The Thorndyke Trilogy 2: Dancing at Midnight

by Lynne Connolly

  “That’s one. The vampire bat, the stories of Lilith, Adam’s first wife… There are many stories.” He smiled, and his eyes were intense, or perhaps that was an effect of their unusual color. “With a name like mine, I was bound to study the dark arts.”

  He took the drink Stu had poured for him, and took a sip. He hadn’t asked. Stu must have assumed he wanted one. Red, of course, and in a tumbler. An ordinary-looking tumbler, so presumably his auction lot hadn’t included glassware.

  “Mr. De’Ath—”

  “Call me Trent,” he said smoothly. “It’s a pleasure to see a friend of Stu’s here at last.”

  She bit her tongue before she corrected him. “We’ve known each other for years.”

  His grin widened. “I didn’t think you were his girlfriend, or at least, I hoped not. Familiar, but with no sexy vibe.”

  “I’m glad to hear it.” So he was hitting on her. She could handle that.

  There came that laugh again. A bray, but he cut it short, as if aware of the incongruous sound. “Yeah. You’re more like brother and sister. Now that really would be creepy. Even vampires don’t usually fuck their sisters. Not unless they’re desperate.”

  If that was meant to be a joke, she didn’t find it funny. He was watching her intently, as if waiting for her to deny his jocular accusation. As if it needed denying. “My family and his knew each other, that’s all.” Alarm bells rang. Were they giving off a brother-sister vibe? Fuck, she’d have to watch that. This lying shit was getting more complicated every day.

  “He said you’re a dancer. I’d thought of introducing a few. If the place across the street can spare you, maybe you could earn some extra over here. I’d like something spooky, you know?”

  The music, deafening when she had come in, seemed to recede, or at least it wasn’t so concentrated here by the bar. Perhaps it was done that way deliberately to allow the bar staff to hear orders from customers.

  Nobody was approaching their part of the bar. Several people shot covert glances in their direction and then moved away. The owner evoked a deal of respect from the people here, then, but their reactions were tinged with fear or something akin to it. She caught a few surreptitious glances. Unlike Nathan’s approach to his staff. He moved easily among them and only exerted his authority when he needed to. The customers seemed awed or fearful or something. Trent didn’t appear to notice, concentrating on her.

  “I can’t,” she said, trying to appear regretful. “I’m contracted exclusively to Maskerade for the duration of my contract.” But she could end the contract in a week. She still didn’t know how Nathan, having spent so much money and time on getting her ready, could risk that.

  “And how long is that?”

  She thought rapidly. A flat refusal might have him pursuing her further. “It depends how well the act goes.”

  Nathan even offered to release her if she received a better offer, and the decision was hers. He’d hardly bound her at all. But she wasn’t about to come over here. Maskerade was a classy place, and coming here would definitely be a step down in her world.

  She spread her hands in helpless apology. “I’m busy most of the time with rehearsals in any case. This kind of dance is new to me, and I need to concentrate.”

  He nodded, as if he understood.

  “Do you dance?” she asked.

  He shrugged. “Only on the dance floor. Nothing with actual choreography.” He moved a little closer, just a little, on the pretext of picking up his drink.

  She took another pull on her beer, surprised to find it empty.

  “Do you want another of those?”

  About to refuse, she caught Stu’s anxious expression. “Sure, thanks.”

  This place made her edgy, but she was glad she’d come because she’d seen Stu’s work for herself. As far as she could tell, it was pretty innocuous. Although she still couldn’t approve of the black lipstick the staff wore. Trent didn’t wear it, though, so he hadn’t imposed his personal style on his staff.

  Stu placed another beer in front of her. She didn’t really want this one; she had to be up early the next day. Steve was coming over to run through the whole act. Then they were going to the club for a dress rehearsal, the first time she’d do the act all the way through. With costumes, or rather, without them.

  This beer tasted subtly different from the first one, and when she checked the label, sure enough, it was a different brand.

  Trent touched her elbow, an innocent graze, but it made her shiver. “Come and sit down. We’re blocking the bar.”

  Maybe she could discover more about Stu’s job without appearing as an interfering friend or making their relationship too obvious. A not very subtle attempt at hitting on her would follow, but she could fend that off.

  Trent led her to a couch set a little apart. Maybe he used this on a regular basis, because it did appear like a kind of VIP area without the velvet rope. The couch was upholstered in leather, and the table smoked glass, a cut above the furnishings in the rest of the place. She sat and sipped her beer, enjoying the taste. She’d have to remember this brand. It was better than the one she’d originally had.

  Trent leaned closer. To an outsider, he would appear intimate, as if she was allowing him to invade her space. But she didn’t feel uncomfortable. Fuzzy warmth spread through her. His eyes were really something special.

  “So tell me what you’re doing at Maskerade. Why would a famous ballerina stoop to working there?”

  “Maybe I want something different.” She shrugged. She would not move back, refused to do it. That would be giving in. So they stayed close, his head bent toward her, so close she smelled his musky cologne.

  “Were you injured so you couldn’t go on with the ballet?”

  She hesitated. That would make a good excuse. She’d already realized that unless she made a huge success of Kristen Lowe’s performance, she couldn’t use it on her resume, couldn’t even mention it. If she did do well, then she could announce her name, and any “misunderstandings” by the audience being led to believe that the dancer was a prima ballerina would be forgotten. Because if the real Isadora got to hear of the act linked with her name, there’d be hell to pay, and Kristen would be blacklisted. Isadora Bennett was a much bigger name, one Kristen could never hope to equal, and she had powerful friends. But she wouldn’t say anything definite.

  Trent seemed to understand, as his smile grew. “An interesting way to spend a period of recovery. But you haven’t chosen the right place.”

  “In what way?” He was recruiting her. Suddenly she was in demand? Maybe she should have switched her dancing to clubs years ago. This place might make her a star. Instead of being one dancer among many, they’d showcase her here. The ideas came unbidden to her mind. She took another drink, mildly surprised to discover she’d nearly finished this one too.

  “You could create your own dances here, maybe create a whole new genre. You’d be the first vampire dancer.”

  She waved a dismissive hand. “That’s been done. Dracula is already a ballet.”

  He gazed at her. “I’m not talking about Dracula. How about modern vampires?”

  “If they existed,” she couldn’t help but remind him.

  “Oh, they exist. You’re consorting with one at Maskerade. With several, if truth be told.”

  Two bottles of beer didn’t make her drunk. Far from it. She could still think completely straight. No fuzziness in her mind, no sir. She laughed incredulously. “Are you telling me you believe in vampires?”

  He didn’t smile, didn’t laugh. Just watched her. “I don’t doubt what I can see. Have seen. They trawl the streets for victims at night. Once you’ve been bitten, you’re never the same. It’s hard to believe, isn’t it? They trade on that disbelief. Take your boss, for instance, and his friend. Have you never thought they’re a bit strange? They’re Talents, Kristen. You should keep away from people like that.”

  The man was delusional. Except…except she’d seen one or two
things. The telepathy… Well, she’d heard of people who had that before, had read reports of experiments conducted by the FBI and in the old Soviet Union. Now she saw it in a different light. The way Nathan and Dalton were with each other sometimes, as if they’d known each other forever. Nathan had been discussing World War II as if he’d seen it firsthand but then laughed it off, said his grandfather had told him. She shook her head, trying to clear the fuzziness no doubt brought on by the pace she’d been working at recently.

  Not enough to persuade her. But her mind drifted to other occasions when she’d noticed something, then pushed it aside. Like Nathan’s references to Anna Pavlova, who was a plain woman made beautiful by her exquisite dancing or the difficulties of early driving. As if he’d been there. He could ride, but so could most cowboys.

  No, that notion was stupid. But the more she tried to dismiss it, the stronger it appeared. Her mind was working in reverse, making the impossible not only possible but probable. She’d think about it properly later.

  She closed her eyes, weariness seeping through her. She was tired of thinking, tired of rehearsals. And oh, she could sleep now.

  This chair was softer than she’d thought. Like floating on a cloud. And this place wasn’t so bad. Trent had used his imagination and hit a trend. “You think they’re our enemies?”

  He nodded gravely. “Of course. They prey on us. We’re nothing but food to them. Vampires and more. They call themselves Talents. That tells you something, doesn’t it? They’re the talented ones. We’re merely fodder, useless.”

  If that were true… But Nathan hadn’t treated her with respect or kindness lately. She’d accepted it because dance tutors and choreographers were often like that, especially to the nonfeatured dancers in a company. The need for this job, to prove herself worthwhile, a real dancer, had ridden her, making her blind to everything else.

  But what if something else drove Nathan? What if she was something, rather than somebody, to be used and then discarded? Had he fed from her already? She felt as if someone was in her mind, gently leading her toward conclusions she’d usually find preposterous.

  What the fuck was she thinking?

  That was the trouble. She hadn’t thought at all. The thought came unbidden, suggested. He was right. Trent was right.

  “Tell me more,” she said.

  * * * *

  “So Saturday night she makes her debut, your new star.” Vella ran her pen down a printed list. “Your VIPs want in.”

  Nathan spared her a glance. “Tell them their names are in the lottery along with everyone else. Tickets issued strictly by lot. Do they say why they’re so eager to come?”

  “For the new star. To see ballet done right.”

  Fuck. “The guests know they’re going to see ballroom, don’t they?”

  “Sure. Isadora has done modern dance. The poster shows her ballet pose, but it’s clear that’s not what she’s doing here.” Vella glanced up, and her expression arrested. “Don’t get too close to her.”

  Too late. He was already too close. He couldn’t let her any closer. Nobody would do that. Not again. After he lost his first love, he’d found others, and time after time, they’d hurt him, inadvertently or on purpose. For the last thirty years, he’d gained a measure of peace, and for a Talent of his age, that was all he could hope for. After the betrayal that had nearly killed him. His two friends had helped him, and for that he owed them.

  He forced his mind away from the man in Texas, one of his oldest friends, who’d found love, or so he claimed. Nathan was glad for Jay, but it was early days. Jay had a better chance because he was less jaded and more open. Nathan had opened himself too often, especially in the early days. Too late for him.

  “Steve’s a great dancer. He’ll show Kristen off better than I could.”

  “Good.” Vella returned to her work. She was old-fashioned enough to prefer paper, as a person older than a hundred years should be. Or at least that was how she explained it to Nathan. She printed out the receipts and kept important lists in paper format. “So you’re not attracted to her?”

  Nathan snorted. “She has a great body.” He tried to sound offhand, but these days he was finding it increasingly difficult to distance himself from her. He fucked Kristen, then left before he could allow any closer connection to happen. Before he could grow even slightly fond of her.

  If he was honest with himself, that had already happened, but he could be fond of people without it affecting his inner self. That was protected with thick walls he wouldn’t allow anyone to penetrate. Not even her, the woman who felt like silk in his arms, deceptively soft, sensuous, but with a core of inner strength that made him fear for his sanity.

  “So you’re just fucking her?”

  Even though he knew Vella’s secret, he still felt mildly shocked when she casually swore. A man of his age would always find a woman cursing somewhat surprising. He showed none of his instinctive reaction. “Yes, that’s all. I rehearsed her, and I don’t have anyone special right now. I’m not a saint, and she’s not a shrinking virgin.”

  “Don’t get involved. Getting tangled up with a mortal is a dangerous thing. Shape-shifters shouldn’t waste their gifts like that. They should breed true.”

  “It doesn’t matter in my case. That bird has flown.”

  Vella looked up again, her eyes sharp. “You’ve converted someone?”

  His kind could convert once and once only, and they didn’t die doing it. “Yes.” He was a good enough liar for that to pass Vella’s scrutiny. He couldn’t exactly say why he’d lied to her, except he didn’t want her to think of Kristen as a threat. If she thought Kristen was getting too close to him, she might take action to get rid of her.

  Now that was stupid, since he wanted Kristen to go. She was a threat; he could admit that. It was growing harder to keep her at a distance. Vella wouldn’t hurt Kristen. Would she?

  No. Vella wouldn’t do that. That was stupid, thinking along those lines. He was getting paranoid. Although Vella wanted Nathan for her daughter, Nathan had always ignored the hints and the growing pressure. Britt was a pretty little thing, but sweet and sheltered. Nathan would destroy her. The person who fell for Britt would have to take very good care of her, and Nathan didn’t feel that strongly about her.

  But that wouldn’t drive Vella to hurt Kristen.

  So why the lie?

  As usual when confronted with something he didn’t know how to deal with immediately, he pushed the idea aside. It wasn’t important. It was done, and he’d move on. He knew what he wanted to do, what he must do—let Kristen make a name for herself and then move her to another club. Maybe she’d like to star in New York. Not on Broadway, that was true, but he might pave the way for her.

  She confused him, tangled him up. And he still wanted her with a rawness he couldn’t recall ever feeling before.

  A disturbance in the atmosphere, something stirring in his mind, had him jerking up his head and opening his senses, searching for the intrusion.

  He let out a sigh of relief. Dalton was striding toward them. Dalton disturbed everything, once he had something on his mind. From the set of his mouth and the glint in his eyes, Nathan didn’t need telepathy to inform him of that. Dalton was mad.

  “Where is she?” His hands bunched by his sides, his shoulders squared, Dalton looked ready for a fight.

  Not with Nathan. “Who?”

  “Don’t fuck with me. Kristen. Where is she?”

  “Isn’t she in her apartment?”

  “Nope. You’ve done something, haven’t you?”

  Nathan threw up his hands. “What the fuck do you think I’ve done? I’ve been here all day. She’s not due for rehearsals until tomorrow. I told her to get some rest today.”

  “You really don’t know?”

  “We’re not sharing the same space.” And that was because he couldn’t bear to, although he needed her nearby. He could have moved her in with him, but fuck, he’d be well and truly trapped by now, wheth
er she meant it or not. An apartment in the same building would be enough.

  “She’s in Vampire Heaven.”

  Nathan curled his lip. “But you’re here, so which vampire has taken her there?”

  “Fuck, Nathan, this is no joke.” Dalton glared at Nathan. “That’s the club along the street. The one where her brother works.” Oh yeah, it hadn’t taken much to work out the true relationship between Stu and Kristen. Their looks, even though their superficial appearance was different, the way they moved, comfortable with each other but not in a sexual way, and the similar patterns in their minds. It all pointed to that conclusion.

  “So? She’s entitled to visit him, isn’t she? She probably wants to make sure he’s okay working there. Those people creep me out.”

  “I’m not surprised. They’re PHR.” The organization dedicated to taking down Talents.

  Jolted into sharp attention, Nathan stepped forward. “What?”

  Nobody was near them—only Vella, who was a Talent. Just as well, because Nathan didn’t have the control to lower his voice or use telepathy. “Why the fuck didn’t you tell me?”

  “I thought you knew. I told you a place near yours was suspected PHR.”

  Nathan flung his arm wide. “How many clubs do you think there are around here? It’s not as if we’re the only ones! Did you tell me the name?”

  Grimacing, Dalton shook his head. “I can’t remember. I thought I did. Listen, I’ve been busy. And that has to be the only vampire club around here.”

  Nathan snorted. “What the fuck difference does that make? There are a few. And in any case, it’s play. That movie, a few books, and they think they know it all. Look at you, with your pale skin, fangs, black clothes, and cobwebs drifting around you. Give me strength.”

  Dalton was the epitome of a successful businessman. He wore navy pants and a sky-blue shirt with a red tie knotted in a double Windsor knot. His jacket was fitted for him and him alone. The only black about him was his gleaming hair and his polished Italian shoes, over which his pants drifted in a perfect line. He sported an expensive haircut, as indeed did Nathan. The habits of the well-dressed Regency gentleman went deep. Deeper than the Talent, probably.