Instead, he read the plaque at the base of the statue.
LADY WITH A FALCON ON HER FIST
LORD DARYL DI’BIRGETTA
The vampire known as Lord Daryl had been killed two summers ago, an event shocking
enough that news had traveled swiftly.
Hunters frequently took down the young and the sloppy, vampires who had been changed
by whim instead of thoughtful intent, who had relatively few connections to others
of their kind, and who tended to surround themselves with attention-drawing kills.
It was far rarer for a hunter to actually strike at the kind of individual who attended
Kendra’s Heathen Holiday, who had allies, friends, and political connections throughout
the vampiric world.
Lord Daryl had not been an ancient, but he had been a powerful figure in his domain,
especially in the realm known as Midnight, an empire where humans—and occasionally
witches or shapeshifters—had been bought and sold as slaves. When Midnight had fallen
two centuries ago, another group had claimed leadership over all vampires and had
supposedly outlawed their slave trade, but Daryl was proof that the laws hadn’t
entirely worked. It was hard for a hunter like Jay to get solid information, but it
had become clear in recent years that Midnight had been reborn and was gaining power
once again.
Rumors claimed that Daryl’s own slave had killed him.
Jay shuddered, turning away from the statue. How could a man known for his viciousness
as a trainer, whose career had been dedicated to transforming free souls into broken
slaves, ever create such a powerful yet delicate work of art?
Jay caught himself staring again.
Move, Jay
.
Beyond the entry, the spectacle was overwhelming. Paint, ink, stone, clay, metal,
glass, canvas, photo, paper, wood … Thousands of years of talent were showcased here,
in every possible medium.
The artistic creations were not the only works of beauty.
The members of Kendra’s line, assembled together in full formal wear, were breathtaking.
Nikolas had told him the dress code was “more or less black tie,” and now Jay understood
what “more or less” meant. The vampires and bloodbonds in the room were from every
century and every country. Tuxedo jackets and ball gowns moved among saris, mandarin
gowns, and other apparel Jay couldn’t begin to name.
Beyond clothes,
skin
had in many cases been used as a canvas. Many bloodbonds had been painted, some with
elaborate masquerade-style face paint, but others with body art that complemented
their attire. One glittering creature wore a dress with an open back that revealed
shining painted butterfly wings.
After letting out a squeak of disappointment when the mural he had been admiring moved
away to mingle with the other guests, Jay reminded himself that he needed to pay attention
to the
people
around him and not just the minds and art.
Kendra alone had been overwhelming. Now Jay was surrounded by such powerful, brilliant
minds that it was hard to even see the faces associated with them. In this kind of
daze, if someone came at him with a blade, he might just smile at the way the light
sparkled on it.
Where am I?
He had been wandering, paying no attention, but now found himself surrounded by music
and movement.
Colors blended as couples danced in a way Jay had only ever seen in movies, formal
patterns responding to the arcing melodies of a string quartet. Standing among them
was like standing in a surf,
feeling
the rhythm. He ducked out of the way when a pair nearly spun into him, and he ran
into—
Static. White noise.
The mind he faced made Jay feel as though he’d been dunked in an icy lake. Dressed
in immaculate black and white, the human before him was apparently one of the help,
not a guest. His mind was oddly sterile, still, devoid of emotion or wanting.
“Refreshment, sir?” the servant offered, nodding to the silver tray he carried, which
was heavy with glasses of champagne and some unrecognizable finger food—probably caviar,
or something equally vile. Jay doubted anyone here cared about
underage drinking, but the last thing he needed was alcohol … or fish eggs.
“Is there somewhere I could sit for a while?” he asked.
“Yes, sir. This way.”
The servant led, and Jay followed with a shiver. It was like walking behind a ghost,
something not altogether
there
.
As they entered a quiet parlor, an unsettling thought nudged into his mind: maybe
this man wasn’t a
servant
at all. After all, Kendra’s line was allied with Midnight, the heart of a lucrative
slave trade. Though humankind in this country had stopped trading people more than
a century before, many immortals had a different sensibility about the uses to which
a life could be put.
Midnight’s trainers had employed a bevy of methods designed to strip free will and
any other vestiges of a soul from those they’d claimed to own, including many of Jay’s
ancestors. Witches who went to Midnight intending to kill the trainers reappeared
like zombies, intent only on obeying their new masters’ commands to murder their former
kin. Was the static darkness in this servant’s mind the result of that same process?
Except for the late Lord Daryl, the trainers were exclusively from one line—all immediately
descended from the so-called Mistress Jeshickah herself. Jay dared to hope they didn’t
share Kendra’s line’s love of art and so might not choose to attend Kendra’s soiree.
Even so, the glow of his initial fascination had dimmed, putting him on edge.
Jay found sharks, lions, polar bears, and crocodiles beautiful, each in their own
way, but any one of them could turn
into a man-eater given the wrong circumstances, so he tended to give them a wide berth.
Beauty aside, why had he now put himself in a situation where some of the creatures
around him might want just his blood, but some of them might actually want his
soul
?
J
AY WAS FOOLISH
and impulsive at times, but even he wouldn’t have come into this crowd alone as a
hunter. He also wouldn’t have come just to see Sarah—he could see his cousin easily
enough in a safer environment. But he might never have another chance to see
this
, the awesome whirl that was thousands of years of artistic talent.
Now that he had tasted the rotten pit in the center of this sweet fruit, however,
he needed to move on, before he stumbled across something he couldn’t stand to ignore.
He was on his way to the door when his plan was hijacked by a set of paintings.
According to the plaques that accompanied the series, the woman depicted was the Norse
goddess Freyja, “a lover, a
mother, a witch, and a warrior,” who rode at the front of the Valkyries as they collected
the souls of the bravest fighters.
Momentarily alone in the room, Jay took in the dramatic, sweeping paintings, some
depicting scenes of battle and others explicit enough to make him blush. His drive
to leave eroded. He had never known that oil on canvas could be so powerful. As he
stared at a depiction of Freyja near her slain husband, it took him several moments
to realize that the sorrow he was feeling wasn’t coming from paint.
He turned to discover that a woman now occupied the couch he had abandoned. Her elaborate
gown was rumpled and stained with paint. Her feet were tucked up next to her, and
she laid her head on the armrest. Jay could see bare toes peeking out from her torn
skirt hem.
“Are you all right?” he asked, kneeling down to retrieve an ivory hair comb that had
fallen next to her. Like the gown and the dark ringlets falling around her shoulders,
the comb was streaked with dried paint.
“I’m fine,” she lied. She took the comb from him but made no move to place it back
in her hair. “I thought no one was in here.”
“I was admiring the paintings,” he said, “but I’ll leave if …” He trailed off; his
reference to the paintings had triggered a trickle of something other than bone-deep
sorrow. “Are these yours?” he asked.
She nodded, and the pinprick of light inside her flared briefly.
“They’re …” He wanted to bring that light back, but he
didn’t have the words he needed to express the way the art around him made him feel.
“They’re trash,” she interrupted, the spark snuffed. She stood and brushed past him
to critically examine her own work. “Tripe hung to please Kendra, or Kaleo, but certainly
not me.” She lifted a hand to touch the face of Freyja’s dead husband before snapping,
“Go. Go away.”
At a loss, Jay obeyed, though guilt nagged at him for walking away when she so obviously
needed
somebody
. If he had known how to comfort her, he would have.
The adjacent room was occupied by a small but rowdy group engaged in an intense debate.
There were no servant-slaves among them, though someone had left two plates of appetizers
on what was probably a priceless antique table.
Jay leaned against the wall, taking a moment to soak up the friendly atmosphere. This
group’s energy and enthusiasm felt cleansing after the artist’s melancholy.
“I’m only saying,” a human man protested as he leaned over the table to swipe a snack
from the tray, “that working with Rikai is like working with some kind of venomous
animal. She’s perfectly lovely right until she tries to
eat
me. I know you two are close, but I must express concern on behalf of your
actors
—myself included.”
“Concern noted,” the vampire in the middle of the group answered.
Rikai!
Jay tuned into the conversation with interest when he heard the name. Rikai was a
Triste, a creature who had studied and trained beneath another of her kind and had
gained
a vampire’s near-immortality and a witch’s ability to manipulate raw power. She was
supposed to be an expert in the study of power of all kinds but was also said to be
vicious in her quest for knowledge, willing to exploit anyone who gave her opportunity—except,
perhaps, the two others in her elite group.
Given the context, the vampire discussing Rikai had to be Xeke. They were both part
of a group called the Wild Cards, a trio of artists whose irreverent works ranged
from mildly irritating to frighteningly infuriating. Their third compatriot had once
been a witch, like Jay, but had broken those ties long before his birth. Now she was
a writer, telling the stories no one wanted her to share. Xeke was supposed to be
the most cautious and polite of the three, the one who maintained the greatest number
of political and social ties. Jay had never met him but had followed his exploits
from a distance.
When Jay made inappropriately intrusive remarks, people called him young and impulsive,
unable to control his empathy. When Xeke put the same kind of remarks on film, people
called it art. Jay owned several of Xeke’s more controversial videos, and had once
written a fan letter that he suddenly hoped Xeke had never received.
“Oh, hell, it’s late. I’ve got to run, luv, if I’m going to get back on set in time.”
The blond human kissed Xeke on the cheek and then darted out of the room, nearly colliding
with Jay.
Jay tried not to blush as he felt Xeke’s attention turn to him. The vampire stood
to greet him with a warm “Welcome”
that betrayed both curiosity and interest. His thoughts had a predatory flavor but
a neutral tone that Jay tended to find in nature, as opposed to the hostile aggression
he associated with most humans and once-humans when they stalked their prey.
“Hi.”
Real clever
. He tried to ride the coattails of Xeke’s calm-and-collected-ness.
“You look a little overwhelmed,” Xeke observed.
“Is any of this art yours?” Jay said, the first polite question he could summon.
“Some of the photos,” the vampire answered, “but most of my work is in cinema.” He
glanced at the clock and remarked, “It’s rather late for your kind to be here.”
Jay followed the vampire’s attention, and realized it was only a few minutes from
midnight. Known as the Devil’s Hour at gatherings such as this, midnight was traditionally
when the vampires fed. Xeke could smell that Jay was a witch. He was intrigued but
also distinctly wary.
“Are you asking?” Jay asked.
“Pardon?”
Oh
. He had done that thing where he responded to something not said out loud, skipping
ahead in the conversation.
Jay reached a little more toward the vampire’s mind, getting a more solid sense of
him, and asked, “You’re Xeke, right?”
“I am,” the vampire answered. “And you are?”
“Jay Marinitch.”
“A full-blooded witch at Kendra’s gala?” Xeke asked, no doubt recognizing Jay’s family
name. Voice somewhat cooler,
he added, “And a hunter, if I’m not mistaken. Surely you aren’t intending to do something
stupid?”
“I try to avoid stupid things,” Jay responded.
Occasionally successfully
, he thought. He was going to get an earful about coming here once Sarah got wind
of it. “I’m here as a guest, not to hunt.”
“Yet you’re armed.”
“Of course I’m armed. You can’t ask a cat to shed its claws.”
“Are you a pet?” Xeke asked, his mood lightening in the face of Jay’s honesty. “Or
more of a wild animal?”
“Depends on how I’m feeling,” Jay replied. Sometimes he was a lizard, or a fox. Sometimes
he wanted to be a kitten. “What are you looking for?”
He hadn’t intended the words to be flirtatious, but as Xeke quirked one brow and the
images in his mind answered for him, Jay knew the vampire had taken them as such.
It was hard
not
to flirt with someone whose mind exuded confidence and frank interest.
Aloud Xeke said, “Your knife makes me nervous.”
Jay took a step away, and then turned his back on the vampire so it wouldn’t be taken
as a threat when he drew his knife.
This blade wasn’t just a weapon; it was an anchor. Generations of magic imbued in
the silver helped Jay ground himself and focus, despite his limited ability to filter
what his empathy picked up. Without it, he might still be staring, slack-jawed, at
Kendra, lost in her mind.