watched the passing scenery and speaking only when they had stopped near to the old warehouse in which the club was being held. A sign in glaring red-orange neon above the doors proclaimed the name of the premises ‘Suzi’s’, while a painted board advertised the fetish vamp night that had drawn Cicely’s attention.
‘Rather common, is it not?’ the Baroness remarked as she climbed from the car. ‘But you’re sensible, of course. Nobody notices the occasional missing peasant, after all, but take somebody from even a moderately notable family and, oh, the fuss!’
‘I think it might be better if you didn’t refer to them as peasants,’ Cicely suggested.
‘But they are peasants,’ the Baroness pointed out as she made a disdainful inspection of a group of girls in nothing but fishnet tights and brightly coloured underwear, ‘although in my day –’
‘Oh shut up!’ Cicely said.
The Baroness gave her a haughty look but made no move towards reprisal. Neither drew comment at the door, where Cicely paid for two tickets, admitting them to a great square of open space, flickering with coloured lights and loud with music. The floor was already crowded, with dancers sporting a vast variety of styles: dour or flamboyant Goths in their black finery, role players and cosplayers, dominants and submissives, fetishists of every description.
‘Extraordinary!’ the Baroness remarked, her voice raised above the music. ‘Although I recall a ball at Chantilly, given by the last Condé …’
Cicely was not listening, but concentrating on the hunt. Some three hundred people were visible, one of whom would be giving up his, or her, blood, maybe more than one, especially if the Baroness chose to join the chase. It was never an easy choice, but always a thrilling one, while the occasional rejection only added to her hunger. The victim had to be pretty, fey and sufficiently dedicated to the vampire cult to allow Cicely to feed as they made love, something the presence of the Baroness made rather awkward.
‘Do you think, perhaps –’ she began, only to break off as she turned to discover that her companion was no longer with her. ‘Bother!’
Irritated, Cicely went in search of the Baroness, a task made harder by the jumping shadows and because well over half the guests at the club were dressed entirely in black. Climbing to a balcony, she scanned the throng in the main room over and again before moving on to the bar, then into a series of smaller rooms set aside for more intimate encounters. She found the Baroness in the very last, the darkest, the deepest within the labyrinthine warehouse, and what she saw made her gape in astonishment.
The room had been fitted out as if it were a medieval dungeon, with walls painted to resemble dripping grey-green stone and a single high window set with rusting iron bars. Against the far wall was a tall cross of heavy beams fitted with chains and leather straps, while other pieces of furniture intended to aid in restraint and punishment stood to the sides. A man was strapped to the cross, naked, his burly back and heavy buttocks criss-crossed with scarlet welts, while three others knelt on the floor, their faces pressed to the dirty concrete. Between them stood the Baroness, her thin lips set in a pleased smile as she employed a long single-tail whip with practised efficiency.
‘Ah, there you are, my dear,’ the Baroness said when she finally noticed Cicely. ‘I must say, this is tremendous fun! I had no idea modern people knew their place so well.’
‘They –’ Cicely began and thought better of it, breaking off as one of the men on the floor spoke up, addressing the Baroness.
‘Mistress, please, I beg you, just one kiss of your boots. I’ll do anything you want, anything you say!’
‘I want to please you, Mistress,’ another said, looking up with an expression of awe. ‘Make me your slave, Mistress, I beg you. I have no limits. You can do anything to me, anything!’
‘You see,’ the Baroness remarked to Cicely, ‘positively servile! Is it usually like this?’
‘Not for me,’ Cicely admitted, as the Baroness extended one booted foot from beneath her skirts to allow the man who’d asked the favour to plant a single kiss on the toe.
‘They recognise nobility, of course,’ the Baroness said as she began to flick her whip at the man on the cross, aiming between his legs to snap at the dangling testicles, ‘but, really, I haven’t had so much fun in years. You, peasant, you bleed well. My friend is a vampire. Let her feed.’
The man she’d addressed looked up doubtfully, his eyes moving first to the Baroness and then to Cicely, or, more precisely, to her chest. ‘Er …’ he began. ‘That’s not really my thing.’
‘Um …’ Cicely put in, but the man clearly assumed she was a role player.
‘You said you wished to serve me, did you not?’ the Baroness stated. ‘You said you would do anything to please me. Look on it as a test of your devotion.’
‘Yes, Mistress, but –’ the man began, only to be interrupted by another.
‘Your slut may feed from me, Mistress. I would be honoured.’
‘Slut?’ Cicely queried, but the man had already been sent in her direction with a well-aimed kick of the Baroness’ boot.
He stayed down, his head hung to the floor, exposing his neck, a sight too enticing to allow Cicely to hold back. She would have preferred a girl, or a younger, more virile man, but the victim she had been offered was well fed and sleek, which promised rich, nourishing blood, while it was impossible to deny that his craven submission had fired her lust. Sinking down, she took a firm hold across his back, pressed her open mouth to his neck and sank her fangs deep into his resilient flesh.
‘Jesus shit!’ he squealed, and tried to rise, but too late.
Cicely had him in her grip, too strong for any mere mortal to break, with her fangs sunk in deep and the blood already flowing into her mouth. As she’d hoped, it was thick and rich, sending her dizzy with pleasure as she swallowed and swallowed again, breaking off only with an effort. The man rolled back as she released her grip, to stare up at her, wide-eyed with horror, his gaze fixed to her open, bloody mouth as she wiped away a trickle of blood.
‘You fucking weirdo!’ he swore, and he scrabbled to his feet and fled the room.
‘He’ll report us,’ Cicely said.
‘You were only playing,’ the Baroness said blithely, ‘and, if we can whip them, why can’t we bite them? Tell me that, Miss Cicely St Cyr?’
‘True,’ Cicely admitted, ‘but please could
