Page 6 of A Dance Macabre

“Enough with that,” I say with a lazy wave of the hand, disinterested in talking abouthimfor longer than I need to. “This isn’t the point of my visit.”

I try to focus on Belladonna but I’m distracted by someone trying to squeeze into the space behind me at the bar. Turningaround, I grab them by the throat. My nails jab into their skin while the sharp tip of my dagger digs into their chin.

Their eyes widen in fear when they realize their careless mistake.

“Touch me again, and I’ll sever your head and use it as a lawn ornament,” I hiss.

Releasing them from my grip, I send them flying backward into the crowd. They fearfully scramble away, spilling people’s drinks in the process.

I swivel back around just as Belladonna pulls out a small pocket mirror from her clutch, smoothing a finger over her plump lips and fixing her wavy hair. There’s a lull in the sound of the crowd around us. It’s an awed, reverent silence. Heads turn to watch Belladonna simply exist, entrapped by her divine beauty. It’s like watching a masterpiece being painted in real time. Although she holds no power over me, her beauty is still a magnetizing force that cannot be denied.

Clicking the small mirror shut, she sighs. “I’m bored.”

She glances around the club, her expression switching into perverse delight when she turns back to me, her eyes dancing with glee. “Let’s have some fun.”

She takes my hand, pulling me up on my feet, and I follow her with a huff. The kind offunBelladonna is insinuating is unpredictable, especially at one of her clubs—but who am I to deny her on her birthday?

4

WOLFGANG

“Anything good today, Bartholomew?” I ask from behind closed eyelids as I enjoy my morning soak in my private bathhouse, my body submerged in warm milky waters.

Smaller than the main bathhouse, it is still just as decadent. Frescoes painted in vivid colors adorn the walls and ceilings, depicting lush sceneries of extravagant revelry.

My favorite painting has always been the one near the north-facing window. It’s of a naked figure gazing into a handheld ornate mirror. It reminds me of myself. Just like these frescoes, I provide beauty to a drab Pravitia.

My head rests on the stony edge of the bath, my face slathered with essential oils, mixed with a healthy dash of blood graciously provided by Constantine, whose family has collected it from Pravitian denizens for centuries. It’s said to keep the skin young and dewy, and I am not above any beauty practice that promises eternal youth.

I hear my assistant clear his throat somewhere near my head. While I wait for Bartholomew to answer my question I take along deep breath, inhaling the sweet floral aromas wafting up like a soothing embrace.

“Slow news day, I’m afraid,” he finally says, “A few articles of you attending different soirees around town.” I detect a small tremble in his voice as if worried about my reaction to his answer.

“How do they describe me?” I ask, my eyes still closed.

Bartholomew falls silent, most likely skimming over the words printed in the newspaper he’s reading from. “One describes you as ‘divinely flawless’ and another as ‘magnetically intoxicating’.”

I hum, letting the words sink in. “That will do,” I drawl.

I listen to scissors cutting through paper, and then footsteps on the bathhouse marble floor before I open my eyes. Bartholomew delicately places the cut-out articles into the water amidst the floating milkflowers, submerging the paper to break the fibrous substance apart with his fingers. When he’s satisfied with his work, he drags his hand in the water and mixes the paper with the bathwater.

I let out a satisfied sigh, visualizing the words from the articles seeping into my skin. “Omnia vanitas,” I say under my breath. Closing my eyes once again, I dismiss my assistant. “Leave.”

“Yes, sir,” he chirps before I hear his steps scuttle out of the room.

After my soak,followed by an hour-long body massage, I stroll into my bedchamber naked; skin moisturized and muscles loose. With the large arched windows facing the rising sun, andthe thick crimson curtains open, the early morning rays dance across the room as I make my way to the canopy bed.

Everything about Vainglory Tower has been decorated to our family’s opulent standards—my private quarters especially. The gold coffered ceiling alone took a year to build. And the two hand-carved marble mantelpieces took just as long.

A pair of satin pajama bottoms has been laid out for me on the bed and I put them on before reaching for my phone on the bedside table. With a few quick taps, I put on a modern rendering of Vivaldi’sIl piacere, the music spilling out of the surround sound speakers in the corners of the ceiling. I take a few seconds to savor the smooth, timeless violin notes before I make my way to the Hall of Mirrors. The melody follows me into the vast, empty space, the speakers connecting the music even here.

Barefoot, I relish the feeling of the morning sun’s heat against the soles of my feet as I make my way to the small mat left for me in the middle of the hall. I settle onto the floor cross-legged, facing one of the mirrors. The sun warms my bare back as I begin a long series of stretches, my body backlit as I gaze upon my reflection. First my arms and torso, then my legs. I fall into a meditative state as I feel the soothing burn of my muscles being pulled and stretched.

“Sir?” Bartholomew says tentatively from the door connecting the Hall of Mirrors to the receiving room.

My gaze slices to him, my brows knitting in irritation while my body is still stretched into my final pose.

He audibly gulps before continuing, “You have a meeting in half an hour.”

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