“It’s unprofessional to show up dressed already,” Carmen informed me. She stood and finally took out her instrument. Her eyes flickered over my worn, black dress with distaste as she checked its strings. “Also, didn’t you wear that on Tuesday?”
“Yes, but I promise it’s clean. I had an afternoon session that ran late, so I changed before I came.” I forced a bright smile. Carmen was hard to like, but I was determined to kill her with kindness. So far, that only seemed to annoy her more. Of course, complete frustration was Carmen’s default setting.
“You should invest in something new, especially if you’ll be auditioning for the Reed Fellowship. I already bought my dress for my tryout,” she continued, tipping her chin importantly.
The Reed Fellowship had been a sore subject between the two of us since we’d heard about it through the center. Some rich, anonymous donor had funded a year of living expenses for a young musician. The rest of the details were sketchy. No one knew who had established the program, but the winner would provide private recitals to them throughout the terms of the arrangement. Considering the center was widely publicizing the fellowship, they had to be confident it was legitimate. Most of us simply thought it was an eccentric billionaire getting his rocks off. San Francisco had no shortage of those.
“You shouldn’t have,” Jason interrupted, “because I’m going to win the Reed.”
“We’ll see.” But Carmen’s smug smile suggested exactly how likely she thought his chances were. Neither of them seemed at all concerned about me auditioning, which I tried not to take personally. But when Carmen made snide comments about my clothes, I couldn’t help but wonder if she thought she was doing me a favor, knocking me down a peg, or attempting her own warped view of friendship.
Jason and Carmen were too busy bickering with each other to notice me slip away to the relinquished mirror. I’d been too rushed to worry much about how I looked. Facing my reflection now, I groaned. The drizzle blanketing the city this afternoon had wreaked havoc on my hair, despite the careful bun I’d pinned up this morning. Considering I’d walked nearly a mile from the station with my cello in tow, it could be worse. The biggest problem was my hair. It had a disobedient streak made worse by rain. No matter what gels and mousses I tried, and no matter what miracles they promised, within moments, wisps of hair would escape and curl at the nape of my neck. I blew a rebellious strand out of my eyes and tucked it behind my ear. Surveying what I had to work with, I thought about letting it down. But it was slightly damp, which meant there was no telling how it would dry. Then I remembered Carmen’s polished chignon. I’d never be as put together as her, but I could try. I only had a few minutes, and it took every one of them plus two dozen bobby pins to tame it. Pinning my hair up also made it look less coppery and more auburn. I swiped Carmen’s bottle of hairspray from the counter and applied it liberally. I dared my hair to disobey now, but I knew it would.
There wasn’t enough time to deal with anything else but a dash of lip gloss. I couldn’t help thinking Carmen might be right about my clothes, though. The long black dress I wore for performances was clean and wrinkle-free, but the color had faded to dark gray. That wasn’t a surprise, given that my mother had found it in her closet a couple of years ago. The tag was long gone, but she swore it was designer. I was pretty sure she bought it for a funeral. A fact I did my best not to think about. Death and parties, even parties I was working, weren’t a good combo.
As far as a new audition dress? I was about as likely to spring for one of those as I was to join the circus. San Francisco was one of the most expensive cities in the world, and despite sharing an apartment with two roommates, it was still a stretch to make rent each month. My questionable designer dress would have to do.
“Guests are arriving. They’re ready for us,” Sam announced, finally ending the argument between Jason and Carmen.
I hurried to take my cello out of its case as the others left the room. I made my way quickly down the hall into the Green Room, named for its distinctive color. I thought it looked more palladium blue than green. Maybe the gilt detail and five giant chandeliers made it look green to others.
As soon as I stepped inside, I nearly ran into the others. They’d all stopped a few feet inside to stare at something, instruments still in hand.
“What is it?” I asked, trying to peek around them. I was too short to see over any of their shoulders.
“I think it’s a modeling convention,” Jason mumbled.
I elbowed him, and he finally moved over enough for me to see what he was talking about.
The most stunning people I’d ever seen mingled under the room’s soaring ceilings. Every person I saw was good-looking, bordering on gorgeous. Every. Single. One. There was a statuesque brunette draped in a shimmery fabric that flowed down her flawless figure like liquid gold. A handsome man with jet-black skin that almost gleamed was speaking with a petite blonde in the corner. It took effort to tear my eyes away from the group. I looked up to find Jason with a dazed look on his face.
“Close your mouth. You’re drooling,” I muttered to him. Not that I could blame him. We were mortals in the presence of gods.
“It’s probably just a plastic surgery convention,” Sam said with an unimpressed shrug. “We better get to it.”
We found our music stands and chairs near the bar. I took my spot, forcing myself to pay attention to my cello instead of gawking more at our patrons for the evening. I adjusted my posture, angling my cello just so that I’d have the best angle for my bow. Then I checked my music sheets.
Sam led us into the first piece, and I relaxed into the notes. The dull throb of anticipation I always got at the start of a performance began to fade, replaced by the music. When I was playing, the rest of the world melted away. My student loans didn’t matter. Mom’s hospital bills didn’t exist. I wasn’t caught in a rivalry with my fellow musicians. Everything was simply right. Everything was in harmony.
One melody shifted to another. I lost track of time, completely immersed in the music. My eyes closed as I played the last notes in the andante con moto from Schubert’s Death and the Maiden. I vaguely heard Sam announce that we would take a twenty-minute break. I lingered in the final sad crescendo. A sense of longing always remained in me after we finished this selection.
When I finally emerged from my trance, the others had already left. I gradually noticed the murmur of voices around me. I took a deep breath and lowered my bow. Awareness crept over my body, skittering up the back of my neck like spider legs, and I looked up into the most handsome face I’d ever seen. I gasped, but it wasn’t the man’s beauty that surprised me. It was the murderous look in his piercing blue eyes.
CHAPTER THREE
JULIAN
Thirty years had passed, and I’d missed nothing. I should have expected my mother to blow past normal and go straight to the extreme. But she seemed keen on surpassing even my expectations. She’d been so busy planning that she refused to see me after my arrival in California. She claimed it was her duty as one of the Bay Area’s patron families to host an event to start the season. But I knew what this party was really about: bombarding me with possible matches from every angle.
Sebastian hadn’t shown his smug face since we parted at the island. I had no idea where he’d gone off to, but I knew he would wind up here eventually. The elite rarely missed social season, but no one skipped the Rites. Even me. I recognized most of the vampires in the room, which was in no way a winning situation. We might mingle every fifty years, but the rest of the time we stuck to our own family trees. I swirled the bourbon in my hand and braced myself for the relentless matchmaking about to begin. There were always a few romances during an ordinary season. Some even ended without bloodshed. But enacting the Rites meant something far worse than romance or mating or violence. It was a fate I was determined to avoid, regardless of tradition or my mother’s meddling.
But duty beckoned, so I found myself in the Herbst Theatre, the most intimate building in San Francisco’s Performing Arts Center. The ballroom wasn’t the largest event space in the complex, but it was lavish enough to suit vampire tastes. Gilt flourishes decorated the arched windows and ceilings, complimenting antique crystal chandeliers. Still, with half the country’s pureblood vampires packed inside, it was a tight fit. That’s why I staked a claim at the bar. It was out of the way, tucked into the back of the room. The others were here to mingle and brag, flirt and saunter. Everyone was looking for someone to boost their ego. I was far more interested in being left alone. Outside the soaring windows, city lights punctuated the dark. Night called to me, beckoning me to join it, but I was stuck at a cocktail party.
“Your time is up, my friend!” A pair of blue velvet gloves landed on the wooden bar top next to me with a thwack that dramatically announced their owner’s arrival. The words were spoken by a slight, dark man with a hooked nose and cruel, black eyes. He was undead proof that not all vampires were beautiful, towering creatures like most of the others in the room.
I sometimes wondered who had turned him and why.
“Boucher,” I said by way of greeting, not bothering to raise my voice above a whisper. “Join me for a drink.”
“Perhaps one.” Boucher’s own voice lowered to match mine as he held up a finger. The gesture had the air of someone important, who would never lower himself to look rushed. That was to say, it was very French, and Boucher was every bit the Parisienne down to his neatly polished dress shoes and up to the wool scarf knotted elegantly at his throat.
“You came all the way from Paris for this?” I asked. The vampire I knew hated to leave his beloved city.
“I had a disagreement with the new manager at the opera.” He shrugged his shoulders. The bartender placed a glass in front of him, and Boucher tucked a crisp hundred-dollar bill into his tip bucket.
“Who won?”
“I did.” He smiled, displaying rows of sharp, white teeth. I didn’t bother asking how. If he’d left Paris over it, there had been violence. He’d probably been banished until whatever crime he’d committed faded from the public’s memory.
“I’m lending my expertise to the orchestra here, for the moment.”
“I’m sure they could use it.”
“You have no idea,” he said with a heavy sigh. “When did you arrive?”
“A few days ago,” I replied in a clipped tone. Things were cordial between the two of us, but I’d hardly count him as a friend. It was impossible to trust vampires from other bloodlines. But Boucher and I both loved music, so it was easier to get along with him than most.
“Any favorites?” He eyed the crowd around us, his gaze skipping to the mortal women in the room. “I don’t envy you. I’d never be able to choose. They smell so intoxicating.”
