Page 2 of Vampire Savage

Considering I recently finished a cello performance with my chamber performance group, it shouldn’t be surprising. I’ve grown up under the gaze of society’s elite, working diligently to exceed my father’s every expectation of his only child.

Since I was a child I learned equestrian, mastered cello, the piano, and the flute, became fluent in four languages beyond English, and graduated high school early. Then I became one of the youngest doctorate graduates in computer programming in the nation before working my way up to the senior director role in developmental engineering at Oberon Tech, my father’s company, without accepting handouts. I’ve done everything he’s asked and more.

Yet, it still isn’t enough.

My nape heats and I press my tongue to the roof of my mouth as I keep the pleasant smile on my face while a woman in her mid-eighties continues to tell me about her granddaughter’s upcoming nuptials. I refuse to look behind me, to seek out whoever it is currently making my nerves tingle with anticipation.

I’d felt the same focus on me at the beginning of our performance, and I’d been struck by an anxiety I thought I’d overcome as a teenager. However, the music pulled me away as it always has, until the world around me fades away. When applause grounded me once more, the feeling had disappeared.

Only to return during the cocktail reception where the performers are expected to be available for our wealthy patrons.

My own family’s wealth dwarfs many of those around me, which is why Newgate’s elite surrounds me with idle chatter. At least two councilors, including the newly elected Michael Garner, and many former councilors are in attendance tonight, as well as several well-respected families. If whispers are to be believed, there are even a few supernaturals within the crowd. Even a vampire or two.

“It would be wonderful to have a cellist of your caliber to perform at my granddaughter’s wedding, though of course not you, yourself! It’d be so unseemly for a guest to be one of the help.” The old woman with silver hair laughs politely, her overly large sapphire and diamond earrings shaking where they pull down her lobes as she presses a hand on my forearm, rings worth small fortunes gracing her withering fingers.

“Of course not,” I murmur, my polite smile never faltering and my grip on my single glass of champagne loose. “I’m more than happy to send you my personal recommendations, if you would like.”

She squeezes my arm and drops her hand, her smile more genuine now that she’s achieved her goal. “Would you, Wren? I know Cordelia will be thrilled. It’s such a shame Oberon couldn’t be here tonight. He must be so proud of the woman you’ve become. How is it that you’re not married yet? I know just the man you simply have to meet at Cordelia’s wedding. I’ll introduce you to him myself. He’s a Balthuman…”

I take a small sip of my champagne, tuning out the woman as she explains how she thinks the gentleman is a perfect match for me. To these people, the fact that I’m twenty-nine and still single is horrifying. It was scandalous enough when they learned I had changed my last name to my mother’s maiden name after turning eighteen.

I’d given up on marriage by twenty-two and focused solely on climbing the ranks in my father’s company, Oberon Tech Corps. To my father, my ultimate achievement in life will be when I marry, yet all the while, he absolutely refuses to condone the idea. He’s made it clear that when I marry, it will be when and to whom he chooses.

Marriage, as he’s told me several times, is the ultimate business agreement.

The fury I’ll face if he learns I’m not a virgin is shudder-inducing.

Thankfully, the woman in front of me ends the conversation when she sees another influential person she must greet, and I seize the opportunity to slip through the crowd and find shelter in a shadowed inglenook. Being summer, the fireplace is cold and instead filled with a stunning bouquet of red and yellow blooms above thumb-sized blue flowers just above the vase’s lip. It’s a floral imitation of a blazing fire and I’m in awe of the florist. I can appreciate the skill it takes to craft such a display and yet the people beyond me in the stately banquet hall don’t even notice it.

The Palmer Hotel is one of the oldest and most respected hotels in Newgate and is the epitome of opulent art deco design held over from the turn of the century. At the far end of the hall, I and three other string instrumentalists had performed against the backdrop of floor-to-ceiling arched windows, the glass stained and designed in geometric patterns and warm colors. This room, aptly named the cathedral room, boasted vaulted ceilings unseen in more modern hotels. With golden walls and black marble floors, the room is surprisingly warm and welcoming with eight-foot-tall marble statues of nude sphinxes holding torches above their heads, topped with diamond-shaped lights which shine brightly, spaced evenly along opposite sides of the long room. The light is reflected and magnified by the six large mirrored hexagonal three-tiered chandeliers dominating the ceiling.

Even the inglenook I’ve found an escape in reflects the art deco movement, with a gilded geometric hearth around the fireplace, and the seating plush yet straight lined and perfectly in harmony with the rest of the room. Only the linens of the round tables look modern, with plain white tablecloths, as if they’re nothing more than a way to display the golden plates and black place settings.

If only those in attendance matched such elegant, old-world glamor. Though each man wears a clean suit, it’s as if the women are in competition with each other no matter their age. The room is filled with bold colors, as jewel tones are in fashion this season, but the designs are everywhere from classic to couture and daring. Each woman sparkles with jewelry, and no doubt spent most of the day on their hair and makeup.

Not for the first time am I thankful for the expectation that I wear a sensible black dress while performing. My strawberry blonde hair is tamed into a French twist, and the only jewelry I wear are simple emerald studs and a matching pendant on a delicate chain that were once my mother’s. They’re some of the few possessions I have of my late mother.

As much as I long to escape back to my quiet apartment, I know what is expected of me. If I leave early, it will get back to my father and I truly don’t wish to hear a lecture tomorrow during our weekly brunch.

Swallowing half of the remaining champagne, I consider breaking my self-imposed rule of one drink. To my embarrassment, I’m a lightweight and two drinks carry the risk of some social faux pas. Like hunting down the person whose weighted stare makes my blood warm and my hair raise.

From the relative safety of the shadowed inglenook, I scan the crowd, seeking out anyone unfamiliar. While my father, Oberon Benoit, moved his business here only five years ago, I’ve attended enough events to know each face by name.

Perhaps the person I’m looking for is one of the whispered supernaturals from Oldgate–or the Barrows, not that any of my father’s peers would be so gauche as to call it that in polite company. Amusingly, a large number of them still hold the belief that supernaturals are legends and nothing more than stories made up by the lower class.

I know they exist.

The champagne is warm by now, but the crisp flavor still dances on my tongue as I take a delicate sip, nursing it as long as possible. I haven’t eaten since lunch, and while there are hors d’oeuvres being served, no woman would be caught dead eating one.

I can’t wait to get out of here.

My gaze snags on a tall man by the bar, his back to me. He has golden blond hair from what I can see. His impressive shoulders and tapered waist are hugged by an expensive suit I guess to be Italian made. He’s at least six foot two and despite not seeing his face, I’m certain I’ve never seen him before. He reaches for the drink the bartender sets in front of him, and he moves with an ethereal grace, making my stomach flip and spin. I raise the glass to my lips again, mouth suddenly parched as his long fingers wrap around the pint glass. Every other man is drinking some ungodly expensive whisky or scotch, and he’s drinking beer.

Every bone in my body screams that this man must be a vampire. No human man can move with such fluidity, where just lifting the glass to drink is seductive.

I don’t even know what he looks like from the front and I’m gulping the dregs of my champagne, trying to put out the illicit fire building.

My most secret desire begins to claw its way from the depths of my mind.

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