Tears rolled down her blushing cheeks.
“Ne pleure pas, ma cher…” Don’t cry, darling. Antoine embraced her tenderly and then smoothed his hands to cup the sides of her face.
“Choose me, Antoine…” she whispered.
A tight knot built up in his throat. “I can’t… There are people waiting for me outside… What you ask of me is impossible. Please, Cassie, try to understand.”
“You’re breaking my heart.” Cassie stepped back and stopped at the doorway. “Leave.”
Pain as he’d never known pierced his heart that evening as Antoine left at the sound of her weeping despair.
Sinatra’s Witchcraft welcomed the guests into the lawn where hostess led them to their seats. The villa, its deck, and the garden’s first level remained unreachable to curious visitors.
A hostess received the guests at the front gate where they crosschecked their names with a list. An escort then led them through the gardens. Lined with vintage oil lamps, the footpath guided the way to the tent.
The garden's second tier offered the panoramic of the Golden Gate Bridge. A level below, a display of candlelit tables, the orchestra, and an illuminated dance floor feasted their eyes.
The jostling crowd moved through the lawn, avoiding waiters dressed in black suits and Venetian white masks. The mask, a known prerequisite for this soiree, granted an alluring sense of mystery. People enjoyed recognizing between them diverse personalities from the political and artistic spheres.
The orchestra’s director called the crowd’s attention. A larghetto version of Eurythmic’s Sweet Dreams played as he spoke: “Ladies and gentlemen. Let us raise our glasses, and toast to our wonderful hosts!”
Expectant faces turned their attention to the garden’s entrance.
Ivan and Phillip stood in the spotlight. Rounds of applause rose from the crowd, wave after wave.
Ivan wore a black tuxedo and a black Victorian vest embroidered in gold. He chose a filigree Venetian mask. Phillip's white and gold Colombina mask fitted best his Italian tux.
Phillip raised his glass of champagne and gave a swift nod to the crowd. He then turned, offering a toast towards the aisle between them.
She received a warm welcome, radiant as she was in her white embroidered gown à la Marie Antoinette. Myriad Swarovski crystals sewn into the fabric accounted for its sparkling quality. A delicate piece of white tulle veiled her amethyst eyes.
“The look suits you,” Ivan told her as they moved to their table. “I can envision you at Versailles’s eighteen-hundreds—”
Marianne turned, amazed. “Well, that’s nice of—”
“—in the scaffolds,” Ivan added. He smirked and moved towards a man who called his name.
She furrowed her brow. “Will he ever be capable of complimenting me without the last minute sarcasm?”
“Don’t mind him. Dance with me?” Phillip offered his hand.
They danced, but the music changed. And the orchestra now played a song that struck Phillip’s immortal heart without warning.
“You Were Meant for Me,” Phillip mused the melody’s title, and oblivious to this, Marianne smiled.
Did Ivan have anything to do with this? He scanned the dance floor and found no trace of him, but then, Marianne pulled him closer. His hand fastened around her waist and he yielded to the song’s slow rhythm.
The mesmerizing setting surrounding them faded away.
It was another place, in another time, with another face—Frances’ face—as delicate as an angel’s, tears rolling down her cheeks. His heart sank in despair, broken by the infeasible dream of spending their lives together. She confessed him her love that evening, and that only deepened his pain.
They slow-danced their last dance in the intimacy of his dimly lit living room. The gramophone played Nat Shilkret’s song, and Phillip knew the last of their words of love had been spoken...
A tear slid down his face.
The living room in his LA apartment gradually dissolved until it vanished. Phillip stood in the dance floor with Marianne, dancing to the orchestra’s ongoing melody. He buried his face on her shoulder, holding her tight, holding on to the present.
My name is Phillip Blackwell. I live in a wonderful villa in Belvedere Island, and Marianne is here, and she’s my beautiful fledgling.
The memory of Frances and their last dance belonged in the past, in 1929. And although the images were no longer real, the pain was.
The song reached the end. The surrounding coupled turned to acknowledge the orchestra with their applause.
Phillip disappeared from the dance floor before she ever turned.
Laughter. It was loud, resonant, and drunk with boasts of youthful bliss. Wine bottles passed from one hand to another, crystal chimed each time they filled their glasses and emptied their drinks.
Ivan had introduced Antoine to his friends. And those friends ranged from Hollywood movie moguls to highly esteemed business tycoons. This was pure happiness and it called for a celebration.
The time had now come for Antoine to introduce his friends to Ivan. “Isabella, Frank, Ethan… please meet my best friend and mentor, Ivan Lockhart.”
“Welcome,” he said. “I trust you’ve found everything to your satisfaction?”
“And more!” Frank replied, glass in hand. “Thank you for the invitation.”
“Oh, don’t thank me…” Ivan’s hand landed over his heart. “Thank Antoine. Indeed, how lucky you are to have a friend in him. Not only is he a brilliant businessman, but he’s wise enough to make the hard decisions—you know, the ones that build character.”
“You have a wonderful home.” Isabella touched his arm.
Ivan whispered in her ear. She laughed and taunted him with a smile when he parted from her side… Ivan was a master séducteur.
“This is the best night of my life!” Ethan raised his champagne saucer and drank.
“I’m delighted to hear it,” Ivan celebrated. “Please, enjoy the rest of the evening. Oh and, I’ve saved a special surprise for you after the soiree is over.”
“Mr. Lockhart.” Vanessa, the party planner, approached Ivan. “We have a situation.”
“Excuse me.” He rose from the chair.
“There’s a problem with the rock band,” she said with urgency.
“A problem—what do you mean?” He spoke so loudly, Antoine heard every word.
“The band suffered a delay due to technical issues,” she added.
“Then fix it,” Ivan hissed. “Listen, this is what you’re good at. It’s your time to shine, Vanessa.”
“I’ll need your approval to hire another band, sir.”
“You have it. Find a band—a good band. Time is of the essence,” he replied.
Ivan’s sudden vexation amused Antoine too much to part his eyes from him.
“Lovely gathering, Lockhart,” a man said. He took Ivan’s arm and pulled him away from the crowd, away from Antoine’s prying eyes.
“What are you doing here, Jiao? I expressly remember not including your name in my guest list,” Ivan hissed. Not a soul roamed in the garden’s lowest level. This was the perfect spot for them to speak unveiled from the mortal pretense.
“I told myself it had to be a mistake, that perhaps my invitation had somehow gotten lost in the mail… So I came.” Jiao sniggered. “And I’m so glad I did… It’s one hell of a party!”
“I have no time for this,” Ivan muttered. “What do you want?”
“Ah… Straight to the point.” Jiao stroked his chin. “Well, I have a proposition for you.”
Ivan slipped his hands into his pants pockets. “I’m listening,” he said. But was he? He cared more for the chirping song of crickets and the revolving splash of the fountain before him.
“I’ve promised my coven a new era of enlightenment—the dawn of our brethren, if you catch my drift.”
“Your coven? Last I heard, Eirik Bjorn was King of The Devil's Coven, not you.”
“
Things change, Lockhart. One must flow with the times and not become too attached to the old customs for sake of improvement. Surely, you agree…”
Jiao Long’s political pursuits interested him very little. “Why should I care? I belong to no coven.”
“You will care in a minute.” Jiao paused. “A few weeks ago, I came across something of yours.” He opened his hand and revealed an antique golden locket. The letter A engraved on it gleamed in the moonlight.
Ivan’s heart made a full stop. That locket belonged to Alisa. The blood boiled in his veins. A fiery wave took over his preternatural body.
“You fiend!” he growled, snatching the necklace. In a flash, he seized Jiao Long’s neck and slammed him hard against the stone wall. One or two bones cracked beneath his grip, which meant no pain to the soulless devil.
“Where is she?! What have you done to her?!”
He laughed. The bastard laughed despite Ivan’s menacing grin, his sharp fangs ready to rip apart his neck in a single bite.
“But you cannot hurt me, Lockhart!” Jiao snickered. “If you do, you’ll never know where to find her!” More laughter. “You might get her back… if you give me what I want.”
“And what is that?”
“I want the Source.” He grinned. “I know you’ve kept it hidden in Alisa’s necklace.”
Ivan reluctantly released him. “Nonsense.”
“I guess you really don’t care about Alisa anymore…” Jiao unwrinkled his jacket and dusted off its sleeves with his hand. “Poor girl.”
“You leave her out of this!” One quick swing at his head would silence him forever. Tempted as Ivan was, he dared not jeopardize Alisa’s fate.
“That’s impossible since she’s the key to the success of many lifetimes of my endeavors.” Jiao clasped his hands on his back and paced around the fountain.
“The necklace has been heavily guarded by the Deverauxes for years…” Ivan mused as his whirring mind worked. Unfortunately, violence would not do.
“Well, then that shouldn’t be a problem,” Jiao replied. “I hear you’re close to one of the witches.”
“You hear wrongly.” Where the devil had he gotten that information? Lie, Ivan. Lie through your teeth. “The Deverauxes know me only too well to trust me, much less return to me their precious necklace.”
“Perhaps there’s another way to persuade them to speak,” Jiao insisted.
“I don’t like the sound of that. Do you mean to start a war with one of the most powerful families of witches?” Ivan smirked. “Besides, neither of us knows if there’s any truth to the Source’s legend. No vampire has ever drunk from it. For all we know, the Source’s magical properties are nothing but a lot of mumbo jumbo, a ploy concocted by the witches to keep vampires at bay. Confronting the witches would mean risking centuries of peace between us, and for what? Nothing but a bedtime story.”
“You seem to care too much for their fate…” Jiao tilted his head, narrowing his eyes. Ivan knew what he did—what he tried to do. He wanted to pierce his brain and dig deep into his thoughts to discover whatever knowledge he could provide. Well, it ain’t gonna happen, Jiao.
“Nothing could be further from the truth. I simply wouldn’t place my bet on a thousand-year-old piece of junk that some claim is the panacea to all our troubles.” He took a deep breath. “Let Alisa go. She’s no use to you anyway.”
“I’ll be the judge of that, Lockhart.” Jiao pursed his lips. “Join me. Let’s take the necklace from the witches and find out whether the legends are real!”
“And then, what?” Ivan raised his brow. It would have been easier to play along with the bastard, but he couldn’t do it.
“Vampires take the world from mortals. We stop hiding. We rule the city side by side with the Source’s mighty power!”
“We?” Ivan frowned. “Are you sure you do not mean, I?”
Jiao uttered a mirthless laugh. “So you think I would use this power to my advantage?”
“I don’t think it, I know it. You would turn your back on your kin on a whim, Jiao. You’ve done it before, only those in your coven are too young to know the story—”
“Enough!” Jiao said. “This is your last chance, Ivan. Help me and be part of our rebirth or part with me as enemies.”
Big mistake, Jiao.
“No. I will not take part of your stupid plan. I will watch you strive for the leadership you so desire and fail.” Perhaps he shouldn’t have said it, and yet he did. “This is what it all comes down to Jiao: You seek the coven’s recognition. You’ve wanted it ever since Eirik Bjorn walked out on the Red Throne. You call yourself their leader, but have yet to prove your worth.
“But know this: No Source in the world will grant you the wisdom or charisma you so desperately need. Claiming the Source is your crusade to glorify yourself amongst our brethren, and I will not help you succeed.”
“You have spoken. Enemies it is.” Jiao shrugged.
“We’ve never been friends,” Ivan said, moving towards the stairs. Turning back, he added: “I decline to take part of your plans not out of envy, you understand. I couldn't care less about your coven or its leadership. It’s just that… I don’t feel like it.”
Jiao clenched his jaw. “I could crush you with my bare hand, you insolent fool!” he muttered.
“Then, why haven’t you?” Ivan smirked. “You couldn’t even if you wanted, Jiao. You might be four hundred years deep in the Blood, but my blood is True Millenary, and it comes with its perks to be a Millenary’s son.”
“Damn you, Lockhart. You’ve always been a grievance to our Kin… Too bad Alisa must pay for your pride.”
The very mention of her name in his lips infuriated him. Ivan summoned every ounce of willpower to conceal his anger. “Let Alisa go… and stay away from the Deverauxes or you’ll find out just how much of a grievance I can be.”
“Is that a threat?” His lips curled enough to show his amusement.
“Oh no,” Ivan said. “Threats are a nuisance. This is advice. Do not take it lightly.”
Standing in the middle of the dance floor, Marianne searched for Phillip in the crowd. Where was he?
While scanning every face in the garden, someone caught her eye. The man stood behind the anemone bushes. He wore a white tux and gold filigree mask. The mask emulated the sun, with beams radiating from the edges. Nobody noticed his presence. But then, his piercing blue eyes fixed their gaze on her.
Have we met before?
“Marianne! Come join us!” Antoine tugged her hand, leading her to his table. She turned to see the man again. He was gone.
“Superbe,” he said, sweeping her head to toe with a quick glance.
“I’m glad to see you, Antoine.” Amused, she slipped into the chair beside him.
“People, you must meet Marianne,” Antoine addressed his friends. “Isn’t she a goddess?”
Neither of them dared to speak, stunned by her unnatural beauty.
Better say something to break the ice.
“I won’t bite. I promise!” Marianne smiled. Antoine’s friends laughed, and she laughed too, what with the irony of it all.
“Antoine failed to tell us how gorgeous you are,” a man said, young, mid-twenties, with a pulsing jugular to die for.
“The impertinent one is Frank,” Antoine spoke in her ear. “That’s Ethan, and she’s Isabella… We’re old school pals.”
“Pleased to meet you,” she said.
They gazed at her with no discretion or intent to hide their admiration. Marianne had experienced the same when she’d first met Ivan. He had been the most beautiful creature she’d ever seen—flawless pale skin and fierce green eyes... A dark angel.
“Stop staring, guys!” Isabella said. “You’re making her uncomfortable.” Curly blonde hair and blue eyes, purple mask. Lovely mortal.
Ivan’s scolding words echoed in her head: This is an important event, not an Immortal’s private buffet.
“Looks like the party’s fin
ally getting started.” Ethan pointed at the stage where a rock band struck the first chords of an interlude.
The singer’s voice sent a freezing wave down her spine. Fearful, Marianne looked at the stage and focused on the lead singer’s face.
He wore a fitted black leather suit. She glimpsed the sun tattoo on his chest. Stubble beard, sexy labret stud piercing beneath his lower lip... “Michael Reese.”
“Let’s dance!” Antoine beckoned her into the dance floor.
Would Michael recognize her? Anxiety crashed in the pit of her stomach. Running into an ex-boyfriend is pretty much every girl’s nightmare, but this didn’t seem such a bad dream.
No. This is a mistake.
“I’m sorry, Antoine. I have to go.” Marianne slipped through the jostling horde. She moved down the cobblestone footpath, away from the garden—away from Michael.
She stopped at the foyer. Sick and tired of running around that heavy costume, Marianne sat on the poolside. “Oh, Michael…” she said under her breath. “Why now?”
She had been a girl when they first met. Marianne waited tables at Rick’s Bar when Michael had walked in for an audition. The memory came to her as clear as if it had happened yesterday:
Michael’s powerful sensual voice made her step on her toes to catch a glimpse of his face. She went backstage where she was sure to see him—this singer whose voice had lit up the room within seconds.
Marianne snuck behind the stage curtains. She took a step closer, then another, and another until she ran out of stage and fell into the service pit.
“Damn it to hell!” Her scream echoed in the bar. She got on her feet, trying hard to keep a cool attitude when the singer’s tantalizing stare fixed on her. He smiled, and then, he winked. Marianne’s cheeks burned like crazy.
Michael got the job, and so their romance begun. They stayed after hours, making out in the broken freezer room. After a while they started dating, and they were thinking about living together when Marianne got sick. She had no heart to tell him the truth, so she quietly disappeared from his life.
Call of Blood: A Novel of The Unnatural Brethren Page 15
