someone else—whether fictional or otherwise—tend to be a source ofenjoyment, whether we wish to admit it or not. They prompt a pleasant frisson of relief. One’s own friend or relation—or oneself—has been spared . . . this time. The shadow of death has passed over, the sun is out again. People step over tragedy and go on with their lives, as they must if our society is to continue to function.”
“Whereas if they knew the truth about the dark powers among us, they would . . . what?” I said, thinking of what Stoker had told me. “Panic? Run amok? Demand explanations that those in charge do not wish to give?”
He shrugged. “All that and likely more. Tell me, Miss Weston, what brings you here?”
As he declined to answer my question, I saw no reason to answer his. Instead, I posed another. “Shouldn’t I be asking you that? This is a haunt of vampires, I am told. No sensible human should come anywhere near it. So why have you?”
I did not go so far as to ask how he had managed to run off two vampires who should have been at his throat. But my gaze drifted pointedly to the pendant glowing against his chest, just above his heart.
Far from being nonplused, Marco di Orsini took my observation in stride. “You have unmasked me, Miss Weston. Clearly, I shall have to be on my guard around you.”
I frowned. “What do you mean—?”
“No one has ever accused me of being sensible. But I assure you, I am not altogether lacking in other useful attributes, as I hope you will discover.”
“You presume we are to be acquainted . . . again.” The arch of my brow signified my extreme skepticism that any such association between us was likely.
He refused to be discouraged. “Let us say that I hope wewill become friends, and based on that I presume to dispense a small bit of advice. The Bagatelle is undeniably popular, but it is not to everyone’s taste. Humans come here hoping to be chosen for transformation into vampires. You were mistakenly taken for such a supplicant.”
I could not conceal my shock. “They actually want such a thing?”
“Indeed, some do. Should I gather from your response that you did not?”
He was studying me far too closely for comfort. Rather than reveal so much of myself to him, I ignored his question and said, “I have been warned already that it isn’t an ingénue ball.”
He took my reticence with good grace, replying, “You’ve met Little Alice, I take it.”
What else did he know, this human who walked with apparent ease in the netherworld of hidden London?
Not taking my eyes from him, I said, “And paid a penny for the privilege.”
“Wise of you. She’s not what she used to be, but she still isn’t one to cross.”
“Neither am I, Mr. di Orsini. I have my own reasons for being here and I will not be dissuaded from them.”
A flash of surprise darted behind his eyes and was quickly gone, but not before I had the satisfaction of knowing that I was not entirely what he had expected.
“I assure you, Miss Weston, that was never my intention.”
He bowed and, with a slight flourish, stepped out of my way.
I proceeded quickly, before I could think better of it.
Above the door, the snake hissed.
CHAPTER 4
I stepped over the threshold of the Bagatelle to find myself in a dazzling salon. The walls were covered with trompe l’oeil paintings depicting beautiful gardens bathed in moonlight, populated with frisky nymphs and satyrs. Finely woven Persian rugs lay over the floors. Hundreds of slender white candles burned in crystal and gold chandeliers suspended from the high ceilings. Porcelain vases so thin as to be translucent were filled with rare lilies and orchids that released a heady perfume into the room. The furniture was inlaid wood, marble, and gilt in the lavish Louis Quinze style. But all that was as nothing compared to the splendor of the room’s occupants. Male and female alike, they were all seemingly young, exquisitely dressed and
“Whereas if they knew the truth about the dark powers among us, they would . . . what?” I said, thinking of what Stoker had told me. “Panic? Run amok? Demand explanations that those in charge do not wish to give?”
He shrugged. “All that and likely more. Tell me, Miss Weston, what brings you here?”
As he declined to answer my question, I saw no reason to answer his. Instead, I posed another. “Shouldn’t I be asking you that? This is a haunt of vampires, I am told. No sensible human should come anywhere near it. So why have you?”
I did not go so far as to ask how he had managed to run off two vampires who should have been at his throat. But my gaze drifted pointedly to the pendant glowing against his chest, just above his heart.
Far from being nonplused, Marco di Orsini took my observation in stride. “You have unmasked me, Miss Weston. Clearly, I shall have to be on my guard around you.”
I frowned. “What do you mean—?”
“No one has ever accused me of being sensible. But I assure you, I am not altogether lacking in other useful attributes, as I hope you will discover.”
“You presume we are to be acquainted . . . again.” The arch of my brow signified my extreme skepticism that any such association between us was likely.
He refused to be discouraged. “Let us say that I hope wewill become friends, and based on that I presume to dispense a small bit of advice. The Bagatelle is undeniably popular, but it is not to everyone’s taste. Humans come here hoping to be chosen for transformation into vampires. You were mistakenly taken for such a supplicant.”
I could not conceal my shock. “They actually want such a thing?”
“Indeed, some do. Should I gather from your response that you did not?”
He was studying me far too closely for comfort. Rather than reveal so much of myself to him, I ignored his question and said, “I have been warned already that it isn’t an ingénue ball.”
He took my reticence with good grace, replying, “You’ve met Little Alice, I take it.”
What else did he know, this human who walked with apparent ease in the netherworld of hidden London?
Not taking my eyes from him, I said, “And paid a penny for the privilege.”
“Wise of you. She’s not what she used to be, but she still isn’t one to cross.”
“Neither am I, Mr. di Orsini. I have my own reasons for being here and I will not be dissuaded from them.”
A flash of surprise darted behind his eyes and was quickly gone, but not before I had the satisfaction of knowing that I was not entirely what he had expected.
“I assure you, Miss Weston, that was never my intention.”
He bowed and, with a slight flourish, stepped out of my way.
I proceeded quickly, before I could think better of it.
Above the door, the snake hissed.
CHAPTER 4
I stepped over the threshold of the Bagatelle to find myself in a dazzling salon. The walls were covered with trompe l’oeil paintings depicting beautiful gardens bathed in moonlight, populated with frisky nymphs and satyrs. Finely woven Persian rugs lay over the floors. Hundreds of slender white candles burned in crystal and gold chandeliers suspended from the high ceilings. Porcelain vases so thin as to be translucent were filled with rare lilies and orchids that released a heady perfume into the room. The furniture was inlaid wood, marble, and gilt in the lavish Louis Quinze style. But all that was as nothing compared to the splendor of the room’s occupants. Male and female alike, they were all seemingly young, exquisitely dressed and
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