Liminal

There’s a man kneeling in Maggie’s parlor when Delfina comes to visit. He’s dressed in splendor, a fine three-piece white suit edged in gold. In strong contrast to the maturity of the suit, every line of his body rings of petulance. His face is tilted toward the ceiling, throat exposed, and his palms lay face up on his thighs. It’s a perfect show of submission—or would be, if not so obviously begrudging.

Delfina takes a moment to appreciate his looks. He’s a handsome man, and the sulkiness doesn’t spoil it for her. It makes her want to kiss his jaw, actually, and see if that changes the moue of his mouth. As she looks, the tension in his body grows. He doesn’t look at her, eyes remaining locked forward, but he’s obviously hyperaware of her position in the room.

“He’s a gift, apparently,” Maggie says. Delfina turns around, beaming at her girlfriend. Maggie has appeared in the archway that separates the parlor from the formal dining room, leaning against the frame with her arms crossed. Her eyebrows are furrowed as she looks at the man, but it immediately smooths away when her gaze turns back to Delfina. “A disgraced former Grand Duke of the Noctem Court. I’ve just finished speaking to a representative of our…” and Maggie’s voice begins to drip with sarcasm, “good friend, the Prince. The woman said it was a show of alliance, recognition of my new position. I think the Prince just wanted to make a point to Desmond here.”

“He did,” Desmond mutters, still unmoving from his rigid kneel. “My Sire would never respect a do—a lycanthrope. He’s finished with me and he wants me to know it. He expects you to kill me and he doesn’t care enough to do it himself.”

Maggie’s nose wrinkles in disgust, whether at the thought of killing or at the way Desmond’s voice slides into a whine—almost, even, a wail—at the end of his sentence.

“I don’t want to kill you,” she begins, but then her mouth twists to the side, “although I will if you prove a danger to any of my Pack.”

“What danger could I pose, Alpha Imperator Magdalene Mei Gao?” Desmond asks the ceiling, drawing an eye-roll from Maggie at the use of her full name and title. “For all our differences and similarities, the physical strength of… lycanthropes is as much greater than most vampires as ours is in comparison to any human.”

“My Pack includes Delfina, here, and a Witch named Hadley who you will eventually meet, and I will starve you for a month before gutting you and tying you out in the shade so you die slowly, helpless, with your entrails outside yourself if you harm a single hair on either of their heads.” Maggie wraps her arms around Delfina, who hums happily at the show of protectiveness and presses a kiss against the corner of Maggie’s mouth.

That is enough to get Desmond to break his position, and his head whips to the side to stare incredulously at Maggie. He swallows on nothing, eyes wide. “You include thralls as members of your Pack?”

“I include my girlfriend and my friend,” Maggie refutes. “Lycanthropes don’t have thralls, but you’ll be as close as we get. You will not be a member of my pack, and because I cannot get rid of you, I will make use of you.” She pauses, looking down at Desmond. “I am not your Alpha, and you are neither a lycanthrope nor a member of any Pack. I am not Alpha Imperator to you. What is it your court has thralls call vampires?”

Desmond sets his mouth, lips thinning out into a line.

“I asked a question.” Maggie lets go of Delfina in order to walk to Desmond. She crouches in front of him and grabs his chin when he tries to turn away. Her voice drops lower, quieter, in order to ask again. “What title do thralls use for those who hold their bonds?”

Desmond mutters something that Delfina can’t quite make out, though Maggie must be able to. Anything shy of breathless mouthing would be audible to a lycanthrope at that distance. Maybe the lips moving alone would be audible, Delfina isn’t sure. (She’ll ask, later.)

It’s a mere five days until the new moon, less than a third of the waning crescent visible in the sky. Maggie’s nails are as trim and tidy as they get, smooth and unpiercing. Desmond still winces when she flexes her hand to dig them into his cheeks.

“I didn’t hear that,” Maggie lies.

“Master,” Desmond grits out. His voice almost wobbles, and it’s still quiet, but loud enough to just barely be coherent from across the room.

“Then that’s what you’ll call her,” Maggie says, nodding across the room to Delfina. Desmond’s eyebrows furrow, his mouth drops open just a smidge. His sharp fangs become visible and Delfina shivers a bit. She can’t help it; she has a Pavlovian response to the sight of fangs, at this point. The days before the full moon always leave her fully satiated, if the point comes across. His confusion is cute, but she thinks she understands. Maggie’s got a lot on her plate and there seems to be some sort of history between the two. Delfina has nothing going on but a single summer-term class and she isn’t afraid to make the best of an awkward situation.

“But—” Desmond stutters over his words, looking back and forth between Maggie and Delfina. “I was given to you.”

“I don’t want you,” Maggie replies. There’s no room for argument in her tone. The way Desmond’s shoulders slump even further intrigues Delfina. He hadn’t seemed happy to be given to Maggie in the first place, and yet now appears to be disappointed that she doesn’t want him. “Delfina will find a use for you and keep you from getting out of line. She’s good at that.”