* * *
The first vampire takes my blood card and scans it. I’ve already memorized the tasting notes Benjamin included:rich and smooth, with subtle notes of cherry and dark chocolate.
It makes me sound like a lovely red wine, but the man frowns as he lowers it. “Ah,” he says. “I was hoping for something more interesting. The human you brought last year was sonovel.”
Benjamin’s smile is only slightly strained. “You’re referring to Miss Burton? I recall you spitting out her blood all over the floor.”
“Exactly!” The man grins. “An experience I’ll never forget. But this sounds…” He frowns at my card. He still hasn’t so much as glanced at me. “Well, forgettable.”
I focus on the rose-and-dagger symbol embroidered onto his suit jacket.A Camelia vampire, I tell myself.Not a good match anyway.
Benjamin plucks the fan out of the other man’s hand and returns it to me. “A pity,” he says. “I suppose you’ll have to find your entertainment elsewhere tonight.”
As the vampire stalks off, muttering to himself, Benjamin pats my arm. “Ignore him. You wouldn’t have wanted to be bitten by him, anyway. He makes a mess of it.”
I nod, but it’s hard not to feel his judgment as a blow to my self-esteem. And while the next few vampires we approach aren’t such assholes about it, they express similar sentiments.And here I thought you were a purveyor of more interesting flavors,one says, while another questions,Nothing more exotic this time?
Benjamin’s frustration grows with each conversation that goes nowhere, and I can’t help but feel responsible for it.
“I’m sorry,” I say, though I’m not sure for what.
“Don’t be,” he says. “The same arseholes who rejected Amelia for having an unusual flavor are now rejecting you for having a pleasant one. It has nothing to do with you, and everything to do with my courtless status and their power plays.”
I’m not sure I believe him, nor am I surprised by the way things are going. I’ve spent my entire life being unremarkable, so it’s no shock to me now.
* * *
After several rejections in a row, I ask for a moment away from the ballroom. It’s raining outside, a quiet patter against the distant rooftop, so Benjamin takes me deeper into the mansion. We wander through quiet hallways, occupied by smaller groups or vampire-valentine duos seeking a private moment. We pass by a set of double doors that I suspect is a library, but when I reach for the handle, Benjamin shakes his head.
“Occupied,” he says, and urges me onward.
Gentle piano music drifts out of another room, and we pause in the doorway to listen before continuing on. Next is a gallery of sorts, and I pause, my eyes drawn to the walls and the paintings that line them. After a moment, I let go of Benjamin’s arm and step inside to study them. He hangs back to give me space, though I can feel his eyes on me.
Despite my better judgment, I always find myself drawn to art. There is a comforting type of familiarity in it. My mother could never teach me talent and passion, but she did succeed at giving me an eye for it.
I walk slowly through the room. My eyes pass over most of the paintings—lovely, but missing personality—before settling on a Baroque-influenced depiction of a Paris café. An everyday scene captured in deep colors and dramatic lighting, drawing the eye to details one would normally overlook: a still-smoking pipe left on a table, a flower on the sidewalk that has been crushed beneath someone’s heel.
It’s… interesting. I find myself staring at it for longer than I intended. I walk slowly down the wall, following a line of framed paintings that must have come from the same artist’s hand. There’s a lighthouse overlooking a stormy sea, a beautiful cathedral drawn in fuzzy detail with a bedraggled stray cat in the foreground, a candle dripping wax on a windowsill overlooking a cliff, a glass of red wine toppled over and spilling over the edge of a table.
My mom always told me that art is successful if it makes you feel something, but I’ve found that most things she callsfine artdon’t do anything for me. This, though, stirs something in my chest. It feels more honest than most art. Ugly and beautiful at the same time, highlighting the details that most people wouldn’t notice.
I stop at the last, where a small cluster of other valentines have gathered. I gaze up at it alongside them. This one depicts a tree on a sunny hillside, all soft edges and bright colors.
“Isn’t it just beautiful?” one of the other women asks, staring up at the painting.
Another sighs. “Gorgeous. A shame it was his last.”
“His last?” I’m too curious; I have to butt in to their conversation. “Did he pass away?”
A man huffs as if it’s a stupid question. “Of course not. This is the work of Lord Claude de Vulpe.”
He says it like the name should mean something to me. It does give me a glimmer of familiarity, though I can’t put my finger on it. It does, however, tell me that the artist is a vampire.
“Then why has he stopped painting?”
“I heard he went mad,” someone whispers behind her fanned-out blood card.
“I heard he has some grudge against the Vulpe Court,” another person contributes.
