Prologue
Rome, Italy
1986
A man in a bejeweled black cat mask sidled up to Effie. “You look so happy,” he said in English.
“Always,” Effie replied, used to such compliments. Her own white lace half mask revealed her smile, her best feature, standing out against the deep copper of her skin. Behind the man, the ballroom glittered with the bold fashion of the era—puffy sleeves, cinched waists, and double-breasted suits in daring colors—a perfect backdrop for the annual masquerade ball hosted by a prestigious Roman arts association. She loved masquerades and had attended at least one every year since her first in Venice, lifetimes ago.
The man was slightly taller than her, pale, but with hair the same obsidian color. His eyes—a crystalline blue—mirrored her own rare shade.How curious, she mused.
“I’m Effie,” she told him.
“Damon,” he said, holding out a hand.
He had a firm warm shake. “Damon. That’s an old name.”
“Perhaps I’m an old soul.” He chuckled. “Care to dance?”
“I thought you’d never ask.”
Effie let him take her arm and lead her to the center of the crowd, where they joined the other masked dancers gyrating to a Blondie song. The deejay played the popular Italian bands Litfiba and Diaframma, but the hits in English made the crowd most ecstatic: The B-52s, Erasure, and Duran Duran. He was aterrible dancer, worse than most everyone else on the floor, but Effie didn’t mind. He seemed happy, and that made her happy. She loved the vibe of a club, and there was something magical when everyone was masked, bodies twisting and flowing together with the rhythm.
No one seemed to care about Damon’s awkwardness—not a soul gawked or laughed at his strange movements—although Effie was sure some of that was due to his proximity to her. People couldn’t help themselves when she stepped into their periphery. They let their guard down, smiled and laughed more; they loved each other and felt pure, unbridled joy in whatever they were doing. She couldn’t see Damon’s face, but she was sure there was a smile under the cat mask.
After New Order’s “Bizarre Love Triangle,” Damon took Effie by the hand and led her back to the bar. “I bet you could dance all night. You make me think I could too. But I definitely need a break.” He motioned to the bartender. “Prosecco,perfavore.”
Effie grinned. Prosecco didn’t affect her at all, but she delighted in the way each bubble hit her tongue. And she loved Damon’s gallantry. She tried to imagine him pounding down a beer and couldn’t.
“To a wonderful night full of surprises,” he said as they clinked glasses.
“It’s not easy to surprise me.” And truly, it wasn’t. She had witnessed every imaginable courting ritual, their nuances replayed through the ages in endless variations. Yet she found herself amused rather than startled by these familiar displays. She could already see the evening’s end in Damon’s hopeful eyes. But instead of the conclusion he envisioned, she would lean close, her breath a gentle murmur of bliss in his ear, steering him into a car—alone. He would wake in his own bed, cradling a delightful but entirely fabricated memory of their night, unharmed and blissfully ignorant.
“That sounds like a challenge,” he said.
“No challenge.” She laughed. “Just truth.”
“I’ll take the challenge anyway.” Damon fumbled in his suit jacket for an awkward moment and pulled out a jewelry box.
“You aren’t asking me to marry you already!” It had happened before.
“No, I’d like you to model a necklace for me.”
She raised an eyebrow at Damon. “Model a necklace?”
Damon nodded, his cat mask glinting in the strobe lights. “I’m a jeweler, you see, and having a beautiful woman model my pieces helps them sell even better in the store. You’d be doing me a great favor, Miss Effie. Turn around. Let me put it on you, and I’ll take some photos. The surprise will come when you see yourself adorned in my creation. The bartender has been holding on to my camera for me.” He motioned to the bartender, who pulled a Polaroid camera off the shelf behind him and handed it to Damon.
“Well, well, how could I say no to that?” She gave him a brilliant smile and turned around, pleased at this turn of events—she was truly surprised, and delighted. She lifted her long hair to expose her neck.
Damon draped the thin necklace across her skin, the metal feeling strangely warm when it touched her. He clasped it, then turned her around. Standing back, he began snapping photos with the camera, setting the Polaroid photos on the table in front of her to develop.
Effie smiled for the camera, but something felt wrong—the necklace. It was growing hot against her collarbone. She reached up to touch it, and her smile died.
Damon picked up the first photo and began waving it in the air to help it develop faster. Finally, he held it toward her. She beamed within the fuzzy image, and there, as Effie had feared, she saw a thin gold necklace with two small adders biting a gold ring. Their heads each adorned with a large emerald, their eyes rubies.
For the first time in many an eon, all mirth died within her. The lights in the club darkened, and the music shifted to a dolorous Bauhaus song: “Stigmata Martyr.” There was a crash behind the bar as a server dropped a tray of wineglasses. The world seemed to shrink so it only encompassed Effie and the man. The people beyond them were suddenly irrelevant. Panic took hold of Effie, and she reached for the necklace’s clasp.
“Don’t bother,” the man said. “You know it won’t work. You’re familiar with Harmonia’s necklace.”
