18. Count Dracula
Count Dracula
Louna cried out, falling back and lifting her arms to shield her face from the shattered wood. The squeal of the harpsichord’s horrible, discordant death echoed through the room—five seconds—and Louna stared at its corpse in dismay.
“Louna?” Tennyson said, sharply, like he’d said her name already.
“I’m fine,” she said. “It’s okay. I just—dropped something. It surprised me.”
“Where are you?” Tennyson asked.
His voice was edged with something close to fear, and she forced humor into her own tone. “I’ll clean it up, don’t worry. Just clumsy today, I suppose.”
“You’re not clumsy,” Tennyson said.
“Don’t invent trouble,” Louna said, setting her hand against her chest in an effort to settle her racing heart. “Everybody has off days.”
He made a doubtful noise, but let the matter drop. Louna breathed out slowly, lifting her hand to examine the cut along the side of her palm. The splinter that had caused it was still embedded, and she clenched her teeth and pulled it out with a jerk that made her eyes water.
She was lucky. Pieces of wood and string were scattered across the floor, some thick enough to have done more damage than a splinter.
She leaned over the remains of the harpsichord, careful to keep her injured hand away from the wreckage.
A hole was punched through the side of the instrument, inches from where her fingers had been.
Her heart still pounding, she reached into the tangle of broken strings and wood and withdrew a bullet.
The tink. She turned to peer at the nearest window, and there, in the pane at about waist-height, was a bullet hole.
The glass around it hadn’t broken, likely held in place by the iron tracery.
For a heartbeat she hesitated, but she’d been standing in plain view—if the shooter wanted her dead, she would be.
Unhurriedly, she walked to the window. A man stood across the grounds, dressed in a black coat, watching her. He raised a suppressed pistol in salute and turned to disappear into the trees.
Hartmann.
Louna cleaned the music hall in silence, sweeping up the splinters with a broom she found in a hallway closet. She wheeled the destroyed harpsichord into the same closet, then jammed the lock so it wouldn’t be found accidentally and returned to the music hall to breathe.
Her hand wasn’t bleeding, and she pulled the cuff of her sleeve over it as she considered her options.
Hartmann had shot at her either to send a message to Tennyson, or to scare her.
He’d achieved neither. Instead, he’d proved that he wouldn’t kill her before Harlow’s deadline was up, which meant that telling Tennyson about the attack would only make him spiral for nothing.
Worse, it might make him do something drastic—like killing Hartmann.
He might be able to do it without a fight, but it was more likely that the their inevitable clash would get somebody hurt.
Tennyson, maybe, or someone else in the castle.
She couldn’t risk it, not when she wasn’t in any real danger to her.
Not before she had a chance to get her own revenge.
She’d have to replace the harpsichord, but that was a problem for later. In the meantime, she had to keep Cristian out of the music hall. With one more calming breath, she left the hall and closed the doors behind her, then hurried down the corridor in search of Cristian.
She found him in the kitchen, debating his menu with the caterer. He let out a frustrated sigh when he saw her, and abandoned his argument with a wave for the caterer to continue his work. “Every moment heralds a new disaster,” he said mildly, guiding her into the hallway.
“Not a disaster,” Louna said. “An opportunity.”
“I hope you can manage the transformation,” he said.
Louna smiled. “All will be well. Just wait and see.”
An uncertain expression crossed his face, and he looked away. “About that… well, I was hoping to talk to you about this masquerade idea of yours. Do you really think—that is—”
“Cristian,” Louna said, touching his arm. “We are friends, aren’t we? There’s nothing to worry about. Tell me what’s troubling you.”
Cristian took a breath and plunged on. “I’m sure you will think I’m insufferable, but—well, it is my party. You see, I’ve never been... let’s say commanding. My father can make everyone in a room look at him just by entering, but my entrance makes them turn away. I am never what they expect.”
A rush of understanding softened her expression. “Ah, I see. For once, this is your chance to stand upon the stage without your father, without his people, and be seen as your own man. And you want to be seen.”
Cristian seized her hands again. “You understand?”
“I do,” she said. “Of course I do. But Cristian, a masquerade is the perfect solution.”
“How?” he asked.
She paused, letting his interest pique. Then she waved at the hall. “What do you see here?”
His brow furrowed. “A castle?”
“You see stone walls,” Louna said. “With pointed arches and rib vaulting and window tracery. You see tapestries and exposed wood. You see paintings in dark colors. But you feel the castle. It is all in the presence, in the way we perceive these various details. This is the perfect stage for you to rewrite the perception others have of you. You will give them the details, and you will let this place and the atmosphere we create fill in the blanks for them. And then...”
She broke off, leaning close and beaming up at him. “Then, you will reveal yourself. Once they can no longer deny who you are, really, at your core. That is when you show your face.”
“But the character, the costume,” he said. “It would have to be just right.”
Inspiration struck, and Louna smiled. “It will. Of course it will. I know exactly who you will be.”
He tilted his head. “Who?”
She grinned, letting him see her genuine excitement. “A Gothic castle on a cliff in the heart of the Transylvanian forest? Cristian, you must be Dracula.”
A shy flush crept over the tips of his ears. “No, I couldn’t… I couldn’t pull it off.”
“You could,” Louna insisted. “It’s all in the presentation. You will be Dracula, and I will be your Mina.”
Cristian’s eyes shone. “Do you really think it’s possible?”
“I know it is,” Louna said. “I know exactly what to do. This will be your night, Cristian.”
An endearing, childish hope had kindled in his eyes, but his fingers were still cold. “I believe you,” he said. “If anyone can do it, you can. But—”
“No buts,” Louna said, sliding her arm into his and guiding him down the hall. “No wondering. No doubts. Come, I’ll show you. The florists were not the only ones I brought for you this morning.”
He brightened as Louna led the way to the great hall, the wide entrance to the rest of the castle.
From there, the various hallways and rooms opened up like promises—east to the music hall and a few private studies, north to the dining hall and kitchens, west to the courtyard and guardroom, south to the staircase leading to the bedrooms. A few of Cristian’s people were already working on draping the black silk and lace she’d suggested, adding electric candles and flower stands for the Verdiers to fill the following day.
In the daylight, the effect was somewhat maudlin, but at night, it would play to the guests’ expectations of a Gothic castle.
All they needed was the right background music.
“The harpsichord needs to be tuned after its move,” Louna said, leading Cristian through the hall. “Where did you put that piano? One of the studies, yes? The musician I promised arrived shortly after I did.”
“Louna,” Tennyson said, a warning in his voice.
“Once you hear him, you will feel much better,” Louna said. “I found him playing piano in a hotel in Vietnam, holding the entire room enraptured. It was after two in the morning and none of them even noticed the time. All they could hear was his music.”
“Louna,” Tennyson snapped.
“He’ll be here any moment now,” Louna went on. “Have you picked out your songs yet?”
Tennyson swore, and she heard the driving sound of his footsteps through the earbud as he began to run.
“Nothing specific,” Cristian answered. “I was hoping for something to set the mood… something slow, mysterious.”
“Of course,” Louna said. “My musician will know just the thing.”
He didn’t curse again, but she could feel his irritation crackling through the air between them.
She led the way into the study, where the upright piano from the day before had been pushed against the far wall.
A large desk had had to be moved to make room for it, and now it crowded the bookshelves on the eastern wall, blocking Louna’s view of the various books and decor on the lower shelves.
A footstep sounded in the hall, and Louna turned to welcome Tennyson. “Ah, Cristian,” she said, “allow me to introduce…”
Her words died when he stepped into the room. A new bruise stood out on the half-healed bruises already covering his cheek, and the cut across his lip was crusted over with dried blood. One eye was black, and the skin over his knuckles was broken and red.
“Sorry I’m late,” he said, stalking across the room and sitting at the piano without a glance at either of them.
Without another word, without sheet music or a request for any specific song, he began to play.