Page 100 of Ophelia's Vampire

He’s hired a driver for the evening, and a sleek, black town car is waiting just outside his front gate. Cas helps me in before shutting the door and circling around to climb in the other side. He reaches over to take my hand in his, squeezing gently as we drive away into the night.

Our destination isn’t too far away, and I recognize it immediately as we pull up, though I’ve never taken the time to visit before.

The Isabella Stewart Gardner Museum is lit up bright against the Boston night, though it’s well after hours it would usually be open to the public. On the street out front, a long line of similarly expensive-looking vehicles wait to let their passengers out, and as we inch forward in that line, I turn to Cas.

“This is it?”

“This is it,” he confirms. “The event was planned very last minute, but promises to be the gala of the year.”

I peer out the window, glancing ahead at the crowd of well-dressed attendees, the trees strung with lights all up and down the boulevard, the ushers in their sharp suits welcoming everyone inside.

“The museum is famous for an art heist, right?” I ask. “One they never solved?”

Cas nods. “That’s right.”

He pulls out his phone and types a brief message, a small smile playing around the corners of his lips. As he tucks it away,we reach the front of the line, and he exits the vehicle first to get my door for me.

Another extravagance, but one I’m absolutely going to allow in the spirit of embracing the magick of tonight. He helps me out of the car and gives me a hand straightening my dress so it falls just right, stepping back for a moment to admire me once more.

My cheeks warm. “Do I look alright?”

Cas hooks a finger under my chin and tilts my face up to meet his gaze. “You’re perfect, Ophelia.”

It’s another one of those moments suspended somewhere out of time. Breathless, infinite, I’m lost in a spell of crimson and tenderness, a wonderful, painful ache springing to life in the center of my chest.

But the spell is broken when the next car in line pulls forward to deposit more gala guests on the sidewalk, and Cas smoothly tucks my arm into his and leads me toward the front door.

He gives our names to the ushers at the entrance and we’re nodded through, past the lobby and gift shop and restaurant, then down a short, glass-walled corridor into the main body of the museum.

Outside the glass, the museum’s landscaping is lit up just like the trees on the boulevard. Hundreds of bulbs sparkle like stars in the trees and shrubbery, casting us both in their golden light as we make our way inside.

As we approach the museum’s indoor, central courtyard, my eyes widen to take in even more splendor. Ornamental trees and flowers fill the space, along with more lights adding to the delicate, ethereal effect. The walls of the courtyard rise all the way to a glass ceiling three stories above, ringed with carved stone arches and balconies—palatial, like something from another time.

I never would have imagined a place like this existed in the heart of Boston, and as we make our way around the first floor, stopping to admire some of the artwork, Cas keeps up a soft, steady stream of conversation about the museum and its history, sprinkling in facts about the works we pause to study.

I float along beside him, more than content to let him play tour guide, though my curiosity peaks as we reach the stairs and the steady stream of guests heading toward the upper levels of the museum.

“What’s going on up there?” I ask as he leads me up the stairs.

“That’s the surprise,” he says, still committed to the bit of keeping me in the dark, but I don’t bother pressing him this time.

Instead, I let myself enjoy.

Enjoy Cas, enjoy the glittering magick of the evening, enjoy being here with him and no expectation of what’s to come as he leads me toward whatever surprise is waiting for us above.

32

Casimir

I’m suspended somewhere outside my body as I escort Ophelia to the gallery on the second floor where the evening’s main event will begin in just a few minutes.

Rather embarrassing, actually, to let my ego be inflated to such an extent, but it would take a much stronger creature than me to stop the sweeping sense of pride at having her on my arm.

Ophelia is a vision.

In her tantalizing black gown and dramatic makeup, hair curled and swept back over her shoulder to put my mark on full display, I’m not sure I’ve ever seen anything so beautiful.

Indeed, the works of art around us hardly compare to the woman on my arm, including the one about to be unveiled in the Dutch Gallery.

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