“They are yours to keep if you accept Mr. Branaugh’s offer,” he said.
Oh. I wondered how many tens of thousands of dollars hung on those racks.
“Ready?” he asked.
I breathed out, steadying myself.
“I’m ready,” I said.
~
Instead of the SUV, a dark orange sports car was waiting for us in the parking deck. Khalil opened my door for me, and I slid into the front passenger seat. The cool leather felt like butter against my palms as I rested my hands on the edges of the seat.
The drive took nearly an hour. We left the city behind as the sun set in glorious gold and purple. I was nervous. My hands were damp, and my heart beat fast as a bird’s wings. I wanted to text Trace, but I was sitting too close to Khalil to dare risk it.
Khalil didn’t say much. The music played loudly, providing a distraction and a reason to stay silent, and I stared out the window, unable to relax as the forested landscape closed around the road, enveloping us in a tunnel of trees.
Finally, lights glowed in the distance.
My stomach lurched as Khalil steered the car down a winding driveway. I caught rapid glimpses of a great green lawn drenched in moonlight, lined with giant hedges, and moss-covered statues standing at attention at intervals along the lawn. Figures strolled in the near darkness on gravel paths lit by burning torches, and some lingered at the edges of the lawn, entwined and embraces. Peacocks strutted across the grass, and I saw a tiger on a leash. Beside a hedge, I saw a man bend his head down and put his mouth on a woman’s neck, and I almost cried out in alarm for Khalil to help her, but then I saw her arms come up to wrap around the man, and she turned her head. Her face was filled with ecstasy.
My stomach knotted, and I looked away in confusion.
Then, I saw the house.
It was as large as a castle, square, with soaring white columns, rows of ornate stone arches, and hundreds of windows, all of them blazing with light. Some of the architectural elements reminded me of the Arc de Triumph in Paris. It was overwhelming in size and design.
A row of cars curved around the driveway in front of the house (if you dared call it a house), and as we stopped, a man wearing a hat came forward to meet us. At first, I thought it was a valet, but then I recognized the face of the man in the tuxedo.
Victor.
He reached out a gloved hand to me. He wore a top hat and a coat with tails. His lapels were dark green velvet. He looked as if he’d just stepped off the set of My Fair Lady, or the pages of a Charles Dickens novel.
“My dear,” he said, bowing over my hand, “you look like a goddess from a vision.”
Khalil telling me I was pretty made me feel almost good, but the same compliment from Victor left me hollow. I bared my teeth in a semblance of a smile anyway, because I was here for Lucy. I looked at him, and my head screamed that he was a vampire. It seemed like a bad dream. I almost couldn’t believe it, except that I could still remember what had happened the night before.
He helped me out of the car, and I steeled myself against flinching away from his hand. I cast a longing glance back at Khalil, but when I looked, he was already driving away to park it, and then Victor was steering me toward the staircase of marble that climbed to the front door of the mansion. Torches blazed along the walkway to the steps, and servants dressed in black and white bowed as we passed.
I figured this was what it felt like to be a princess.
“I didn’t quite think you would pick this dress,” Victor said as we mounted the steps. “It was a last addition of mine, on an impulse.”
I didn’t mention the necessity of pockets. “Well, it’s a good thing you did. It was the only one I wanted to wear. I was ready to head to the mall.”
I said it to mildly challenge the idea that he could dress me like a doll, because the idea infuriated me.
Victor raised both eyebrows. “I sense that you have a streak of defiance, Alexandria.”
“I’d call it healthy independence,” I countered.
“Don’t get so independent that you endanger yourself,” he murmured. “That wouldn’t be healthy at all, now would it?”
Now that sounded frightening. I fell quiet, thinking about what I had to accomplish tonight.
Victor didn’t seem to mind my silence. “Are you a fan of Beaux Arts architecture?”
“I don’t know what that is,” I said.
He laughed as if my ignorance was refreshing. “A French style. It came from the influence of King Louis IV and so on, and neoclassicism.” He waved a hand to indicate the house. “Before us, you’ll find an excellent example of it.”
We went inside and were enveloped in the light of thousands of candles burning in chandeliers above our heads and dripping from candelabras set around the perimeter of the great foyer.
The house was opulent. Stone arches and columns were covered with ornate stone cupids and other figures. Everything was stone. The furniture was obviously antique. I felt as if I were on a movie set myself now. That, or a museum.
A man in a powdered white wig, a purple silk coat, and low heels came forward to meet us. His eyes were sunken and reddened, and something about him seemed ancient and stagnant even though he appeared to be in his thirties at the most.
“Victor,” he said. He had a faint French accent. “How good to see you, my friend.” His eyes fell on me, and he gave me a respectful once-over. “And who is this?”
“Alexandria,” Victor said with a note of pride in his voice. To me, he said, “This is our host, the illustrious and venerable Jean-Claude Depardieu.”
“Very beautiful, my dear,” he said to me, taking my hand with his own.
“Merci beaucoup,” I said, drawing on my scant knowledge of the French I’d taken one semester in Middle School.
“Ah!” Jean-Claude said, breaking into a thin smile. “La jeune fille parle français?”
“Un peu,” I stammered. “Just a little.”
“She has a great deal of promise,” Victor continued. “She’s won science fairs and poetry contests. She has a quick and deft mind.”
I didn’t waste time wondering how Victor knew these things about me. I knew he must have done his research into me before making his offer. Still, a chill rippled down my spine.
“Fantastique,” Jean-Claude said, still smiling. Clearly, I had charmed him with my meager French.
So far, so good.
I followed Trace’s next instructions.
“I love the architecture of your home,” I said, adding a gushing tone to my words. “Do you have any art? I love art.”
“Ah,” Jean-Claude said. “I do, in fact. Art is my passion.” He looked at Victor, who nodded with a benevolent smile, as though I belonged to him.
I bristled but said nothing. This was part of the plan, and I needed to play my docile, willing part as if I wasn’t furious at being treated like a toy.
“My dear, come with me, and prepare yourself to be amazed.”
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
JEAN-CLAUDE TOOK me by the hand—I did my best not to flinch—and led me up one of the vast, curving staircases, past statues contorted in grotesque configurations, past flower arrangements that cascaded over the rail in quivering, delicate waterfalls. We went up and up, leaving the party behind, and then turned into a side hall, this one lined with suits of armor, each shined so bright that I could see my reflection in it.
“Each one is many hundreds of years old,” Jean-Claude said of the armor, waving a hand at it. “I’ve kept them perfectly maintained.”
“Oh,” I murmured appreciatively.
“No, my dear, that isn’t what I wanted to show you.” He reached into his pocket and pulled out a ring of keys. Some were copper, some were gold, some were shaped like something from a movie about kings and castles, and some looked modern and sleek. One was just a silver fob.
It was the fob that I needed.
Don’t worry, Trace had said. The host won’t do anything to hur
t you.
I hoped he was right. But if he wasn’t, I still had the scissors in one pocket and the wooden chopstick in the other. They felt like meager defenses, but I was glad I had them.
Jean-Claude unlocked a door along the hall and motioned for me to step inside. He clapped his hands, and a warm golden glow illuminated the room from along the edges of the ceiling.
I stared. I didn’t have to pretend, because the sight before me was amazing.
Paintings hung everywhere. Massive, vibrant canvases covered with gobs of paint. The room smelled like fabric and paint and a hint of dust, just like a museum, and everything was enveloped in a worshipful hush.
“Some of the rarest paintings in the world sit in this room,” Jean-Claude told me proudly. He pointed at the far wall. “A Da Vinci. And over there, a Rembrandt. Some of them are unknown even to history. But I have them.”
“Wow,” I said, genuinely impressed.
“My dear,” he replied, “That isn’t even the half of it. Come with me.”
We walked through a door into the next room, which was dark. Jean-Claude clapped his hands, and again the room was illuminated by light near the ceiling. I gasped.
The walls were made of mirrors, angled in such a way as to make the objects in the room—bright, colorful balls that glowed from the inside—look infinite, as if we were standing in a galaxy of them.
“Are you familiar with Yayoi Kusama?” Jean-Claude asked. “The famous Japanese artist?”
I shook my head.
“Mostly I like historical works, but something about her art captivates me.” He led me into another room, this one filled with sculpture. He pointed out things that had come from ancient Greece and Rome, rattling off names.
This collection must be worth millions and millions.
Finally, he led me through a narrow doorway and into a hall lined with slabs of stone. It felt as though we’d just walked into a cavern. The stone was covered with etchings of stick figures and animals.
“Hundreds of thousands of years old,” Jean-Claude said proudly. “I discovered it myself when I was hiding from enemy soldiers.”
“Enemy soldiers?” I asked. I wondered if he were referring to a world war or some more ancient one.
He smiled benevolently at me, probably thinking I was just a stupid little human. “Never mind, dear. Anyway, years later, I returned and had the whole cave chiseled up and brought here, so hikers and spelunkers couldn’t ruin it with graffiti and pollution. Look here.”
Jean-Claude dropped the bundle of keys into a silver dish sitting on a pillar beside the door so that he had both hands free to gesture. He crossed the hall with enthusiasm to point at something, and as he did, I reached over and took hold of the fob. It popped off into my hand from the key with a quick twist, and I slipped it into my pocket and followed Jean-Claude.
“See this?” he said, pointing at a piece of rock mounted above the door to the next room. “An ancient cave-man rendition of UFO. Do you see the round shape?”
My heart was beating fast, and I tried to breathe normally. Jean-Claude paused and tipped his head toward me.
“My dear,” he said, “Are you feeling all right?”
“I’m just excited to see this amazing art,” I said, hoping he’d buy the story. “I can’t believe how old it is. And a UFO. Does that mean aliens are real?”
Jean-Claude frowned thoughtfully at me. Did he believe my explanation?
The host is nearly blind and deaf by vampire standards, Trace had explained. But he might still notice your heartbeat if you get spooked. Be prepared for that.
“Don’t get overexcited,” he advised, studying my face.
Time to get back to the party, I thought.
“I am feeling a little faint,” I said, pressing a gloved hand to my forehead.
“Let’s return you to Victor, dear,” Jean-Claude said. “Come.” He scooped up the keys and led me from the room, stopping to lock the door behind us.
He didn’t notice the key fob missing.
Time for part two of the plan.
“Do you have a bathroom around here somewhere?” I asked, hesitating in the hall.
“Yes, my dear. Come, I will show you,” he said.
I hadn’t intended for him to escort me, but I didn’t think I could dissuade him without raising suspicions. So, I let Jean-Claude lead me down another staircase, where he paused before a door.
“I don’t think Victor intends for you to go far tonight,” he confided in me, “so I oughtn’t let you out of my sight, either.”
I was supposed to rendezvous with Trace to pass him the key fob. I needed to rid myself of Jean-Claude to do so. We’d anticipated Victor not wanting me to wander unchaperoned, but Jean-Claude…
Someone appeared at the end of the hall. My stomach clenched with nerves as I recognized the slender, dark-haired figure that came toward us.
The Bookstore Guy. No, he had a name now. Dmitri.
He looked at me, and his gaze scorched me.
“What are you doing up here?” Jean-Claude asked with a hint of suspicion.
“Looking for Alexandria,” Dmitri said, and he swept me a bow that felt like a mockery. His eyes were unreadable as he lifted his head to look at me.
“Are you two acquainted?” Jean-Claude said, looking between us.
“We’ve met a few times,” I said with a nod, getting an idea. I reached out and linked my arm with Dmitri’s, feeling him flinch at the touch of my hand, even though I was wearing a glove. “And it would be lovely for us to catch up on things. If you don’t mind, I think Dmitri can show me where I need to go. Victor won’t mind.”
I could feel Dmitri’s stare burning into my skin, but he didn’t contradict my words.
“All right, my dear,” Jean-Claude said. “I relinquish you to your companion, then.”
He bowed, and then turned on his heel and swept away, leaving us alone in the corridor.
Dmitri pulled away from me and removed my hand from his arm. “What are you doing?” he demanded hoarsely. His beautiful, angry face was sharp with displeasure as he stepped to the other side of the hall.
“What? You’re the one who said you came looking for me!”
“But you weren’t supposed to actually stay with me,” he cried out. “You’re supposed to have more sense than that, Alexandria!”
“I’m not staying with you,” I snapped. “I just wanted to get away from Victor and Jean-Claude. They’ve got me on a leash. And don’t think I’m not armed.”
“Maybe they want you on a leash for good reason, since you seem to be making terrible decisions at the moment,” Dmitri snarled. He seemed in a foul mood.
I started walking away, and he reached out and caught my hand with his.
“Wait.”
I looked over my shoulder at him. His expression had softened slightly into something curious. “Armed with what?”
“What?”
“You said you were armed. Armed with what?”
I pulled away from him and strode down the hall, heart hammering.
He didn’t follow.
I turned the corner and ducked into an alcove to catch my breath. My legs were trembling. Had I given myself away? Would he try to come after me? Stop me?
But no one followed me. And so I continued on to the designated meeting place. I followed the hall to a narrower set of stairs, a servants’ staircase. Halfway down, a hand closed over my elbow, and a finger pressed against my lips. I whirled and saw a handsome face, curling light brown hair, and piercing eyes.
Trace.
“Well?” he asked in a whisper, lowering his hand from my mouth.
In response, I held out the key fob.
Trace’s eyes brightened. “Well done,” he breathed, and I felt warm inside.
“Now,” he said, “I need you to do one more thing for me before you get back to the party.”
I followed him down the staircase to another hall, this one plainer, and lined with narrow doors. Tr
ace opened one to show that it contained a room full of boxes with wires coming out of them.
“The guts of the estate,” he said. “Servers, power, you name it.”
“That door wasn’t locked,” I said. “Why do you need the key fob?”
“For this,” Trace murmured, and opened another door. Inside was a library, the walls lined with shelves, the carpet thick and soft, a fireplace against one wall.
“Stay here and keep watch,” Trace instructed in a low voice. “If anyone comes, signal me by saying you got lost. It’s a good cover story in addition. When I return, I’ll give you the key fob, and you can return it to Jean-Claude’s pocket.” He paused, studying me, and then produced a bottle from his pocket. He shook a pill from it into his hand and held it out. “Take this,” he instructed.
“Is it to counter any Lethe later?” I asked.
He smirked. “No, it’s a Xanax. Most of the vampires here will be too drunk or distracted to notice that your heart is pounding and your body is in a state of stress, but this might help offset the biological alarm bells you’re ringing.”
“Sorry,” I murmured, picking up the pill.
“That’s perfectly normal,” Trace assured me. “You’re doing better than most, believe me. Our agents are all trained in deep meditation to control their adrenaline and cortisol levels during missions.”
That explained why he was so calm, I supposed.
Trace held the digital key to a metal door set in the wall near the fireplace, and there was a low beep. The door slid open, and Trace ducked inside, leaving me alone.
I paced a circle in the soft carpet of the room. Now that I’d performed my part, my nerves were jumping, and my stomach was twisting with excess adrenaline.
I stepped to the bookshelves, distracting myself by scanning the titles. They were all original editions by the looks of them. I was just reaching out to brush one of the spines with my fingertips when a shadow fell across the doorway.
I froze, turned.
It was Dmitri.
“I got lost,” I said quickly, hoping Trace could hear me.
Dmitri leaned against the doorframe. His mouth quirked in a wry, self-loathing smile. “And I’m hiding from the rest of the party.”
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