Hot Blooded

basement.
    Bastien looked down at Mariann, now metaphorically dead to the world. He
doubted she'd enjoy waking up covered in cobwebs… or being spotted by a
contractor.
    His bleary mind saw only one solution. As quickly as he could, he rolled her
in an area rug, yanked on his clothes and tossed a blanket over his head.
Carrying her fireman style, he ran across the grounds and through the woods to
his residence.
    This would have gone smoothly except for the fact that, midway through his
mad dash, Mariann woke and began to scream. He had to use his mind-voice to keep
her from alerting any early dog walkers who might be out.
    When he unrolled her at the bottom of the hidden steps, she stumbled like a
drunkard. She wagged a finger unsteadily.
    "A secret passage," she said, "connecting the inn to here, might not be out
of place."
    Bastien caught her elbow as she swayed. "Emile and I are still debating that.
We're not sure we want to risk the possibility of a human guest accidentally
finding the door. A single entrance is easier to guard."
    "Fine," she said, bending to collect his blanket, "Let your girlfriend burn
up."
    Her irritation pleased him. They were squabbling like a real couple. He had
to wipe off his smile when she snapped around. This time her accusing finger was
completely straight.
    "You spoke in my head."
    "That I did."
    Her eyes narrowed as she tucked the blanket beneath her arms. "Next time you
do it, try saying something nicer than 'shut up.' "
    "I will, love," he promised. "Any time you like."
    He steered her toward the great room, hoping to grab a glass of sustenance
before bed. They'd both wake happier if they weren't starved.
    "Wait till you see this," he said, looking forward to her response. "I think
it will reassure you we aren't stuck in the Victorian age."
    Apart from its dome construction, the design of their largest room was
classic Frank Lloyd Wright: stone floors, substantial leather furniture, lots of
simply finished solid wood. Lush potted palms made up for the lack of windows.
Discreetly screened, the refrigerated walk-in could store a year's supply of
blood. The true pièce de résistance, however, was the wide screen, wafer-thin
plasma TV.
    Like their human counterparts, Bastien and Emile had been helpless before its
siren call.
    From the sound of things, Bastien assumed Emile had forgotten to shut it off.
    This turned out not to be the case. "Perfect timing," Emile exclaimed,
surprising them both as they walked in. "I've got something you'll want to
watch."
    BASTIEN'S friend sprawled in the corner of a cavernous leather sofa,
shirtless but clad in his usual faded jeans. In the light from the nearest
Tiffany lamp, he looked as fresh as a daisy—not what Mariann expected in a
subordinate vampire after sunrise. Seeing him so casual and assured, the thought
came to her that he might not be Bastien's junior in power by much. Maybe he
deferred to Bastien because he would rather his friend be in charge.
    By contrast, Bastien looked slightly haggard as he plopped beside him.
"You're sure whatever this is can't wait?"
    Emile's grin was devilish. "If you don't watch now, you'll miss it. You see,
while you two lovebirds have been shagging each other senseless—congratulations,
by the way—yours truly has been a busy boy.
En voilà
." He pushed a
button on the remote. "It's time to see my work bear fruit."
    The opening credits to
Cooking with Arabella
appeared on the screen:
Arabella dazzling her numerous male guests, Arabella making sultry faces while
she licked her finger, Arabella wiggling her curvy butt as she served a gooey
slice of Vermont Mountain Fudge Cake.
    The reminder of her perfidy was more than Mariann could stand.
    "Crap," she said and turned to walk out the door.
    Emile caught her wrist before she could. "No, no," he said. "Trust me. You're
going to enjoy this show. It's very special and very 'live.' "
    "What did you do?" Bastien demanded as Mariann allowed herself to be coaxed
onto the couch between them. Big as it was, both men contrived to bump her
knees.
    "Do? Well…" Emile laid one finger along his cheek. "I might have paid the
divine Arabella a visit after I traced her licence by hacking into the DMV. I
might have bitten her and, yes, it's possible that, in passing, I could have
mentioned it would be nice if she confessed her thefts and—just in general—told
the truth."
    "You thralled a