The Drinker of Blood

Chapter Fourteen

Later that afternoon, I sent Freya a short text, thanking her for giving me the opportunity to update my notebook, and I sent Fallon some photos of the outfit I chose to wear to that night's festivities. It seemed that long legs and long arms were all the rage, and the dressmaker at the shop at which I made my hasty purchase said the ensemble I selected was certain to turn every head and to stop a few hearts.

If the dress did not do so, I certainly would try. And I was touched that Fallon agreed with the salesclerk's estimation. She rewarded me by sending me some pictures of her own, attired in a somewhat less modest fashion.

I decided against using the limousine that Isolde offered to send for me. It had become the custom at such fetes that guests were asked not to drive, so I decided to engage a car service of my own. I didn't trust any driver that Isolde might send, and driving a rental car introduced complications of its own.

If I had to flee the tony estate ahead of any pursuers, I would prefer to do so on foot rather than risk having an automobile rented in my name, even under an assumed name, showing up on a police report. Just as a precaution, I used an old alias to hire the livery vehicle that was to ferry me to Kenilworth.

The car the service sent me was swank, and the driver seemed an agreeable fellow with good taste in music. He appeared surprised when I sent him home for the evening with a huge tip and a friendly wink.

The Kenilworth estate of Ambra Sinclair wasn't quite enough to take a person's breath away, but it was a remarkable mansion of limestone and perfectly tucked brick. New arrivals, of whom there were many, were met by handsomely liveried servants, outdoor warmers, and the mellow sounds of a musical ensemble emanating from an open verandah. It looked to be quite the affair.

It would have been foolish not to keep my eye out for others of my kind, and I certainly did so. But for just a few minutes as I walked up the long front staircase and through the mansion's large double doors, I allowed myself to play worldly sophisticate and simply to soak in the elegance and splendor of the place. Isolde was just that kind of creature, and she surrounded herself with great culture and beauty.

The mansion's foyer was enormous, high, and sweeping in ways that even her corporate offices were not, and I felt the urge to reassess my use of the word "mansion." This grand place was a virtual palace. There easily were a hundred or more guests spread comfortably throughout the broad chamber, and yet the place did not feel the least crowded.

It struck me that this must be how vampires in the movies lived.

I seldom am swarmed by men at social occasions. First, because I infrequently have the opportunity to doll myself up as I had for this event, and second, because—and you may find this hard to believe—I sometimes put off a hostile vibe. No, honestly, this is what I'm told. Either way, I did my best that evening to be enchanting and to appear available.

The first fellow who approached was a man in his mid-fifties who exuded the confidence of one born to wealth, the very type of person who has bored me for eight centuries. I did my best to be cordial and accepted the proffered drink while I scanned the room for threats and opportunities.

Of the hundred and fifty or so people I could see in this room and in the reception area beyond, I counted no fewer than six of my kind. Only one looked familiar, a chap who I had met in China in ... oh, a long time ago.

The second and third of my would-be suitors had just introduced themselves—they came as a pair, it seemed—when I saw something that very nearly caused me to spit up my drink. On the extreme far side of the next room over, I spied an old lover.

I wasn't sure at first what to do. Things had not ended well for us a hundred and some years before, and though our paths had crossed several times since, and though he was always cordial, I wasn't sure what to think of his being there. Nor was I certain that he did not harbor some grudge over .... Well, is it ever productive to dredge up who did what to whom?