Red satin and black velvet. Fang and claw. Death and blood mingled with the scent of roses. She walked up the carpet toward the throne, gaping at its magnitude. The flickering shadows of the firelight made the figures seem to dance and come to life. There was a strange, artful beauty to it. They had been carved with remarkable craftsmanship by a master, even if their subject matter left much to be desired.
Death had never frightened Maxine. She had always accepted that it would come for her. She had seen more suffering through the eyes of others and in the memories of the objects she touched than one person should ever know. It gave her an interesting perspective on the matter.
But this was not the acceptance of death—this was revelry within it.
Death may not concern her…but dying like the ways that were depicted very much did. Simply because she did not fear the journey did not mean she was not troubled by the idea of being eaten alive. And being eaten alive might be the least disturbing of the ways the throne depicted.
When she finally reached it, she let her fingers trace over the armrests. More flashes of the creature to whom it belonged rushed over her. There was a deep disdain for all around him. Hatred. Violence. Wrath. All the world was small to him. But beneath it all…she found loneliness like that of a mountain peak looking at the valley below. All the rest of what she felt was a bridge of cards stacked over a chasm of emptiness and sorrow. Grief and loss ran through it like a raging river.
Enormity. That was what she felt. He was a bridge, a river, a mountain—the metaphors ran rampant in her mind. He was not a man. He was an element of nature.
Perhaps there was more to this story the hunters told.
She let her fingers trail over the armrest again. “Who are you?”
A hand fisted in her hair and yanked her head back. A voice, little more than an angry hiss near her ear, accompanied it. “I could ask you the very same.”
She screamed and dropped the brooch.
Maxine came back to reality lying on the floor of her kitchen, locked in a cold sweat. She was panting. Someone was crouched next to her, their hands on her arms, gently trying to help her up. She shoved away from them violently. “Don’t touch me!”
They lifted their hands from her obediently and moved back, showing her their palms in a display of harmlessness. “Sorry.”
It was Alfonzo. She must have fallen from her chair. She saw the brooch lying on the ground near her. She was shivering and she shook her head dumbly, trying to form words. Trying to think of an explanation for what had happened.
Impossible. That was impossible. But it happened, so therefore it clearly was not. “I’m sorry.” She sat up and tried to pull herself back together. “It is not your fault.” She slipped on her other glove and reached out to pick up the brooch now that she was protected from it. “You cannot touch me, for your sake and mine. I react poorly when I am startled, that is all.”
“What happened? What did you see that scared you?” Bella asked eagerly. She was fetching a glass of water from the sink.
Standing on shaky legs, Maxine returned to her chair and placed the brooch on the lace tablecloth. “It was not what I saw that was the problem. I saw a throne room fit for the devil himself, but that was not why I screamed.” She was still trying to process it and to piece together the bits into a cohesive explanation. When Bella handed her the glass, she thanked her and gratefully sipped the water. “It should not have been possible…”
“What happened?”
“When I touch something, I see a memory. A reflection of a time long past. It isn’t changeable. It is like experiencing a moving painting or a zoetrope that might animate around you. I’m an outside observer.”
“Paintings on the wall,” Eddie muttered as he put it together. “That’s what you meant.”
She nodded.
“And?” Bella sat back down as well, her bright blue eyes shining with curiosity.
“This painting reached out and touched me.” After finishing the water, she poured a shot of rum into the empty glass. The water was nice, but the rum was necessary. She looked over to Alfonzo. “Tell me all you can of this Dracula.”
3
“Master? Are you well?” Walter pressed his hand to the elder vampire’s shoulder. Dracula had collapsed against the wall as though he had suddenly grown weak.
Dracula chuckled. “Fascinating…” He straightened, tugging on the bottom of his vest to smooth the lines. “I am fine, Walter. Indeed, I am more than fine.” He looked down into his pale palm and flexed fingers accentuated with sharp, deadly nails, as though he were remembering holding something. He tightened his hand into a fist and walked down the hall toward the dining room that also served as the war room. “Come.”
Walter followed silently, curious as to what had overcome his Lord. Curious and concerned. But he knew to stay silent and keep his worries unvoiced. He would be told all soon enough. He took his position standing by the table as Dracula sat in his chair, the movement smooth and graceful despite his height and stature. Such things were to be expected from a creature such as he.
It left him feeling like the whelpling that he was, despite his own centuries of age. Walter was nothing to scoff at, since he served as the right hand to the King of Vampires. But next to the one who had sired him, he often felt like little more than a mortal toddler. A brash, clumsy, noisy thing.
Dracula steepled his hands in front of his face and gazed thoughtfully at the table. Walter suspected he was both seeing the notes and maps left upon its lacquered surface and yet taking in none of it all at once. His voice, a low rumble, carried easily. “What have you discovered about Miss Parker?”
“She purports to be a spiritualist—an empath. She claims to be able to divine great secrets from objects and to see all the hidden truths within a human soul. If the hunters have gone to her seeking assistance, I think we shall have little trouble in dispatching them. She is a charlatan, nothing more, and if they can be gulled into—”
“She is no fraud.” Vlad chuckled darkly, a sadistic and amused smile spreading across his features. “No, my dear friend. She is far more interesting than that.”
Walter furrowed his brow. What had happened in the hallway was connected to Miss Parker; he was now sure of it. But how, he hadn’t the foggiest idea. “What would you have me do?”
“I would meet her in person.” He paused, shutting his eyes. “Find some aristocrat in this city who fancies becoming as we are. Send Zadok to seduce him and convince him to host a gala. We shall ensure our dear hunters have reason to attend by creating the suspicion that we may also be present. If we are lucky…they shall invite her to join. We may be able to destroy them and collect her in one night.”
“Collect her?” Walter carefully kept the dread out of his tone. Whenever his Master found himself in the mood to play with mortals, it never ended well. For anyone. He wanted this business with Boston to be concluded and finished as quickly and cleanly as possible, especially after the debacle they had just suffered in London. Walter had hoped he might be spared his Master’s fascination with baubles and toys a few more years than he clearly was to be allotted. Not again. Please, not again.