Ivan Press

Ivan

Holiday season. Which for creatures such as these means something different from the usual. They have no turkey-flavored family gatherings to go to. They have no gifts under a tree. They have no family, really. Ivan has blood relatives with whom he has almost no relationship. Hilary has no one. Well. No. That's not true. They have family. He's in Novgorod. Neither of them speak of Anton, though, not after that meeting in early November where all they spoke about was Anton. That was enough. Enough for half a year. Enough for the rest of their lives, perhaps.

Anyway: it is the holiday season, which for them means something different. Thanksgiving comes and they're not carving turkey. They're not even in the country. They're somewhere overseas, some Russian gastronomical festival Monaco that he talked about it once. And now they're here, and the truth is

she doesn't really like Russian food and he doesn't really care at all. He just likes to travel with her. He likes the distance and the anonymity of it, which gives them room to be a little closer. He likes that she sleeps in the same bed as him. He likes that they can live together for a few days. He likes, too, that living together paradoxically allows them to be apart with less drama, less grief, less insecurity on his part.

Sometimes she's with him. Sometimes she's not. It doesn't seem to matter. He's happy there. He buys her useless little trinkets. Remembrances that both of them forget about. He spends most of his waking time in the casinos, at the beach. Some pretty young thing catches his eye; he saw her looking and he felt the stirring in his own mind: hm, the consideration, why not? the decision, but

then he walked over and she smiled and told him her name and

there was no distance in her, there was no darkness in her eyes, he felt nothing for her. He excuses himself. He goes back to his room. His bizarre lover isn't back yet so he waits for her. When she comes home, he doesn't ask where she'd been. He might be drunk. There's cognac on the sidetable and the lights are almost all off. His shirt is undone and his tie gone. He draws her into his arms, draws her into his lap where he sits. The last lamp goes dark. His body is hard and lean and warm. He holds her for a while; he'd know her even if he couldn't see her, couldn't smell her, even if every last sense was gone.

Then he lays her out on the bed, rails her until her cries tattoo themselves in his skin.

Mine, he called her, later, and wondered if she knew how much he was hers in turn.

Then a few weeks when they didn't even see each other. Most of December passes with little remark. He actually visits his parents at one point. He has little to say to them. They want to make sure he has enough to spend. They want to see pictures of Anton. They are curious about the mother, and he keeps his mouth shut. His greatuncle, they say, wants to know if Anton is born true. He gives noncommittal answers and escapes back to Chicago.

He runs into Hilary once at the country club, which neither of them really go to often now, especially off-season as it is. They are civil and polite and they have their own circles of friends, so they interact rather little. The winter has been uncommonly mild. There is no snow on the ground, no ice on the lake. He could take Krasota out if he really wanted to, but he doesn't. The days go by. He misses summer.

Meanwhile at the lake cabin there were hammers and chainsaws, drills and jackhammers, the din was awful, he didn't even go to the lakehouse. Eventually the work finishes and Hilary gets a call. He picks her up under her city apartment and they drive out together in one of his gaudy cars that she hates.

There is a small elevator in the cabin now. It's a ridiculous expense for such a small space, but the point is: there's a keycard reader in the elevator, and Hilary holds the only key. There's nothing but space up above where the elevator opens. Ivan leans against the wall and watches her explore with a small, lopsided smile: the barre, the floors, the space and acoustics, the light. There's a moment when she stands silhouetted in front of the endless glass windows, the shades drawn up, her body slender, imbued with such unconscious poise that he aches.

He mentions, as they descend again, that he's having a party at his penthouse in a week. A Christmas sort of thing, he says. Evening attire, very proper. He would be pleased if she'd come.

The tree is almost as tall as the ceiling in his grand living room. His guests are all in black and white and the occasional, bloody red. There are caterers and fine china, there's silver everywhere, there's a live orchestra playing jazzy danceables, the young vampire that came last time is nowhere to be seen but

everyone else is familiar, they think they might recognize one another but they aren't sure.

At least they leave Russia. But then: Russian food everywhere. It's hard not to think about Anton in all that. Hilary is sullen much of trip. He hates her for it at times, the way she stares out the window and either ignores him or looks irritated when he speaks to her. Sometimes he realizes why she is so resistant, why she barely eats the food, why she goes quiet and dark and untouchable, far away where he can neither comfort her nor even argue with her moods.

On the holiday itself, she drinks wine until he all but carries her back to their suite. He has never seen her drunk, smashed, so far gone like this. She does not weep. She does vomit, discreetly and with the bathroom door locked even though such a thing means nothing to a Ragabash. She is angry afterward, picking a fight with him out of sheer embarrassment, til he holds her down against the cool tile and sees how she turns her cheek to the floor, closing her eyes as though, finally,

he has managed to comfort her.

They don't fuck that night. He takes her to the shower and they laze on the floor as the water rushes over them from multiple, rain-like spouts. He holds her from behind as though they are in a bath. His head rests beside her head. She holds his hand.

It doesn't last; can't last, with her. But after that she's less distant, less horrible to him. He has her again, as much as he ever does, and discovers that not only does she pick up the rules of poker quickly, she has a remarkable face for it. However, she can't bluff. She doesn't seem to grasp it. She does well when she switches tables and dealers often, but she grows bored of it quickly. She gives Ivan her winnings because she doesn't even want to bother cashing the chips in before going upstairs, and he buys her presents. He stays in the casinos and has things couriered to her right away: a bracelet, a bottle of champagne, whatever he can get someone to take to her before

it bores him to do so. He gambles and he drinks and he moves from casino to casino, bar to bar. He is quite far gone by the time he looks at that pretty young thing who barely speaks any English at all and considers, hm. maybe. and decides in the end

no. nothing.

But Hilary isn't back at their suite. There are gifts: some opened, some waiting downstairs with the concierge. She grew sick of the interruptions, the packages, Ivan's absence, and she left. She went to dinner. She got someone to drive her around. She grew angrier and angrier the longer she went, lonely and enraged to the point of vengeful,

and when she returned, he was sitting in the dark with cognac and reaching for her. She almost slapped him. Shoved at his hands and, were she more of an animal and less of whatever she is, she might have snarled. That bracelet on her wrists, the one he just gave her for no goddamn reason, rather cheap by their standards, dangling off of her skin even as she was pushing him away, snapping at him to let go, he stunk of smoke.

Ivan does not rail her that night, can barely contain his own anger at her, the bewildering mess of it all as things so often are with her, spends part of his night sitting there, staring at her where she sleeps -- when she finally sleeps. In the end the choice is to stay awake and alone, or go back out into the city with the revelers and the pretty young meaningless things, or

enter oblivion, and at least be with her there. It is not much of a choice. He doesn't undress. He holds her because now she is asleep and she lets him. He puts his hand around her wrist, which is still wearing that goddamn bracelet, and none of this is happy, or pleasant, or good, but in the moment -- in those moments when it is all happening -- it seems so worth it. Mine, he calls her, whether aloud or in his thoughts as he forgives her (and, perhaps bizarrely, feels forgiven) and sleeps beside her that night.

Yours, he never thinks, never verbalizes, never tells her. Never confesses, as though this is the one unforgivable sin he could commit.

Weeks pass when they return to the States. He tells her via a short text that he is going to visit his parents. She acknowledges it without fanfare or investment: Enjoy. He doesn't mention their interest in his son; Ivan knows better than to bring it up. Still, there is that question hanging over them, the one she never answered: whether to undo it all. Tell the servants the truth. Let Anton grow up knowing that he has a mother, that he was born a bastard and in scandal, that his mother does not love him only because she is incapable of what love really is. Let Anton grow up knowing that the most he could ever have from either parent is a shadow of fondness, dim in comparison to the devotion of his own trio, which itself is nothing compared to what being loved by your mother and father would feel like.

Hilary has not told Ivan whether or not she would like to go that way. They still have time. She is still thinking it over. She still learns Russian.

She is at the club that cold wintry day for a charity event she was invited to and, at the last moment, felt like attending to stave off her draining boredom. She ignores him for the most part; he is with the sons and the young business partners of the husbands, or he is charming young ladies. She is transitioning to spending more time with the women her age who are divorced, or widowed, but she is one of the only ones who is childless. They all pity her. She entertains herself with thoughts of what they would look like with their skin peeled off. Layer by layer. Each picture becomes redder and bloodier than the last. Eyeballs bulge. Hilary sips her spiked cocoa. Ivan glances at her across the room, thinks of the cabin and the renovations being done there.

Some time later, a week or so, he gives her a call. Not a text. He tells her when to be ready and to pack for three days, which is his standard by now -- even if she only spends a single night with him, or a few hours. She responds well to the directness of the instruction; she always does. And her jaw is clenched during that irritating ride in that ridiculous vehicle, but soon enough she can recognize where he's taking her. She settles a bit.

Standing outside on the gravel, she looks at the cabin and she doesn't like that it's so big now, it's harder to hide in the trees, especially bare as they are. She doesn't like that it's so very tall, she doesn't like that it's so cold, she hates that car, and though she's sullen and silent again, there's almost a vulnerability to it, a wariness, and he notices. Ivan notices it, so he comes at her gently. He speaks quietly, guides her carefully, even not knowing what the fuck is wrong with her, why she's acting like this, why she's drawing into herself, because

he knows what a wounded animal looks like. And she is his. Despite everything, she is.

He's so pleased, all the same, to draw her coat off her arms and take her bag to set it aside. He's so happy to take her to the elevator and make her a present out of the key card, wrapped in a little box with a bow, even. For his trouble he gets a half-curious flick of her eyebrow. He waits outside the elevator at first til she gets a stricken look, holds the door, asks him if he's not coming. Then he steps in after her, and she holds his hand, and the doors open onto the ballet studio he built for her.

Considering that as cabins go, theirs is miniscule, taking up nearly the entire footprint for the studio gives her a rather large one. Even with the day gray outside it's bright in here, and that's because of some very particular lighting installed along the edges of the ceiling. He watches her step out into it, stepping out of her heels. He watches her smooth her hand along the barre, which he was so careful about, he wanted it velvet to the touch, as though there were some chance she might get a splinter. He watches her test the springiness of the floor with a small bounce. He watches her, a shadow against the glass, and then

watches her pirouette, two, three times.

It aches too much to bear. So he shows her the controls for the shades, the lights, the sound system, the white noise filter, the call button to his servants if she should want for this or that and they can leave it at the door for her, like they do when they eat here. He shows her, holding her hand now, pointing things out while she's still in her stockings, and she's so quiet and unresponsive but he can feel her pleasure. She's pleased. It is good. It has been so fucking long since she showed him anything close to closeness or happiness or peace that it is euphoric. It is almost too much.

Hilary goes to her knees. He grips the barre behind him, gasping. He grips her hair in his hand, grunting as he starts fucking her mouth, short, hard thrusts that make him pant, make him aware with each slide into her that he can't last, it's been too long,

it's too much.

Later on, downstairs, he has her again on the bed. Pushes her legs open and up and fucks her again, hard this time, barely able to spare a thought to her pleasure, which, strangely, only increases her own. She's passive now, pliant now, submitting to him almost gently. Her orgasms are not any gentler than the way he fucks her, though. When it's over he turns her onto her stomach and takes her again, his body shaking, her body trembling, but he can't stop. This makes up for the last month. This makes up for something. Finally, after all that, they're close again.

He holds her against his chest, both their clothes still half on and thoroughly rumpled, his hands locked around her wrists, and snarls in his sleep if she so much as moves. She feels loved. She feels adored. She feels safe, even if it is such a fleeting thing that she hardly trusts it.

A Christmas party, he tells her, stroking her nipple later on, idly and with no real purpose or goal in mind. She says perhaps, and because it is only dawn then, they sleep again, Ivan holding her in his arms and under his leg and keeping her in place as though she might dare to try to escape him. As though that is even remotely close to what she wants.

Christmas, or a night close enough to it. Her car arrives downstairs, Carlisle at the wheel, Darya in the passenger seat. It's already been arranged. Though it's been months, Ivan's staff knows now that Darya generally travels with Hilary if there is a chance that Ms. de Broqueville will be staying over. Miranda and Max are quite familiar with each other by now. They despise each other, though it is a loathing born of intense mutual respect. Ivan's servants feel great swells of pity for Darya on both a personal and professional level, which makes her quite uncomfortable. Carlisle gets along with everyone, or tries, which sometimes makes him get along with them less.

Hilary, allowed into the elevator and taken up to the penthouse, is dressed in green. The dress forms to her body, a haltered top with a bodice accented with a sharp, crisp fold along the neckline. Other than that, she is in gold. Her dangling earrings, her wristful of bangles. Her neck is bare. Her heels are black. Her hair is swept and held to the side, cascading in curls in front of one shoulder. It makes her look slightly younger than she is. She has no bag, because everything she might carry in one is with Darya, who is as unseen and unheard as any of Ivan's own staff.

Walking past a servant, Hilary plucks a small skewer of some delicacy off a platter and bites it between her teeth, sliding it off the skewer as she walks. Eyes follow her.

True happiness with Hilary is almost nonexistent. He's seen her happy once. Perhaps twice. He's felt happy with her - well; more than that. But it's so fragile, every time, and half the time he was with her in Monaco he very nearly hated her, could not understand her, did not understand why she was the way she was. Hey Hilary, he would have asked her once, only not quite like this, why are you such a soulless bitch?

He doesn't ask her now. He showers silly little gifts on her to make up for the time they don't spend together because if they spent it together one or the other would try to maul the other, would try to tear the other into bloody little ribbons with their words. He feels a little like Dion when he does that, and he hates himself a little when he does that. He watches her when she sleeps, though; watches over her, and then gets in beside her, and holds her because

these are some of the few times when she'll let him.

Sometimes now he snarls in his sleep when she stirs from him. Sometimes he snarls in his sleep against whatever demons or forces he imagines might try to take her away. Mine, his teeth tell the world. Mine mine mine mine mine.

It is Christmas, or close enough not to matter. The last time Hilary was here - the last time she was here during one of Ivan's mythological parties, anyway - the penthouse was the veritable cradle of sin. Tonight it's so different. A ridiculously large tree decorates the corner of the living room; god only knows how it was moved in. It burns with lights, brilliant and white. There are so many presents piled beneath that even its massive circumference can't quite cover them all. Everyone looks respectable. The music is respectable. The conversation is civil. There are children running about, toys and games for them to play.

Eyes still follow Hilary. She is one of the few unaccompanied women, at least in her age bracket. She is one of the only ones in green, because black and white are so much more classical, and red is so much more Christmas. She is also the only one that makes some guts turn over in uneasy instinctive recognition. The only one that makes some guests in the crowds wonder:

is she?
couldn't be.

Her teeth are white and fine. She is no wolf, but she is not quite human, either. Some delicacy, some shrimp or scallop or chunk of lobster vanishes behind her lipstick. A man is staring at her across the room, young and squarejawed, his girlfriend clinging to his arm.

Ivan is out on the terrace. He has a glass of wine in hand, and he is with a group of men some fifteen or twenty years his senior. These men, at least, were not there at Halloween. They are talking about politics, the primaries, those goddamn rednecks, don't they know Santorum and Gingrich are not electable. Ivan is bored out of his mind, and when a flash of green catches his eye he stares, too, he watches her like an animal, unashamed of his regard.

It's one of his dull companions that calls out to Hilary, though. He recognizes her; he's played a round or two of golf with her soon-to-be-ex-husband. He is too polite, too well-mannered to give any hint that he's heard the gossip through his trophy of a wife, and he holds out both hands to greet her, Mrs. Durante, mimes a kiss to her cheek. I had no idea, he jibes at Ivan, that you kept such charming company.

And Ivan, smiling, says something about his father knowing her husband; they're family friends, you see, and he's delighted to entertain Mrs. Durante on the few occasions when her husband is unavailable.

Children. Hilary is a bit shocked and a bit appalled to see them, scampering about in their party clothes, herded by nannies who are just grateful to be here and dressed just enough less prettily than their employers to show their real status. She observes them with cold, dark eyes for a little while, staring, listening to the classical carols being very discreetly played by a string quartet. The last time she was here, she dressed according to the rules of the night: black and white, silver at most. Tonight, though Ivan gave his guests no rules for their attire other than a generality, she stands out. People are afraid to wear red unless it's a holiday, so they save it for parties like this.

Hilary, though, in emerald. She walks across the floor and gets a glass of champagne as well. She doesn't recognize the square-jawed man. He is telling himself it can't be. He wasn't dating Phoebe then. Not that it matters. God. What the hell did he take that night? He gulps his champagne. Phoebe asks him if he's all right. Hilary catches a glimpse of Ivan out on the terrace and, after meeting his eyes for a moment, ignores him as well.

Or does, until she hears her name. Well, her married name. Mrs. Durante, the older gentleman says, and she turns around and smoothly comes to say hello. The terrace is heated -- of course -- and her bare arms don't shiver just yet. She gives him a nod of recognition -- the gentleman, that is -- and her eyebrows lift when he calls her that, when they discuss how charming she is and that Ivan entertains her.

Quite bluntly, she simply says: "We're separated." And sips her champagne.

Surely before the separation, as Hilary terms it, she was a little more discreet. She played the role a little better. She kept her tennis appointments and made her rounds at the country club, the yacht club; she rubbed elbows with her old-money stratum that was just a little higher and a lot more subdued than Ivan's own flock of overprivileged profligates. Back then she may have never spoken so bluntly. Or perhaps she would have, only never had the chance. In any case --

In any case, there's a beat, just a second or two or startled silence. Everyone here is far too socially adept to let it go on very long. The man who greeted Hilary - what was his name? Richard something; DuMont or DuPont or DuFont - he's the first to laugh, laughs like it's a joke though it's not. He has enough money, enough status to dare: "And surely the bachelors of the North Shore will celebrate the news."

Two or three of the other conversants find reasons to wander off. They're not sure their status is secure enough to be associated with a potential walking scandal. Ivan watches them go, his mouth a sardonic half-smile. He sips his wine and looks at Hilary.

"Should I offer congratulations or commiserations?"

"For what?" Someone new, then, joining their circle. He is taller than Ivan, and broader. He keeps looking at Hilary's mouth, her chin, the lower half of her face. Her body, once or twice. His voice is passingly familiar. He thinks her voice is, too.

Christine told him. He remembers that now, Mr. DuMont or DuPont or DuFont. She fucking told him about the Durantes. It was horrendous, she said. First that husband of hers never so much as shows his face in the country, then he dumps her in Mexico for most of her pregnancy as though he's ashamed of her. She probably caught something down there, Christine thinks, ate or drank something wrong for her or something just went wrong, because that poor woman went through a stillbirth when she got back, and her husband wasn't even around. That close to her due date, you'd think the father would be attentive,

is what Christine said, fuming as she used a cotton ball soaked in a special oil to clean eyeshadow out of the creases in her eyelids. He remembers now, he was probably reading something, she was so annoyed and he simply did not have the patience to really listen to her. That's marriage, Mr. DuMontPontFont thinks: eventually you learn to sometimes just shut the hell up and let your wife talk, because she's going to talk whether you listen or not.

Christine, he remembers vaguely, did tell him that the lovely Mrs. Durante -- who is far more appealing to him even than some prettier, younger wives of other men for reasons he cannot put a finger on -- lost her child right at birth, that only about six months later, she and her husband separated. As though now was an acceptable time. Christine was horrified by the whole ordeal. Yet Mrs. Durante -- or whatever her maiden name is -- stands there, sipping champagne without ruffling, seemingly unoffended by the faux pas of his forgetfulness. Of course she's untouched by it; she has far more grace than he does.

Of course she does; she is a woman. That is what they do, isn't it? What they're for.

So he laughs, all but guffaws, tinged with unease at looking like a heel in front of his peers, even though he knows not a damn one of them knew about this, either. Something rolls out of his mouth; he barely pays attention to it, because he can get away with, essentially, anything. To the comment, one of Hilary's eyebrows gives a slight arch. She doesn't answer, but looks past all of them to a waiter, summoning him over with a flick of her finger and a glance. A few people take the chance to wander off: oh yes, food sounds lovely, real food, something... else.

Hilary takes another bite of food on a miniature skewer, lamb in some kind of light mint sauce. Food fit for adults is on picks made of glass, the grips shaped and dyed to look like mistletoe. There are other trays with tiny silver forks stuck into bites of things more suited to a child's palate (at least, a very privileged child's palate), and those are tipped with tiny holly berries. One of the party planners in Max's contact list is quite detailed like that.

Ivan speaks. She isn't looking at him at first, but she turns to him, skewer in hand, looking at him like he's just shit his pants in front of all of her grown-up friends and has the retarded immaturity to think it's cute. Whatever she might say to him, to Public-Him, is lost because someone else walks up. Tall, broad-shouldered, vaguely familiar. A bit overly familiar with the way he looks at her, all over her, like a caress.

"My impending divorce," she informs him, her voice level. The last time he saw her, she barely spoke at all to him. Used gesture and body language. Most of the times he heard her voice, it was caught up in screams, in gasps, in French, in sobs. But something about the twist of her mouth, the slope of her bared shoulders, the angles of her shoulderblades, the shape of her body,

instills in this man a fervent sense-memory, one that threatens the smoothness of his trousers, and he doesn't entirely know why that raw, animal response is being stirred in him

here and now.

Hilary takes her bite of food and licks a spot of mint sauce from the tip of her finger. Her eyes catch Ivan's for a moment on that. Just a moment, easy for anyone else but him to miss. She toys with the skewer afterward, the sharp point, the glass decoration that looks like something poisonous.

The truth is, the crowd at this party is not the usual crowd at Ivan's parties. A good portion of them are the Christmas crowd: the people he invites to his home once or twice a year because they're father's business partners, they're mother's oh-so-socially-appropriate friends, they're acquaintances of the family, of the all-important greatuncle and uncles and aunts in that branch of the family that makes all the decisions that keep everyone else living the way they're used to living.

Which is to say: the guests are older. They are more proper. They speak simply but with a great deal of control over every word; they know that it is not necessary to make a production just to make a point. They bring their wives and children, because of course it's Christmas, and the wives gather in their elegant dresses and their elegantly coiffed hair and discuss James's plans for college - Princeton, then, like his father? - and Rosemary's charity work with her preparatory school; one must be socially conscious, after all. Their children are little monsters, generally, but a shocking number of them are quite subtle about it. They smile like their mothers. They comment on how lovely so-and-so looks, how unusual and vintage her dress is, and what they mean is

where did she get it? the salvation army?

And then there are the others. The ones that come to his usual parties, the ones who come in short sparkling dresses and high heels, the ones who come in too-stylish ties and too-sharp suits. They're usually not invited to this sort of gathering. They were invited this time, very carefully invited, every last one of the Halloween guests

- except for the very last man to have his turn with Hilary. he's not invited. he'll never be invited to anything again, ever -

called back to this den of iniquity. A good number don't show up; come up with excuses not to come, are afraid of what they might see. The rest: they are, by and large, bewildered. They don't recognize these people, these guests. They don't recognize the way their host behaves. They don't recognize the music, the children, the delicate little hors d'oeuvres on their exquisite little spears.

They don't recognize the woman in the green dress. They couldn't possibly. It can't be.

It's a sort of Christmas gift to Hilary, this room full of guests. The people who have no idea what happened on Halloween, and the people who know all too well and can't imagine how or why or what this surreal, lingering half-recognition is. These people, these people who are all dull and narrow in their own ways, amongst whom she can say almost anything she likes, so long as she's a little bit subtle. Amongst whom she can do almost anything she wants, so long as she's a little bit discreet.

Their little circle changes. A few of the men leave. One approaches and wants to know what they're talking about. There's a moment when Ivan's eyes meet Hilary's. A thought unbidden: the way she looked that night, naked and poised as a queen on that stone table that has since disappeared from this place. The way she looked moments later, on all fours, quiescent, waiting, wet.

Divorce, Hilary says, and Ivan, who teeters between being Cyril-and-Kitty's charming son and the enfant terrible who will doubtlessly say something to disgrace his whole clan tonight, fills the ensuing moment so smoothly that no one even notices the pause.

"The two of you haven't met before, have you? This is my good friend Jonathan Carter. John is the best number four rider Barrington Hills has seen for years. John, may I present Ms. Hilary de Broqueville, an old friend of my family."

"Please," John says, laughing, "Chad's the real star. I'm just an amateur." He turns to Hilary, holds out his hand. "Ms. de Broqueville. What a pleasure."

Ivan tells a lot of lies in that little set of sentences. You haven't met before, when he knows damn well that he snarled at this man and insisted on unzipping Hilary's dress himself. Jonathan Carter recognizes Ivan. He knows what happened that night. He was right there at the start of it all. He was a part of the way it began, pressing his hardened cock against Hilary through her dress, whispering in her ear what he'd like to do to her. And Ivan, in his demonic mask, taking his turn first.

My good friend, he says. And obviously that isn't true. No one is Ivan's good friend.

an old friend of my family, he says to introduce her, and she is neither a friend of his family nor an old one, she is in between his age and his mother's age, and Cyril and Kitty only know her from gossip among their social circles and among the Silver Fangs themselves. If they have any thoughts about the soon-to-be ex-Mrs. Durante's pregnancy ending in stillbirth right around the same time as their son presenting his son that no one knew he was expecting, well

they know better than to say a goddamn word. Their stock rose considerably thanks to Ivan being born true. The great-uncle pays so much attention to their little family now. If Ivan would just cooperate and tell them who the mother is so they can track the child's genealogy and possible 'eccentricities' to expect, it would be most helpful in getting that ridiculous genealogical society of Fangs off their backs.

But Hilary is not their old family friend, and Hilary does not know them or care about them. She chews her little bite of lamb demurely, recognizing almost no one but realizing this man is at least passingly familiar. He was one of many. He did not matter. She was not really having sex with any of them, she was not with any of them. From the first moment, staring across the room at Ivan as Jonathan Carter murmured lust into her ear, she was only fucking the one person.

Jonathan, of course, who has gone about his life the past few months believing that the woman on the stone table was an incredibly expensive escort or paid submissive or something, is very smoothly dealing with his shock right now. But he doesn't realize that she was never, ever, fucking him. He may as well not have been there.

"You're quite large for an equestrian," Hilary comments, in such a tone that it could be an insult or a flirtation. She allows him to touch her hand, laying it atop his. "And how do you know Ivan here?"

Jonathan, who is John to his friends - such as they were - and sometimes Johnny in the evenings with a lovely lady but always Jonathan but morning again: Jonathan is the sort of supremely confident creature who would never hear such a thing as an insult. He's the sort of man who, once he gets over the initial moment of shock, takes the revelation of the woman in the white mask's identity as a sort of compliment. If she was not hired, if she was not bought, why then, she must have done what she did because she wanted him.

She bent over for him first, didn't she?

"I suspect that's why they put me on defense every time," Jonathan answers. "To intimidate the opposition."

Ivan's eyebrow flicks up; he says nothing, however.

"And, well, Ivan here," he favors his host with a gallant smile, "is a rather talented number-one. When he decides to join us on the field, that is."

"I didn't know you played, Ivan," Mr. DuMontPontFont says.

"Not often," Ivan admits, his smile a quick thing. He makes this sound like a joke, too, even though it's not, "The animals don't like me very much, I'm afraid."

Responding to an insult, veiled as it is, would be another faux pas in this company. Even if he heard it, which he refused to, it wouldn't matter. He recognizes her now, is becoming more and more certain by the second that it's her, that this woman in green is the woman he railed in front of a roomful of partygoers, panting and grunting as he spent himself in her. He's never had sex like that before. He never will again. None of them will.

Ivan's eyebrow flicks up at the comment about opposition. Hilary smirks, sipping champagne. Her eyes shift to her paramour as Jonathan lavishes a compliment on him, vaguely surprised. "That's surprising," she says when he mentions the animals who don't like him. "Submissive animals like that usually respond well to a firm hand."

Something about that comment is just a little out of the bounds of polite conversation. If one is listening for such things, anyway - which both of the younger men in this little crowd are.

Which is changing moment by moment. The politically-minded older men are wandering off one by one. They see someone they recognize. They go to refill their drinks. DuMont is one of the last to go, excusing himself with a warm smile, a polite hand on Hilary's shoulder. Then it's just Ivan and Jonathan and Hilary, a tension-laced triumvirate of sly, mutual recognition.

Discussing horses. And submission. Something like that.

"Maybe that's what I'm doing wrong," Ivan muses.

"You should try using the crop," Jonathan advises, which makes a smirk course across Ivan's face, there and then gone.

"So I've been told," he replies evenly, and this is when

the square-jawed young man with the nice arms and the girlfriend wanders by, sans girlfriend now, carrying a glass of some light alcohol or other in his hand. He joins their little circle, smiling a hello to Ivan, shaking hands briefly with Jonathan, turning to Hilary. His eyes are a question, and so is his tone.

"Miss," he greets her, his hand out for hers, "I don't believe we've met?"

Submissive animals. A firm hand.

Jonathan is remembering watching Ivan fuck her now, wearing that red mask, snarling at her, no longer a lean number-one rider that startles the animals but a demon, a monster, something bestial. He was curious about coming back here for this party, hearing everyone at the club talk about it, hearing friends in low places talk about it as well. He didn't expect it to be another bacchanal, but then -- he didn't expect to see her here.

Mrs. Durante. Ms. de Broqueville. Maybe if he's discreet she'll let him fuck her again. He doesn't quite follow that thought to the darker, slavering one behind it, but it's there: maybe if he promises not to tell, maybe if she knows what's good for her, she'll shut up if he fucks her again. Jonathan doesn't realize that one corrupt, wretched impulse feeds the other, is the source and termination of it, a snake eating its own tail. The Wyrm, like the evils of men's souls, is subtle about its influence.

She makes a comment that makes people wonder, but she says it innocently, slyly, and the older folks are walking away and the younger ones who don't know more about her think it's racy and therefore less boring than other conversations.

If she reacts to the mention of the crop, or Jonathan's suggestion, it doesn't show. They're talking about horses, after all. Another young man joins their party, and she greets him as blandly as anyone, not recognizing him. She didn't recognize Jonathan right away, either.

"De Broqueville," she fills in. "Likely not. Mr. Press has been remiss in inviting me to his little parties. Perhaps I'm too old and boring for his flashy young friends." A smile. "And you are?"

Of course she doesn't recognize him. She was on god knows what that night. They were masked. It was dark. She wasn't fucking any of them.

They recognize her, though. Or think they might. Think maybe. So many of them do - the guests that were here on Halloween - but so many of them convince themselves it's not possible; they're just forming associations because of the place, because of Ivan, because their subconscious minds remember what this place was like the last time they were here.

What it's really like, beneath this frosted surface of elegance and etiquette.

And the orchestra plays on, and his guests mingle and move about, and somewhere in the upstairs gallery people are discussing the art on his walls; in his library there's a business deal going down, billions of dollars settled casual as you please. Meanwhile out on the terrace, the heated terrace where even the heaters are a cut above - billowing columns of fire in glass, very artistic - another pretty young man, the sort Hilary likes. The sort Ivan handpicked for her that night, one after another, because

he knows what she likes.

He is looking at her, this young man who now has a girlfriend named Phoebe. He is looking at her keenly, questioningly, not quite sure but so close to it. He was so close to her, after all; he spent more time with her that night than anyone else except Ivan, his mouth on her breasts, his mouth on her neck as he fucked her, finally was allowed to fuck her; his eyes on her even afterward, watching her give herself to so many others, only she never really gave herself away at all.

Of all the men and women who were there that night, he is perhaps the one most aware of what a minor role they really played. Perhaps most aware of how thoroughly they were all used, in truth. He finds himself drifting into this woman's orbit all the same.

"I simply didn't want you to be shocked or appalled by our manners," Ivan replies, smiling. "This is Maximilian Grant, and he is, in fact, related to the general."

Max flushes. "Just Max." And after the slightest beat, almost certainly testing the waters, "Enchanté, mademoiselle."

"The great general's descendant," Jonathon says, something in his easy manner and light tone somehow aggressive, posturing, "maybe we should recruit him as a replacement number-one, Ivan."

Ivan's eyebrow flicks up again. He looks at Jonathon for a cool moment. "We'll run it by Chad. He's the only one who cares. In the meantime, why don't you run and get us all a drink, John."

They're trying so hard to keep their posturing low-key, all of them. Ivan, Jonathan, this... other one. He takes her hand, she lets him. He tries some French; she allows that as well. He thinks he's imagining things, wishing that whore into daily existence out of a mingling of fascination and fear. It would be horrifying and delectable, at once, if she were not just a prostitute but someone in their own circles, someone he might see, might know, might --

and here is where he is no better than Jonathan, no better than many

-- get to fuck again. Even if it meant nothing. Even if he's appalled at himself for thinking it, because he really likes Phoebe and she's kind of drunk and cloying right now but usually she's just great to be around, so smart, so much fun, athletic and endearing in bed, nuzzling him afterward, it's really pretty nice for only being in the first few months. Yet here he is, drawn to the woman in green because she might be, and he remembers that night as keenly as any nightmare he's just woken up from. He remembers how he felt trepidation and he felt desire and the latter won, when Ivan called him to lick this woman's breasts.

All three of them are at least a little on edge. Sniffing around her like animals. Hilary feigns obliviousness to it, though with her it might not be feigned. She senses that edge in Ivan, just as she senses that entitlement in John, senses that vague eagerness in Max. He takes her hand and he kisses her knuckles.

"Madame, s'il vous plaît," she tells him gently, because he is attempting to sound flirtatious and

she is shutting him down. Reminding him that by age her status is greater. That she has a special relationship with their host, who is so charming and yet reckless and has access to more money than many of his guests in a circle where money equals power. She reminds him of this distance between them, yet her tone is very nearly tender, almost a caress along his cheek.

"Oh, don't be petulant, Ivan," she chides him when he tries to send John off. "I'm sure you're a lovely horseman. And for all we know, Max here is terrified of horses." She flirts and she mocks in the same breath, changes her favor from man to man in eyeblinks. "Stay, John," she tells him, touching his elbow ever so briefly. "Drinks are what the staff is for."

All three of them are circling her, being a little less subtle about it with every passing moment. It began when she spoke of animals, submission -

except that's not the truth at all. It began when she walked in. It began when they saw her, dressed in the color of holly-leaves, hemlock, poison. It began when they recognized her, instantly in the case of the Ragabash, and with a slow, rising certainty in the case of the others. They came to her, drawn, sniffing around her proverbial skirts, wondering if she'll let them fuck her again, when, how.

The other men, anyway. Ivan: he's balanced on that fine edge again, between wanting her for himself and wanting her happiness. He's never quite sure what would make her happy. If she wants to be shared again like last time, only surreptitiously, in his room or one of the guest rooms, while the rest of his guests have their pleasant little holiday party. If she simply wants to tease, to taunt, to sidle out of grasp. Maybe she's proving a point. Maybe she's showing them how very not theirs she is, how very much she belongs to herself.

These are the things Ivan considers as she flirts and she mocks, as she calls him petulant, suggests Max might fear horses, tells John to stay. Ivan's eyes flash to Jonathan. John smirks, saying I defer to the lady, and Max meanwhile flushes a little redder. He is aware of his status here, which is somehow lower than the other males. He is younger, or at least he feels younger. Less experienced. He wasn't even sure he was allowed to touch this woman, that night. He's not sure, now that his vague attempt to figure out if this woman is really that woman from Halloween night -

she spoke French, that woman. It spilled out of her like wildfire when she was so far gone, she said such things, sometimes at night he still remembers the things she would say, the words, the things she asked for, the sounds

- has been answered with what amounts to a rather gentle setdown. He's nervous, too. He wonders where Phoebe is. He's not sure if he wants her to be here or not, and that bothers him.

Ivan, meanwhile, turns - snaps his fingers at the staff. Asks for drinks for everyone, whatever they want. An older couple strolls by, coming out onto the terrace for a breath of fresh air. They nod to Ivan; pleasantries are exchanged but Ivan, frankly, doesn't seem to want to talk. He turns back,

in time to see John cover Hilary's hand on his elbow. John smiles at her like they're sharing something, a common secret. He leans down a little.

"You know, I simply must ask. That night... it was you, wasn't it?"

Max holds his breath.

Jonathan thinks that if anyone is going to take this woman upstairs or down to his car or home or to a fine hotel tonight, it's him. Ivan is holding back, is so cool right now, and silly John has no way of knowing it's because Ivan is riding that edge, thinking about whether to take Hilary upstairs and watch while other men fuck her hard and sweaty into one of his guest beds or if he should snarl and bite her shoulder and mount her himself in front of them, show the other males whose bitch she really is. Max is thinking about Phoebe, and about the fact that it's wrong of him to even be over here, wrong of all of them to be sniffing up her skirt at this party.

As though to punctuate that reluctance, a child all but shrieks in laughter and catches themselves against the glass wall, leaving handprints a servant will have to clean, and the child behind them tags them and they run off again, which they shouldn't be doing inside, dashing around the legs of adults like this, but there they go.

Hilary glances over at those children, her eyes dark and heartless, while Ivan thinks and Max hesitates and John remembers how fucking wet she gets.

As Jonathan puts his hand over hers, it's already slipping away, a glancing touch no more lasting than a sigh. Hilary is setting her half-drunk champagne on the tray and informing the waitress that she wants a scotch, neat. The waitress asks what kind of scotch and Hilary gives her a blank look, so Ivan fills in a label. Hilary, for what it's worth, does not bother to be embarrassed.

Jonathan leans closer to Hilary, murmurs a question to her, and Max holds his breath, and

the look Hilary gives Jonathan is even more blank and empty than the one she gave to the waitress just now. She gives him a single blink. Slowly, her head tips, and she stares at him. "What night?"

That makes Jonathan a little angry. Ivan can see it, and Max too, even if Hilary cannot. Who does she think she is? He knows it was her. He knows her mouth. He knows her eyes. He knows her body. He knows the way Ivan stands near her, cool and collected tonight but still near her. He's sour for a moment, his brow darkening. Then he tilts his head, smiling with his skin.

"Halloween," he says simply.

"I don't think it was her," Max says nervously. He glances over his shoulder. There's Phoebe, inside, talking to one of the wives-and-mothers. He doesn't go to her, though. He turns back - looks at Ivan for confirmation. He's hoping it wasn't her, it's all in his head, it's just his imagination. It would be easier for him, all of this, if he knew for sure that it wasn't her. "Right?"

Ivan shrugs, smooth and subtle. "I'm afraid," he says lazily, "you've both lost me. I have no idea what you're talking about." Everyone's looking at each other, but his eyes seek out Hilary's. He's asking them all, but he's really asking her. "I'm tired of the terrace. Do you want to go somewhere else?"

Halloween. The look on Hilary's face doesn't change. She gives a slow blink. Max tries to play it off, it wasn't her, he looks to Ivan, and by then Ivan is tired of this and Hilary is annoyed as she would be if she genuinely did not know what was going on and these three men were having a side conversation right in front of her.

Yet there's this: that coldness in her eyes, as dark and lightless as places underwater where the sun can't reach, which is not a warning but almost a challenge to Jonathan: try it, she seems to say. Try to blackmail her, try to shame her, try to start a scandal. There is something to be said for a woman who has survived -- not intact, not with sanity and security remaining but survived -- the death of her parents, her brother, her only servants and only links to her past, her first mate, her second, her child.

For perhaps the first time ever, Ivan sees in her the capacity to destroy another person... and it not be a simple byproduct of who she is and what she is like, but the result of calculated, focused effort.

That is just a glimpse though, a dare to Jonathan to try and prove to anyone that Halloween even happened, much less that it was this woman. All she says, however, is: "Well, now I'm terribly curious about your Halloween parties, Ivan." A light laugh. She has nothing to drink now, so she doesn't follow her effervescence with a sip.

Ivan is bored of the terrace. "I am getting chilled," is all she says, which isn't a real opinion.

It's hard to mistake that challenge in Hilary's eyes. It reminds Ivan, curiously, of what he saw there the first time he followed her down from the vip lounge, down into the stairwell where he kissed her the first time. It's nothing like the look in her eyes then, but then that's the point. This is not a challenge that can be mistaken for a sort of invitation.

It's possible, though, that Jonathan reads it that way anyway. He's that kind of man. He thinks she's that kind of woman. He thinks if anyone gets to have her first tonight it'll be him. If anyone gets to have her at all, it'll be him. So he meets her eyes and meanwhile drinks are being delivered, Max is thanking the servant and Ivan is sipping his ice-cold vodka,

how very archetypical of him,

with his eyes narrowed against the alcohol fumes. Or simply narrowed, watching Hilary and this man that thinks he has a right to her. Later he asks, sounding bored, if she wants to go in. She answers that she's getting chilled. Max, because he's that sort of man, starts to take his coat off for her

and John puts his arm around her shoulders.

"Why don't we go upstairs," he says. "It's quieter. Ivan - it's been nice catching up. I'll make sure I see you before I take off, all right?"

There's a tension here between the four of them, and within the four of them. For Hilary, there is the concern of the crowd around them. There's Ivan. There's lust. There's the chill on her arms, which is quite real. She lifts her eyebrows at Jonathan as he reaches for her, and though she does not lift his arm away from her shoulders or shrug him off or step away, she looks to Ivan and says simply:

"I see what you mean," as though Jonathan isn't there, "about the manners."

Then she steps away. And crosses to Max, allowing him to drape his coat over her shoulders. "Merci, Maximilian," she says.

Jonathan, thwarted, lowers his head and huffs a dry laugh. His hands rest briefly at his hips. Then he raises his head, smiling in a way that suggests good humor; surrender that's just a touch patronizing.

"All right," he says, "a gentleman knows when to fold his hand. But please. Let me give you my number, at least. In case you're ever in want of entertainment."

He's starting to reach into his breast pocket when Ivan lays his hand on his wrist. It is far gentler than the way he grabbed Jonathan's wrist two months ago on Halloween, when he wanted very much to twist until something broke. Still, something of the same flavor there. The same hard look in his eyes.

"John," he says, "let it go."

When he turns away, his hand is briefly on Hilary's back. One of the women standing just inside the door sees, perhaps notes it, but it's such a transient contact, so soon falling away. Ivan closes the door almost all the way behind him, dividing terrace from interior. It is no longer cold in here, but Max is too polite to ask for his jacket back. He doesn't want it back either, just as - after a glance toward Phoebe - he doesn't want to go back to the nice girl that he really does like very much. Not yet.

She could use the skewer on his eyes, but then she'd lose the satisfaction of digging her fingernails into the sockets, yanking them out by force.

Hilary is all but staring Jonathan down, repulsed by his inability to see reality, and Ivan and Max both hear her faint ugh when he mentions 'entertainment'. With that, she slips Max's newly-acquired coat off her shoulders and hands it to him, even as Ivan is informing John to Let It Go. "If you'll excuse me," she says, but she's already walking away, going back indoors, leaving the hopeful but wayward Max and the man who does not recognize that his wants instill no sense of obligation in the universe -- or anyone else -- behind her. She leaves Ivan, too, though,

but he's there again, an eyeblink later, his hand touching her back. It falls. She's still walking. Til, of course, a little boy bumps into her. He is three, and he is extremely tired, and so his eyes are swimming with manic energy, and though his eyes are blue, his hair is golden-blonde, his skin creamy pale.

He looks up at her, eyes wide and mouth shut, dressed in a miniature version of his father's suit this evening, though his is considerably wrinkled and there's a bit of melted cheese on one lapel. Hilary stares at him. He stares at her.

"I have to pee," he says, quiet and plaintive, by way of explanation for rushing into her knees as well as plea for help.

Hilary's brows stitch together. "So go pee," she says, as though this is the most foolish thing she's ever heard someone say.

The boy starts to cry.

When his coat is returned, Max feels like his part in all this has diminished another notch. He sees John left outside on the terrace. He remembers who it was that held this woman that entire, mad night. Who chose her lovers. Who shoved them away when they overstepped the boundaries. Who took her away, in the end, up and out of their sight, out of their lives, a fever-dream

that has now, most alarmingly and unexpectedly, recurred.

And it gets a little more surreal by the moment. She didn't seem real that night either, but she seemed so present, so tangible, a wanton core of lust and excess. She is someone wholly different tonight, alien and black-eyed, staring at the child like it was some thing, some senseless and stupid little creature too helpless to live.

Ivan runs interference. He crouches down and takes the little boy by the shoulders. "Hey," he says, "hey, okay. You see that nice lady over there?" He's pointing at - well, the other Max, the icy blonde standing by the wall, observing the tide and flow of the party, judging, critiquing, making immeasurably small adjustments in her mind every moment, each of which will eventually be filtered down to the catering staff, the musicians, the cleanup staff, all of it. This is who Ivan sends the boy toward with a gentle little push, "She'll help you find your nanny, okay? Off you go."

And rising, he studies Hilary for a moment. "There's a bit of time yet before the gift exchange," he says. "Would you like a tour of the upstairs?"

Mr. Jonathan Carter is not the only one who remembers how wet that woman was on Halloween night, or how she felt when she came, or the sounds she made, or how her skin tasted when the sweat on it was flavored with sex. Maximilian Grant, descendant of the great general Ulysses, remembers too. He knows he was the first one called to kiss her breasts, pleasure her as far as he was permitted. He knows how he felt when he finally slid into her, even knowing that this other man -- their host, the lean number one rider, the rich boy with the ostentatious yacht and ridiculous penthouse and incredible parties -- was holding her at the same time, that it was him she was calling master and my love in French.

This can't be the same woman. She isn't in love with Ivan. She's a little flirtatious, but so are many women at the club when their husbands leave them. She certainly doesn't seem interested in giving herself to anyone. Besides. His boss is here. His father's friends are here. His mother's friends, too. His girlfriend.

Max gives a slight shake of his head, waking from a dream, blinking repeatedly, his head pounding. Meanwhile,

Ivan is nudging the little kid towards the other Max, his Max, who is overseeing the party while pretending to converse with guests and other servants. The boy all but runs, his hips visibly tight with effort, over to Max and all but yanks her skirt down while tugging at it. They can't hear him pleading for Max to help him, but they do see her expression. Well, Hilary does, because her eyes followed the boy away. Ivan is asking her, though she isn't looking at him, if she wants a tour of the upstairs.

She looks to him and gauges him with her eyes. Max excuses himself politely, his jacket folded over his arm, and neither Hilary nor Ivan watches him go.

"If it pleases you," she says, and a waitress arrives, finding them, carrying Hilary's scotch on a tray.