“It still is.”
He brightens, delighted at discovering another bit of me that’s still the same. We’ve both embraced the differences that the years have made, but finding those nostalgic links between us is just as precious as exploring all the new ways we can be together.
I smile back, moving with him through the dip and sway of the waltz.
“This is unbearably romantic,” I say soberly. “I don’t think I can handle it.”
He laughs, but it’s a quick, nervous sound. I only distracted him for a few minutes, and his anxiety is surging again. “You’re clear on the plan?” he asks.
“Yes.”
Movement near one of the doors draws my attention—it’s Henry, Jay’s house manager, struggling through the growing crowd. His face is stark, his eyes wide with warning.
“Jay,” I whisper.
“I see him.” Jay releases my hands and moves toward Henry, his lithe figure slipping between the guests with ease. I dart through the gap he makes and follow him all the way to Henry.
“Mr. Gatsby, Cody has spotted Wolfsheim,” Henry says. “And the men at the entrances have noted several individuals carrying weapons under their clothing—long knives and such. The guards did not attempt to disarm them, but directed them here, as you ordered. You have two minutes before they arrive.”
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.
