Cerulean Sins - Laurell K. Hamilton [156]
He looked me over from the top of my head to the end of my chin, then nodded. “It’s good.”
“It’s positively appetizing,” Micah’s voice came from the doorway. He stepped into the room, closing the door behind him. The moment I saw him, I knew I’d lost all rights to bitch about what I was wearing.
The color was turquoise blue, with enough green to make his eyes blaze green. The shirt had holes at the top of his shoulder, in the middle of his upper arm, and two in the middle of his forearm. Black cord was threaded through the cloth and tied around his elbow, above and below the holes to keep the cloth from sliding around. The cuffs were wide and stiff, with shiny black buttons, with cutouts on the underside so the skin of his wrists was bare, just as the holes at his elbows left those spots bare. His skin looked very tanned, very smooth, very warm against the turquoise.
The pants matched the shirt—and not just in color. There were holes on the sides that flashed the perfect smoothness of his hip, down to glimpses of thigh. The holes probably went farther down, but black boots cut off the view just above his knee.
The pants were so tight that he really didn’t need a belt, but there was a black cord threaded through the unnecessary belt loops that swung as Micah walked. He was actually almost to me when I realized there were holes on the inside of the pants legs, too.
I shook my head. “There’s more holes than cloth.”
He smiled at me. “I’m food, so you’ve got to be able to reach the blood. Jean-Claude didn’t want anyone to have an excuse to undress anyone.”
I glanced at Jean-Claude. “He’s not feeding any of these people.”
“Non, ma petite, he is ours, and ours alone, but we do not want to have to undress him either. If all of us keep our clothes firmly in place, then so will they. It would be a faux pax of gigantic proportions if they undress their food and we do not. It is our house, and our rules.”
Put that way it was hard to argue, but I still wanted to. Then I looked at Micah’s face more closely. “He’s wearing eye makeup.” I got off the chair that I’d sat in while Stephen fixed me and walked closer to Micah. He was wearing more than just eye makeup, but it was all so artfully done that you didn’t see it at first.
“I could not resist those eyes,” Jean-Claude said, “they deserved to be decorated.”
Micah’s hair was tied completely back from his face in a bun that was a graceful mix of French braid and sheer art. “Where did all the curl go?” I asked.
“It has been blow dried straight,” Jean-Claude said. He came and almost touched Micah’s hair, to show how lovely it was. “He did not protest anything that we did to make him so pretty.” Jean-Claude gave me a look, out of his own black-lined eyes. “It was a refreshing change.”
Micah blinked those amazing eyes that someone’s art had made even more amazing. “You don’t like it?”
I shook my head. “No, I like it. I mean, you’re beautiful.” I shrugged. “I don’t know, it’s just a very different look for you.” I turned to Jean-Claude. “I’ve never seen you in this much makeup.”
“Belle Morte broke me of wishing to see myself this way.” He was shielding as he said it, as if whatever memory went with those words was nothing he wanted to share.
“So why pretty Micah up like this?”
“You don’t like it,” Micah repeated.
I frowned. “That’s not it. Why do it now? What do we gain by having you look like this, because don’t try and tell me there’s no purpose to it.” I turned to include Asher in his chair across the room in the look I gave Jean-Claude. “Neither of you would go to this much trouble tonight without a reason. I’ve heard nothing but both of you complaining that we don’t have enough time to get everyone presentable for the banquet.” I gestured at Micah. “This took a lot of time that could have been used elsewhere. So I’m asking, both of you, what gives?”
They exchanged a look, then Asher looked studiously at the floor. He pretended to be studying his perfectly manicured fingernails, but I wasn’t fooled.
I turned back to Jean-Claude. “Out with it,