Chapter Five
The Valentine’s Day Ball is styled like an indoor garden party.
A carpet of rose petals leads down the stairs and into the ballroom, and more flowers twine over the railing and dangle from the chandeliers.
I pause to pluck a bloom from the banister as we descend the staircase, bringing it to my nose.
It’s honey-sweet, and soft as silk between my fingers.
The flowers are all real, and so are the trees that someone has transplanted indoors, their branches dripping with twinkling fairy lights.
The ballroom is dim aside from that soft, golden illumination.
It doesn’t quite reach the edges of the huge room, where whispers of fabric indicate movement I cannot see.
Dancers in the center of the ballroom drift in and out of the light, visible and then gone; some disappear into the shadows and don’t emerge again.
I’m sure it’s intentional that the vampires can see everything in the room, but us humans cannot. It feels both playful and ominous, a sort of fairy-tale menace—don’t stray from the light.
Most humans get a glimpse of the vampire society through the media, but few ever get a chance to experience it like this.
They may exist in the same world as us, but their small population exists almost entirely separately from us.
Some might say above us. Now it feels like I’m stepping into their world, a place that feels ancient and secret, and it is both awe-inspiring and terrifying.
I cling tighter to Benjamin’s arm, suppressing a shiver, and turn my attention from the decorations to the partygoers.
They teeter on the same edge between beautiful and sinister.
Vampires and humans alike are draped in finery, and I quickly forget any concerns that my dress is too much when I see a woman wearing a sheer dress with real roses covering only her most private areas, and a man whose chiseled body is shirtless beneath a cape of pink and white carnations.
Everyone and everything here is so gorgeous, so interesting.
I would love to stand in a corner somewhere and watch the night unfold.
But instead, Benjamin leads me into the heart of the crowd.
I hold tight to him, fighting the urge to slink back against the wall.
My shoulders keep curling inward, like I’m a turtle retreating into its shell; it takes determination to keep my head up and my back straight.
I take out my blood card—a paper fan holding my tasting notes, the name of my chaperone, and six slots to sign up for drinking from me—and fan my face with it.
But still I can hear my heartbeat in my ears, and the glances of vampires we pass remind me that they can hear it, too.
I had time to adjust to being in a vampire’s presence during my week with Benjamin, but my adrenaline is still surging as I realize I’m surrounded by potential predators.
“You’re safe,” Benjamin says in a low voice. He pats my hand, and I realize I’m clutching him so hard, it must hurt. Or at least it would if he were human. “Take a moment, let yourself adapt to it.”
“I’m not sure I can,” I grit out through a fake smile as another vampire glances our way, giving me a once-over. What the hell am I doing here? What made me think I was in any way cut out for this?
“I promise you can, and you will. Just breathe.”
Benjamin leads me in a slow circle around the edges of the party, in and out of the shadowed recesses of the ballroom.
By our second pass through, I finally feel like I’m no longer on the verge of passing out.
But I’m still far from comfortable. Everywhere I look I see poise and beauty, gold and glamor.
I feel more and more like a pigeon in the midst of peacocks.
Drab in a way that people would normally overlook, but just makes me stand out more in a place like this.
Yet as time passes and nobody stares at me as though I’m the leper I feel like I am, I gradually relax.
“That’s it,” Benjamin says, smiling at me. “Do you think you’re ready to meet some potential patrons?”
My pulse leaps at the thought, my mouth immediately going dry again, but I force a wobbly smile. This is what I’m here for, after all. I’ve trained for it, I’m being paid for it. I don’t have much hope for finding a long-term patron, but I owe it to Benjamin to try.
And maybe… maybe I owe it to myself, as well.
“Let’s do this,” I say.
* * *
The first vampire takes my blood card and scans it. I’ve already memorized the tasting notes Benjamin included: rich and smooth, with subtle notes of cherry and dark chocolate.
It makes me sound like a lovely red wine, but the man frowns as he lowers it. “Ah,” he says. “I was hoping for something more interesting. The human you brought last year was so novel.”
Benjamin’s smile is only slightly strained. “You’re referring to Miss Burton? I recall you spitting out her blood all over the floor.”
“Exactly!” The man grins. “An experience I’ll never forget. But this sounds…” He frowns at my card. He still hasn’t so much as glanced at me. “Well, forgettable.”
I focus on the rose-and-dagger symbol embroidered onto his suit jacket. A Camelia vampire, I tell myself. Not a good match anyway.
Benjamin plucks the fan out of the other man’s hand and returns it to me. “A pity,” he says. “I suppose you’ll have to find your entertainment elsewhere tonight.”
As the vampire stalks off, muttering to himself, Benjamin pats my arm. “Ignore him. You wouldn’t have wanted to be bitten by him, anyway. He makes a mess of it.”
I nod, but it’s hard not to feel his judgment as a blow to my self-esteem.
And while the next few vampires we approach aren’t such assholes about it, they express similar sentiments.
And here I thought you were a purveyor of more interesting flavors, one says, while another questions, Nothing more exotic this time?
Benjamin’s frustration grows with each conversation that goes nowhere, and I can’t help but feel responsible for it.
“I’m sorry,” I say, though I’m not sure for what.
“Don’t be,” he says. “The same arseholes who rejected Amelia for having an unusual flavor are now rejecting you for having a pleasant one. It has nothing to do with you, and everything to do with my courtless status and their power plays.”
I’m not sure I believe him, nor am I surprised by the way things are going. I’ve spent my entire life being unremarkable, so it’s no shock to me now.
* * *
After several rejections in a row, I ask for a moment away from the ballroom.
It’s raining outside, a quiet patter against the distant rooftop, so Benjamin takes me deeper into the mansion.
We wander through quiet hallways, occupied by smaller groups or vampire-valentine duos seeking a private moment.
We pass by a set of double doors that I suspect is a library, but when I reach for the handle, Benjamin shakes his head.
“Occupied,” he says, and urges me onward.
Gentle piano music drifts out of another room, and we pause in the doorway to listen before continuing on.
Next is a gallery of sorts, and I pause, my eyes drawn to the walls and the paintings that line them.
After a moment, I let go of Benjamin’s arm and step inside to study them.
He hangs back to give me space, though I can feel his eyes on me.
Despite my better judgment, I always find myself drawn to art. There is a comforting type of familiarity in it. My mother could never teach me talent and passion, but she did succeed at giving me an eye for it.
I walk slowly through the room. My eyes pass over most of the paintings—lovely, but missing personality—before settling on a Baroque-influenced depiction of a Paris café.
An everyday scene captured in deep colors and dramatic lighting, drawing the eye to details one would normally overlook: a still-smoking pipe left on a table, a flower on the sidewalk that has been crushed beneath someone’s heel.
It’s… interesting. I find myself staring at it for longer than I intended.
I walk slowly down the wall, following a line of framed paintings that must have come from the same artist’s hand.
There’s a lighthouse overlooking a stormy sea, a beautiful cathedral drawn in fuzzy detail with a bedraggled stray cat in the foreground, a candle dripping wax on a windowsill overlooking a cliff, a glass of red wine toppled over and spilling over the edge of a table.
My mom always told me that art is successful if it makes you feel something, but I’ve found that most things she calls fine art don’t do anything for me.
This, though, stirs something in my chest. It feels more honest than most art.
Ugly and beautiful at the same time, highlighting the details that most people wouldn’t notice.
I stop at the last, where a small cluster of other valentines have gathered. I gaze up at it alongside them. This one depicts a tree on a sunny hillside, all soft edges and bright colors.
“Isn’t it just beautiful?” one of the other women asks, staring up at the painting.
Another sighs. “Gorgeous. A shame it was his last.”
“His last?” I’m too curious; I have to butt in to their conversation. “Did he pass away?”
A man huffs as if it’s a stupid question. “Of course not. This is the work of Lord Claude de Vulpe.”
He says it like the name should mean something to me. It does give me a glimmer of familiarity, though I can’t put my finger on it. It does, however, tell me that the artist is a vampire.
“Then why has he stopped painting?”
“I heard he went mad,” someone whispers behind her fanned-out blood card.
“I heard he has some grudge against the Vulpe Court,” another person contributes.
“Nobody knows,” the man says with a shrug. “But he hasn’t painted since he was turned into a vampire.”
“Regardless,” the woman says, still gazing up at the painting with adoration that almost seems fake, like she’s posing for some reason. “I think it’s his best work.”
I snort a laugh, unable to help myself. “Really?” They all turn to look at me, wearing a unified expression of who the hell are you to comment?
My face heats, but I’m too deep to back out now.
“I mean… it’s pretty, sure. But it’s so…
I don’t know. Empty, compared to the rest. All of the others had something to say.
And this one is just…” I gesture vaguely with one hand, and then stop, realizing that the valentines are still staring—but no longer at me.
Instead they’re all looking somewhere behind me. I turn, and startle as I realize someone is standing just a few feet away, where I’m sure there was no one a few seconds ago.
Only a vampire could move so quickly and quietly.
This man has a face that looks like it belongs in marble, all hard angles and hollow cheeks, lush lips, and long eyelashes.
Devastatingly pretty, with sad eyes of the palest blue.
He’s very tall, even with the lazy slouch of his shoulders.
A disarray of brown curls lay over his ears and forehead.
His fine white shirt is wrinkled and half-untucked from his tailored trousers, his sleeves pushed haphazardly up his forearms.
I have an urge to push back his hair and fix his shirt, but I’m not sure if it’s because the lack of care annoys me or because I want an excuse to touch him.
Either way, it’s an inappropriate thought, especially because he is currently looking at me as though I just walked over and yanked out one of his perfect, messy curls.
“You don’t like it?” he asks. There’s the slightest hint of a French accent in his voice, which would be sultry if he didn’t sound so wounded.
I follow his assessing gaze to the painting behind me. But before I can answer, the valentines on either side of me immediately dip into bows and curtsies, one of them letting out a choked, panicky sound.
“It’s an honor,” says one.
“Such a surprise to see you,” another says, “Lord Claude.”