Carnival

“Of course.” And of course, the attempt itself could be nothing more than a smokescreen to justify tightening the leash. But that was Vincent’s department, not his.

He was still going to shave thin strips off Vincent.

The car ride was brief. It still amused Kusanagi-Jones that the automobile had to be putsomewhere when they arrived rather than vanishing in a blur of fogs. It was, in point of fact, too large to fit down the narrow alley that led to Pretoria house, and he and Miss Ouagadougou and Cathay disembarked at the bottom of the street so the driver could take it away. Cathay, he noticed, stuck as close to his side as he would have stuck to Vincent’s, shielding him with her body.

He’d expected Lesa Pretoria. The young woman who waited at the top of the stairs looked tolerably like her, but younger and softer around the eyes. “Katya Pretoria,” she said, beckoning. She didn’t step out into the sun, and Kusanagi-Jones didn’t blame her. The brief walk from car to porch was enough to make his skin sting. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Miss Kusanagi-Jones. Your partner’s being seen to—”

“Vincent wasn’t injured?”

“He just got a little too much sun,” she assured, extending her hand. Kusanagi-Jones brushed his wrist to dial his wardrobe down and accepted the handshake as he crested the stairs. She pulled him up the last step easily. He wasn’t tall, but he weighed more than he seemed to and probably had twenty kilograms on her. She braced to take the weight, but didn’t grunt. “You can speak with him as soon as he’s out of the shower.”

“Sorry to be so early to dinner.”

Her smile broadened, unmistakably flirtatious. Miss Ouagadougou cleared her throat from the bottom of the steps, but Katya ignored it. “It’s good to have fluid plans, don’t you think? Miss Ouagadougou, thank you for a safe delivery. We’ll have him home in time for the ceremony tomorrow, I promise.”

And before the historian could quite answer, Katya took Kusanagi-Jones’s wrist and drew him into the house, security following. As soon as they were inside, though, Kusanagi-Jones stepped away from her to get a sense of the space. The house was cool inside, shadowed by the broad verandas and rich with breezes. “How much seeing to did Vincent require?”

“Miss Katherinessen has made himself quite at home,” she said, and the grin turned into a wink. “One of the senior males is seeing to him. He’s in good hands.”

Kusanagi-Jones snorted. He let a little jealousy show. It couldn’t hurt, and it was easy enough to feel jealous of Vincent. He had a way of getting what he wanted, after all. “The question is, is your male safe at Vincent’s hands?”

“Robert’s my sire,” she said. “He’s safe most places. He’s a three-time Trial champion, all city, and before he retired he was third overall.”

A gleam of pride reflected through her voice. He wasn’t likely to forget the Trials quickly. And he remembered Robert from the docks, and Robert had had scars. And had been beautiful and dark.

Just to Vincent’s taste.

But interesting, that pride. My sire. A young woman proud of her father, even here. He supposed just because you kept someone as chattel, it didn’t mean you didn’t care for him. Especially if you thought it was for his own good. “Well, I hope he’s not driven to defend his honor at Vincent’s expense,” he joked, waiting for her response.

Which was a chuckle. “Don’t you envy him that? That sense of…entitlement?”

She’d picked that up on a moment’s acquaintance, had she? Kusanagi-Jones snorted hard enough that it stung. “Envy Vincent? Not the entitlement. Sometimes maybe the privilege that produced it. Trying to drive a wedge between us, Miss Pretoria?”

“Of course not,” she said, maintaining a perfect deadpan. “That’s what they hired my mother for.”

11

AFTER THE SHOWER, VINCENT LET ROBERT SMEAR HIS BACK with a gelatinous yellow substance that stung and soothed, and smelled of cucumbers and mint. He could have pulled up a license, but there was no reason to give away more of the capabilities of his wardrobe than he needed to. Robert worked steadily and quickly, and when he was done and Vincent summoned a new outfit from his wardrobe, he made sure he programmed it not to absorb the gel. It slid and stuck, but it did help. He turned back and offered his hand to Robert for yet another of the endless New Amazonian handshakes. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome,” Robert answered. His clasp was firm.

Vincent was unsurprised to feel the edged corners of a chip pressed into his palm as he dropped his hand, and he cupped his fingers slightly to hold it. The outfit he’d chosen had pockets suitable for the nonchalant shoving of hands, so he did.

“Your partner’s arrived,” Robert said. “Shall we meet him?”

Vincent’s wardrobe dried the water from his braids and tidied his hair. He took a breath and drew himself up, the carpetplant cool under the soles of his feet.