“We don’t get out much,” Isabel said, noticing her daughter’s tension. “Since we had to keep so many secrets all these years, it was easier for Pel and I to just live up on the mountain and keep to ourselves.”
“I see.” Parsons gave Dennis' arm a slight tug, eager to get away from them.
“That’s how I looked at you, isn’t it?” Dennis asked.
“Please, I’d rather not be reminded.”
He leaned close to her ear. “Give us idiot humans a chance,” he said softly.
That wrung the barest smile out of her.
More people were starting to fill the room, Papa’s friends saying hello to her. Musicians were setting up in the orchestra pit. She kept seeing guests asking Calban about the protestors, and he kept shaking his head. “No, I do not want any of them injured,” she heard him say at one point. “I need to speak to Lord Jherin before any action is taken.”
Parsons greeted a few other people, occasionally reaching inside her pocket, now feeling the wand and the key knocking around together. Two little objects that said, You could have Dennis forever, if only…
“Please, Mr. Faraday.” Calban came their way, beckoning Dennis with a wave of his hand. “Can you head backstage with the Clarkes? When the show starts I’m going to introduce you along with everyone else. Then you are free to rejoin Miss Belvray for the featured attraction.”
Dennis gave Calban an icy look but followed the directive without comment. Calban smiled at Parsons like they shared a secret. “Did your father speak to you?”
“Yes.”
“So, what do you think? Don’t tell me I haven’t found you a handsome and fascinating husband.”
“If he agrees.”
“He’ll agree,” Calban said.
“He will certainly feel pressured to agree.”
“I know it’s in your nature to be contrary, but—I see how you look at each other. I’m a very good matchmaker and this is only the beginning of the life I have in mind for you. There is so much more to learn about vampires. Haven’t you always wondered why you became a Fanarlem? I think this is your fated purpose.”
Parsons hardly knew what to say. Having Calban’s attention on her made her very nervous. After I help Dennis escape, would Calban punish me? He wouldn’t lock me in prison, would he? She had imagined herself to be above such things, but her trust in him was eroding quickly.
A good Daramon girl would agree that yes, it must be her fated purpose. But Parsons just crossed her arms, too anxious to pretend.
As Calban moved on to other conversations, Parsons drew closer to Irik with a polite nod, but she let her eyes ask questions. “How are you this evening?”
Irik’s eyes blazed ahead. “No better,” she whispered. “No better at all. I’ve turned another prisoner into a monster and Calban is furious.”
“Another prisoner? And what about you? Has he hurt you anymore?”
Irik didn’t look anxious, she looked pissed. “What would you do if I said he had?”
“I—I can’t really do anything, but maybe we should talk more—”
Irik shook her head. “To be honest, I don’t ever want to talk about it.” She looked like she didn’t really believe Parsons was helpless—more like a coward. “I should never have trusted a foreign man. Of course he has his own motives. He never cared about me.”
“I’m sorry,” Parsons said, on edge now. “Believe me, I have my own problems to worry about.”
“Attention!” Calban raised his voice, spreading his arms, and then walked on stage. “We will be starting the evening’s entertainment soon, so if you would find your seats.”
Their seats were assigned on their tickets, leaving one empty for Dennis, who had been herded to the side of the stage with the other humans. Besides the Misses Clarke, there was a stout man with salt-and-pepper hair, and a man as dark-skinned as Irik, wearing a jaunty top hat, like the men on the ragtime music sheets. Parsons would bet anything Calban had invited him here for some musical endeavor.
Sure enough, performance was always Calban’s highest priority. He introduced them all, and the dark-skinned man, Mr. Jackson, took to the piano to play “The Peacock Strut” and then a fast-paced tune in the new “jazz” style. The man could certainly play, with so much more speed and energy than the tinny records everyone was used to.
He didn’t smile or say much of anything. Despite the splendid music, she felt like he’d been put up to it.
Mr. Richter, from Germany, was introduced as a scholar; he had a very thick accent when he spoke in their tongue, so Parsons guessed he hadn’t been here for long. He gave a rather stiff speech about how impressed he was personally with how advanced Nalim Ima was, and how the moral rule of the Wodrenarune would surely prevent unjustified wars like the Great War that was taking the lives of so many men in Europe.
Isabel Clarke related a more personal story about her unhappy marriage with Lizzie’s human father back in Albany, and how an accidental encounter had led to her falling in love with a Daramon man and his entire culture. She said she had never regretted leaving America.
Parsons knew that Dennis had not been asked to prepare anything, and apprehension rose within her, wondering how Calban would present him.
“You may have heard that the Fallen Lands is a world without magic. It is almost true. Magic exists there, as a hidden underground. Mr. Faraday is a particularly interesting sort of undead creature called a ‘vampire’… Rather than taking elixirs as our undead do, he only needs blood to survive. The possibilities of studying this new form of magic are quite exciting.”
Dennis lit a cigarette while Calban was talking, which probably didn’t win him any favors, but he was put in such an uncomfortable position, trotted on stage just to be stared at by all the rich Daramons.
When it was finally over, the orchestra began to play some airs, and Dennis returned to sit beside her.
“Well, it wasn’t the worst thing I’ve been through,” he said.
“I’m so sorry,” she said.
He looked at her for another second, and then sat back. The theater dimmed, and the title screen of the first film flashed on the screen. A Blessing from the Wodrenarune.
This was a historic moment, Parsons thought. The first film made in her own world. A year ago, she would have been so excited to see it, but now a sense of dread descended on her.
The orchestra was silent, leaving the flickering black and white images to speak for themselves. With his eyes lined in black and closed to the world, wearing ornate robes and his headdress of black wings, Lord Jherin sat in meditation within a carved structure, shaped like a small tent, within a larger room. It was like he had been placed inside a box to be preserved forever. He didn’t move.
It was still the most anyone had seen of his face in years, besides the portrait that hung in almost every household.
The film cut, and now Lord Jherin was walking across a room and lifting one crystal from a table covered in crystals of different shapes and sizes. He murmured something, which of course no one could hear, and lifted his hand. The blessing. Parsons knew it well enough to read his lips.
Ho Wodren…soo in noman…
Fates, to thee I plea…
Give me your wisdom, that I may give it to my people
Lend them the ears to hear it and the hearts to accept your will
Banish my pride that I will never lead them astray
Bless us with the strength to bear our sorrows
And the tools to forge a bright future
The film cut again to show the great glowing crystal that had once launched a war and had enabled Lord Jherin to execute the Ten Thousand Man Sacrifice. The audience reacted with an awed hush. Few people were allowed to see the crystal in real life.
The pictures flickered in surreal silence. Parsons wondered if anyone else was finding this creepy.
It was a thrilling sort of creepy, though. Like a peek behind a forbidden curtain, into another world entirely. She had
never seen Lord Jherin’s face in motion. When he appeared to the people, he was always shrouded and high up on the palace balcony.
A handful of audience members began to weep. Many of them were old enough that they had known him in younger days, when he still spoke to the people directly. A few might even remember a time when he led their army to small but pivotal victories and danced at the celebratory balls.
The film was probably not longer than ten minutes. The audience applauded with vigor.
“Stand!” Calban urged them. “Stand for Lord Jherin. I will tell him how pleased you were to see him.”
Dennis looked at her. “I don’t want to stand for him,” he said bluntly.
The prospect of explaining this if someone happened to notice made her innards turn. “Please. Don’t get in trouble now.”
He stood, telegraphing reluctance in his slowness. He stood beside her, glaring as he clapped. She stared at her hands.
When he leaves…this will still be my world.
The audience sat again, and the feature began. The poor little rich girl watched other children ice-skating out her window before it was slammed shut. Her rich father neglected her.
A woman standing out of sight somewhere read the English-language inter-titles aloud, for the many people who didn’t understand the language.
The orchestra played music to accompany the film, although they were not very creative, playing the same waltz over and over whether it matched the scene or not.
“How old you think Mary Pickford is?”
“I don’t know. Why?”
“She reminds me of a Fanarlem.”
“I don’t think I look like her.”
“Your eyes do.”
Mary Pickford looked small compared to all the other actors in the film, and Parsons did notice this—that was her world too, always being the petite one in the room, getting patted on the head.
Dennis picked up her hand and folded it against his heart even as he was watching the movie. “I can’t ever really go home again,” he said. “I’ve seen too much.”
The back doors of the theater suddenly burst open. Parsons whipped around in her chair, eyes searching the darkness. A man was running down the center aisle. He lifted a staff and blasted a hole through the center of the screen.
Two of the city guard were right behind him. One shot a dart in the man’s back to paralyze him seconds before the other tackled him.
The audience erupted into mayhem, trying to get out of their seats. They wasted no time, clearly on edge due to the “rabble” outside. The movie played on, with a huge hole in the center of the picture.
A mob of people poured in from the back doors, barely restrained by a few more guards, who were quickly shoved aside.
Dennis was already on his feet. Everything was in chaos. The lights were still dimmed.
Somehow, the crowd outside had breached the guards and there seemed to be many more of them than before. It was like watching a tidal wave coming on shore. Parsons felt helpless watching hundreds of people streaming through the doors, their motives unclear, but there was a lot of screaming and a few shots fired somewhere, followed by the sounds of sorcery and various spells: sizzling, cracking, hissing, booming.
She wasn’t sure the magic was making things any better. Ladies screamed at every new sound. Then again, it wasn’t clear whose side the sorcerers were on. Who could see in this mess?
As the crowd was shoving every which way, some trying to get out while others tried to get in, she was pushed into Dennis. He grabbed her shoulders.
“You should go,” said a lady in the next aisle up, a woman who sometimes worked with her father. “They might target humans. And I suppose that’s the end of the film, isn’t it.” She looked more tired than concerned.
“Let’s try and get to the auto,” she told Dennis.
Easier said than done, of course. The side aisles were also filled by a press of people now. The audience was trapped in their seats. Some of them were climbing over backs to reach the front, ladies struggling with the fashionable tube-shaped dresses. Parsons was glad she hadn’t worn one of those, but the length of her skirt was still inconvenient. She gathered up the fabric of her skirt to free her legs, ready to run if she spotted an opening.
Dennis' eyes darted around. His face was starting to turn hungry. She recognized it by now. He smelled blood. It was no surprise that someone in this room was bleeding.
“Dennis, please, you have to control yourself.” She climbed over the seats in front of them, putting her foot on the armrest and stumbling a little so her foot almost slipped between the flipped up seat and the back. “Let’s get to fresh air.”
The screaming grew more shrill and urgent. A woman had dragged Lizzie Clarke onto the stage by the hair. “Humans!” the woman screeched. The Red General sprung onto the stage beside her, pulling out a sword.
The woman threw Lizzie down and took out a sword of her own. They started sparring, blades clashing.
Parsons grabbed Dennis' sleeve and yanked him forward with all her might. One wrong move and there would be more blood flowing than he could resist.
“Whoa there, filly,” he said, good-naturedly. “Don’t panic. I’m right behind you.”
Someone pitched a rock at him. “Round ears!”
He glanced sharply back. It was clear which man had thrown the rock, a gray-haired man in a tunic made of raw linen. He was shaking his fist. “Get out of our country,” he barked.
Dennis swept Parsons up into his arms and ran along the backs of the theater chairs. It happened so fast she hardly knew what was going on until he was almost at the end of the aisle. The seats creaked under his weight but he easily kept his balance even though they were as thin as ropes. She clutched his neck.
When they got to the aisle, he shoved aside people and carried her through the side doors.
The doors led to a hallway, and it was not so crowded here, but the crowd was coming down from the end. He put her on her feet and took her hand. They ran, Parsons clutching her skirts. She felt like a target now, dressed so finely when the intruders were in homespun fabrics.
Which way to go? Dennis tried the door at one end of the hall and found it locked.
“Go home, human!” a man shouted. They pelted Parsons and Dennis both with more rocks. Dennis yanked the door open, breaking the lock, but it opened to a shadowed room that might well be a dead end.
“Stop it!” Parsons cried, taking a few steps toward them. “Lay off of him! What is this? What do you want?”
Another man shoved his way through the crowd. He was wearing a brimmed hat pulled low over his eyes, patched clothing and grubby boots, but she recognized his height and the way he moved. “Miss Belvray,” Mr. Samaron said. “You should get out of here.” He took her arm and tried to lead her away from Dennis.
“Don't grab me,” Parsons said. “I know where I want to be. And what about you? Storming the theater with the mob?”
The crowd rumbled back at her. “Get that little rich bitch.”
“Please, Miss Belvray, I really don’t want to see you torn to pieces but if you insist on being stubborn I don’t know what to say. And yes, I am with the mob. The general and his experiments prevented me from having sons of my own. And as for you—” He turned his attention to Dennis. “You don’t deserve her.”
“I don’t? I’ve seen how you look at her.”
“And I see how you look at her. She was born a Daramon girl. She deserves better than a human, or whatever blood-drinking thing you are.”
Dennis growled, bearing his fangs, ready to fight.
“Mr. Samaron, the Peacock General wants me to marry Mr. Faraday,” Parsons said, desperate to diffuse the tension before blood was drawn.
Mr. Samaron laughed. “What? Why would he want you to marry him?”
“Look—he gave me the key to a house for us to share when we’re married.”
This didn’t do her any favors with the crowd. “A house? A house for a
human man and a spoiled little girl? Where’s our house?”
“The humans are taking our livelihood,” another man said. “We don’t want his books and music and we sure don’t want to wear his clothes.”
There was a chorus of agreement and they pressed closer. A woman grabbed Parsons’s sleeve and yanked on it, trying to tear her dress. The fabric was actually pretty sturdy and she only succeeded in pulling Parsons sideways.
“STOP IT!” Parsons shouted, as loud as her voice would go. “You’re being ridiculous! Mr. Faraday didn’t make this. Lord Jherin did and it’s been going on for thirty years. He only just now decided to tell you where it came from, and it’s too late to put an end to it just by storming a theater.”
“Where is the new world we were promised? If this is it, I don’t want it! No one buys my lace anymore.”
“Or my chairs,” a man added. “Or anything of quality.”
“That is surely not true,” Parsons said. “I have many things of quality.”
“Of course you do!”
“You people are the ones shoving all that foreign crap down our throats!”
“Tear her up!” one of the men encouraged. “She’s a Fanarlem anyway, we can make a point to Mr. Belvray and the generals!”
“You wouldn’t,” Parsons said, standing her ground. She wasn’t very scared despite their numbers. Dennis was probably stronger than all of them put together.
The man tried to grab her. She stomped the heel of her shoes on his toes.
Dennis swept forward, pulling her away from them, and another man took a swing at him instead.
Parsons, given a moment’s reprieve, pulled one of her defensive potions out of her pocket. Hopefully it wouldn’t hurt Dennis. She threw it at the ground and it exploded into poisoned air which sent the people closest to it reeling, shutting their eyes and struggling to cover their mouths and noses with sleeves or handkerchiefs.
In the midst of all this, Mr. Samaron lunged for Dennis. At a glance, Mr. Samaron had the size advantage, but in reality, Dennis dodged every move Mr. Samaron made. He shoved him against the wall and easily pinned him with a hand. Mr. Samaron tried to break his hold, struggling against the pressure on his shoulder and then attempting a kick.
The Vampire's Doll (The Heiress and the Vampire Book 1) Page 20