26

“Tell the orchestra to go play in the garden,” Jay says. “And have the staff get the humans out of this room and start the prize drawing outside.”

Henry hurries away, and Jay steps over to say something to Jordan and Michaelis. The orchestra stops playing, with a squeak of dying instruments and the final thud of a drum, and everyone in the room murmurs nervously. The silence feels raw and dangerous. As the staff begin to herd the humans out of the room, Jay’s vampires shift and mutter among themselves. They’re anxious, nerves strung tight, and the ominous silence is not helping the mood. Several of them look as if they might break and run.

Quickly I step to the wall panel by the door and request the first cheerful song I can think of—a silly thing my mom and I danced to when I was little. “Hestia, play ‘Pink Shoelaces,’ by The Chordettes.”

The music starts, bold and brassy, and the spirit in the room brightens immediately. Several couples start dancing again, and I marvel for a second at the power of music.

Jay comes back and slides his fingers around my wrist. “Come on, we need a place for you to hide. Also, ‘Pink Shoelaces’? Seriously?”

“It’s a great song.”

“No arguments here.” He hurries me over to the abandoned stage. “Get behind the keyboard. And for the love of god, Daisy, don’t show your hand unless you absolutely have to. Please.”

“I know.” A panicked pressure builds in my chest, and as he’s turning away, I seize the lapel of his princely coat. “Jay, listen. I sort of admitted this to you before, but I haven’t actually said it—”

Jay catches my mouth with his, a hard, swift, passionate kiss that leaves me breathless. “Don’t say those words to me because you’re afraid,” he whispers. “I’ve waited, and I can wait longer. Now hide.”

I crouch behind the keyboard. It’s shrouded in sparkly fabric that hangs down over the stand, concealing me from view. About an arm’s length from me is a tall stand with a bedazzled cordless microphone in a holder at the top—probably intended for a singer later in the evening. It might come in handy if I need to use my voice.

Under the keyboard, there’s a loop of space where the sparkly material has slipped down a little. It’s just enough for me to have a limited view of the center of the room, where Jay stands with his back toward me. He’s still as stone, an anchored boat in the sea of dancers bobbing and sweeping around him.

My thighs are already aching from the crouch, so I adjust my position and lay aside the little clutch I’ve been wearing on my wrist. My phone is inside, turned off—no rookie horror movie mistakes for me. I won’t have my hiding spot betrayed by an ill-timed ringtone.

The Chordettes are still singing about Dooley’s polka-dot vest when a man walks into the dance hall through the door across from Jay. At the same moment, I hear movement from the other doors, more people coming in. Probably the First Gens’ Progeny. The bad guys. The ones who plan to kill every person Jay and Cody have turned.

The man approaching Jay is not what I expected. When I heard “Wolfsheim” and “Colorado,” I thought of someone wolflike, big and burly and hairy, kind of a backwoods Wolverine type in plaid flannel. But this guy is medium height, midthirties, with a neatly trimmed goatee and thin eyebrows, perfectly arched. He has straight, shoulder-length hair, dark brown shot through with gold. His crisp white shirt stretches tight over the muscles of his arms and chest, and through its open collar a silver chain glints—a heavy, jeweled cross. His fingertips are tucked into his pockets. There’s a hardness to his eyes, a brutality in the arch of his upper lip. He radiates power, self-assurance, and charisma; but not the way Jay does, not with that charming, open hopefulness, that sunny generosity. This man oozes danger from every pore. His very aura sends my heart into double time and sets my nerves screaming run, run, run.

Every step Wolfsheim takes into the room feels like a violation.

“Hestia, turn off the music,” Jay says.

“Thank the Maker.” Wolfsheim’s voice is reedier than I expected. I thought his tone would be dark as a tar pit in hell. “An odd choice of music for this theme. Royals, eh?” Wolfsheim sweeps his hand to encompass the decor and Jay’s costume. “You think you’re some kind of vampire king?”

“Not at all,” Jay says. “I’m just a guy providing a service. Helping people out.”

Another figure moves into my narrow view, taking up a position at Jay’s side. Someone in a velvety green cape, with glossy black hair.

“Ah, Cody.” Wolfsheim smiles, all teeth and triumph. “My little runaway lamb. I have let you wander from the fold long enough. It’s time for you to return.”

“He’s not going anywhere,” Jay says coolly. “This is a safe place for everyone. A place where we can live in peace. You’re welcome here, unless you intend violence.”

“I think you know exactly what we intend,” says Wolfsheim. “You boys have had your fun, but it’s time to grow up now. The Blood Gift is not meant to be distributed so liberally. And offering it in exchange for money is sacrilege of the worst order. Cody will be coming home with me, and as for you, Gatsby, if you help me destroy the heretical work you’ve been involved in, there might be hope for your rehabilitation.”

“And my people?” says Jay.

“They are abominations. They should not exist. We’ll be rectifying that problem now.” Wolfsheim raises his hand, and there’s a faint shing of blades being drawn all along the edges of the room. “Have your house close the doors please, Gatsby. We don’t want humans involved in our business, do we?”

“Most of the humans are out in the gardens for the prize drawing,” says Jay. “But just to be safe… Hestia, close the doors to Ballroom One.”

The house obeys, doors closing and sealing all around the room, one after another. I bite my knuckle hard to center myself, to stave off the rising panic of being the only human trapped in a room with so many vampires.

“Before you massacre innocent people, I will speak,” Jay says. “Cody and I have explained to you repeatedly what our purpose and plan are here. We feel that it’s wrong to withhold a gift like this from humanity. I know you want to keep our existence a secret, and trust me, we’re being discreet with our operations. If you’ll agree, I’d like to show you our contracts, our orientation materials, the precautions we take to ensure—”

“Enough!” Wolfsheim’s roar shatters the quiet. “You’ve sent us volumes of paperwork already. I had one of my people hack into your ridiculous website where you schedule the support groups and offer therapy sessions. As if the Blood Gift is an addiction. Which is it, Gatsby? A problem or a product? You can’t seem to make up your mind. I’ll tell you what the Blood Gift is—it’s an honor. It is a rite, and a church, and a destiny.”

“A cult, you mean.” It’s Jordan’s voice. I can’t see her from where I am, but Wolfsheim turns his head, apparently inspecting her. His lip curls with disdain.

“A cult is a label too readily applied by those who dislike exclusivity,” he replies. “You are one of Gatsby’s abominations. Do not speak to me again.”

“I’ll speak to you however and whenever I want, asshole,” Jordan says. There’s a laugh in her voice, the confident glee of power and freedom, and I’m suddenly, passionately grateful to Jay for giving my friend that extra strength and protection. Jordan has always been fearless, but becoming a vampire has unlocked her truest self.

“Brave speech from one who is about to die,” Wolfsheim says coolly. He lifts his hands, turning his head slightly toward his people. “Let’s end this, my friends. Kill them all except Gatsby and my former pet.”

“Weapons,” Jay calls, and his people draw knives and short swords from beneath their clothes. From what I can glimpse, some of the weapons look like collectibles, not actually meant for fighting. I’m pretty sure one guy is holding a replica from The Lord of the Rings. It’s pitiful. Sure, they’ve got their fangs and claws too, but judging by the speed and efficiency of the vampires who attacked the support group, Wolfsheim’s people have training and better weapons. Jay’s group is going to be slaughtered.

Talking didn’t work, and the backup plan is me.

For half a second—one horrible, nightmarish instant—I think about what would happen if I ran away. If I turned and left this house, retreating back into my parents’ money and my summer and my normalcy. Jay and his vampires would be killed, and all of this—the parties, the blood, the kisses—would fade like a dream. I could go on as if none of it ever happened. I could go back to being fun, flirty, popular Daisy, and find a normal human boyfriend and a regular job, and never think about scary supernatural crap again.

But I’ve been the fun girl, the easygoing girl, the one who smothered my anger so I could keep up friendships with people who hid terrible secrets from me. I’ve been the person aching to fit in, to fill the hollow inside me, to wedge myself into the prescribed mold—the life I’m expected to have. But here in the quivering space between threat and bloodbath, none of that matters, and the knife-sharp clarity that floods my mind is a beautiful thing.

I took the first steps into my new self when I knocked Myrtle out, and when I threatened Tom. Wolfsheim is just another Tom, selfish and proud, lusting to impose his will on others. I don’t need to split myself in two and create some façade to shield my emotions. I don’t need to bow to false friends or cower from men like him.

I just need to be me, real and whole and powerful.

Adrenaline races through me from shoulders to fingers to toes, bathing my body with burning ice.

I rise, collect the cordless mic from its stand, switch it on, and hold it to my lips. Slowly I stalk down the steps of the platform.

“This isn’t your house, Wolfsheim,” I say quietly, and my voice echoes through the room. “You don’t own this space, or this world, for that matter. I don’t think you have the right to dictate the choices anyone else makes.”

I’m still working on clearing away the lingering rasp in my throat, ratcheting down my tone to the right timbre, controlling my nerves enough to find that lyrical rhythm. It’s terrifying to be visible to everyone, to have all the First Gen vampires and their Progeny staring at me, to have every eye in Jay’s group fixed on my face. But it’s empowering, too. And their surprise gives me the time I need to find my voice.

“Who the hell are you?” says Wolfsheim, his lip curving scornfully. His gaze flicks to my wrists. “Not one of Gatsby’s pets.”

“I’m the person telling you all to calm down and lower your weapons.” I’m there now. I’m in that silky space where the words just flow, undulating from my mouth and twining around the vampires like slithering cords. Every gaze locks on me—Jordan and Cody, Jay and his people, the First Gens and their Progeny—even Wolfsheim himself. Their eyes glaze over, lips parting as if they’re listening to the most beautiful song in the world. I keep talking, scarcely conscious of what I’m saying while I recover from the shock of all those minds tethered to my words. I have to stay focused. I have to figure out how to defuse this situation safely.

“That’s much better now, isn’t it?” I croon. “Let’s have no more bloodshed. Why don’t we put down all the swords and knives, okay?”

The vampires obey, and a clatter of blades rains onto the dance floor. For a panicked moment, I fear the sound has disturbed their trance—they’re beginning to frown and glance around—so I keep talking, keep weaving my voice around them, low and thrilling and irresistible. “Let’s all be friends, because that’s so much nicer than fighting, don’t you think? Now, everyone, put your hands in your pockets, and if you find a pair of earplugs there, go ahead and put those in—and once you have them in, you’re free to do what you need to do, to follow the instructions Gatsby has given you.”

Jay’s people find their earplugs immediately and insert them, slowly coming back to themselves and remembering the plan, what they’re supposed to do next. Wolfsheim and his vampires fumble desperately with their clothing, raking their fingers through their empty pockets.

Time for the next phase of the plan.

“It’s all right if you don’t have earplugs,” I tell the Progeny softly. “There’s nothing to worry about, nothing at all. Let yourselves relax. You’re perfectly safe. Your fangs are receding, your claws are disappearing. You’re doing just fine. Everything is going to be fine. Softly now, quietly, move to the center of the room, and hold out your hands, because you’re going to be getting some lovely bracelets.”