he had seen in Evangeline’s neck at the opium den, and then, later, the absence of those same fatal wounds when he examined her body as it lay in its casket. Through the work of some mysterious agency, the damage repaired itself even after life had ended, eliminating all visible proof of the cause of death.
“Clever,” Peregrine said beneath his breath, “very clever indeed.”
The pianist in the other room played a flourish, stopped, and said something that made the people in the other room laugh. It occurred to Peregrine that he should flee; strange, but he felt no compelling reason to make his escape. He did not feel threatened, though it was not because there was no menace present. The two dead women on the couch beneath the Constable oil painting were proof enough of
that.
He thought it likely some, perhaps even most, of the guests at the macabre soirée belonged to the same secret race as the girl-woman who had been playing hide-and-seek with him, luring Peregrine away from the Quarter, away from the safety of crowds and the recourse to summon Union soldiers to assist him in his quest to find out what he had become mixed up in. Still, no one at the party had so much as looked at Peregrine sideways. Perhaps the others sensed, as had Peregrine, that he had been invited to the party—as the carriage sent to bring him clearly indicated—to meet with the porcelain-skinned lady and learn whatever dark meaning there was within the heart of this bloody mystery.
By choosing to enter the house on Chestnut Street—no one had made him do it—Peregrine had willingly crossed the invisible threshold separating the ordinary world from one where none of the usual laws applied. Here, he was in the midst of an intimate circle buried as far as one could hope to go in the ever-narrowing circles of New Orleans society, each more exclusive, more hidden, more jealous of its secrets than the previous. It went without saying that he already knew far more than it was safe for him to know about
them.
Even his casual association had taught him that these creatures, whatever they were, existed side by side with ordinary society, unknown and unsuspected by other people or the authorities. But appearances were deceptive. They might have looked like ordinary human beings, but they were different, beginning with a complete disregard for the value of human life, and including the most disturbing distinction of all: their desire, or perhaps their need, to drink the blood of the living. Ultimately, Peregrine thought, the two races had no more in common than do wolves and sheep.
Beginning to feel conspicuous, Peregrine joined the others in the music room, where the crowd had formed a semicircle around the piano. He stood in the back of the room as the music began again, the first part of the selection instrumental. The singer stood near the pianist, the only one in the room who was turned away from him in order to face the audience. She was German or Polish, Peregrine guessed, judging by her blond hair and strong, handsome features.
On a settee in the corner, a man and woman were embracing with an intimacy that was scandalous outside of a Crescent City brothel. Peregrine was looking away in embarrassment when he noticed the woman was the seemingly ubiquitous Mrs. Foster! She must have left the Quadroon Ballroom after him and come straight to Chestnut Street, the guest of one of the monsters, brought here to service their pleasure. But then something else occurred to Peregrine, an idea that made him frown. Perhaps the slatternly madam was one of
them.
The bouncer at the ballroom had said his employer was a woman. Maybe Mrs. Foster was the mistress of both houses of ill repute, though she seemed too low to exercise that much authority, even of the most perverse variety.
The singer opened her mouth and joined a crystalline soprano to the music pouring from the piano, making it impossible for Peregrine to keep his attention focused on Mrs. Foster.
“Clever,” Peregrine said beneath his breath, “very clever indeed.”
The pianist in the other room played a flourish, stopped, and said something that made the people in the other room laugh. It occurred to Peregrine that he should flee; strange, but he felt no compelling reason to make his escape. He did not feel threatened, though it was not because there was no menace present. The two dead women on the couch beneath the Constable oil painting were proof enough of
that.
He thought it likely some, perhaps even most, of the guests at the macabre soirée belonged to the same secret race as the girl-woman who had been playing hide-and-seek with him, luring Peregrine away from the Quarter, away from the safety of crowds and the recourse to summon Union soldiers to assist him in his quest to find out what he had become mixed up in. Still, no one at the party had so much as looked at Peregrine sideways. Perhaps the others sensed, as had Peregrine, that he had been invited to the party—as the carriage sent to bring him clearly indicated—to meet with the porcelain-skinned lady and learn whatever dark meaning there was within the heart of this bloody mystery.
By choosing to enter the house on Chestnut Street—no one had made him do it—Peregrine had willingly crossed the invisible threshold separating the ordinary world from one where none of the usual laws applied. Here, he was in the midst of an intimate circle buried as far as one could hope to go in the ever-narrowing circles of New Orleans society, each more exclusive, more hidden, more jealous of its secrets than the previous. It went without saying that he already knew far more than it was safe for him to know about
them.
Even his casual association had taught him that these creatures, whatever they were, existed side by side with ordinary society, unknown and unsuspected by other people or the authorities. But appearances were deceptive. They might have looked like ordinary human beings, but they were different, beginning with a complete disregard for the value of human life, and including the most disturbing distinction of all: their desire, or perhaps their need, to drink the blood of the living. Ultimately, Peregrine thought, the two races had no more in common than do wolves and sheep.
Beginning to feel conspicuous, Peregrine joined the others in the music room, where the crowd had formed a semicircle around the piano. He stood in the back of the room as the music began again, the first part of the selection instrumental. The singer stood near the pianist, the only one in the room who was turned away from him in order to face the audience. She was German or Polish, Peregrine guessed, judging by her blond hair and strong, handsome features.
On a settee in the corner, a man and woman were embracing with an intimacy that was scandalous outside of a Crescent City brothel. Peregrine was looking away in embarrassment when he noticed the woman was the seemingly ubiquitous Mrs. Foster! She must have left the Quadroon Ballroom after him and come straight to Chestnut Street, the guest of one of the monsters, brought here to service their pleasure. But then something else occurred to Peregrine, an idea that made him frown. Perhaps the slatternly madam was one of
them.
The bouncer at the ballroom had said his employer was a woman. Maybe Mrs. Foster was the mistress of both houses of ill repute, though she seemed too low to exercise that much authority, even of the most perverse variety.
The singer opened her mouth and joined a crystalline soprano to the music pouring from the piano, making it impossible for Peregrine to keep his attention focused on Mrs. Foster.
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