Arc One: Awakening

Chapter 5: Blood Ties - Part 1

Mellow notes flowed in a strident rise of violins and low cellos, reaching the pinnacle of their harmonies until they succumbed to the rolling crash of cymbals and drums. The opera vibrated, ghosting across the velvet canopies and ornate frames.

Lord Bertram corrected the brass horn of the gramophone and drank deep from his goblet, heaving a sigh at the fresh, metallic comfort draining down his throat. "Sweet maiden, dark of hair, run as fast as you can," he warbled, brandishing his free arm as though conducting an imaginary orchestra. "The wolf is on your heels and he's already eaten your man. Run quick, sweet darling, to the woods and far away, he's right behind, don't give it mind, he won't stop until he has his prey." Quaffing the thick, crimson substance, he almost spilled precious droplets down his chin.

"Aim for your mouth, Bertram," he snorted, drying the stray beads on his jaw. He lumbered to steady himself by the musical machine and removed the vinyl disc with a biting scrape, cramming another one onto the pin.

In a distant hum, he waltzed the length of the sweeping, hollow hall, ruby eyes closing to picture centuries long gone. Women in lace masks and silk gowns floated by, fans in hand to communicate with secret lovers, and men in bronze-trimmed coats inspected the perimeters for their next partner. A quartet held precedence at the head of the dancefloor in their elaborate fashions, lengthy, structured tones sailing to greet him like an old friend.

His front door shook under the impact of several sharp raps and he continued his dalliance around the ballroom. Gazes lingered on him. Jealous. Curious. Knowing. Is there anything so enrapturing as a masquerade, he thought to himself, encouraging the nostalgia to swell until he could feel the bodies promenading and whirling about him. Floral perfumes clogged his nostrils as guests swarmed to congratulate him on a thrilling party. Influential lords and ladies implored him to dance with their sons and daughters, and he fluttered the night away in bliss.

Another series of knocks shuddered against the indulgent memories and he grumbled under his breath. "Nobody is home," he barked. At the third set of bangs, he snatched the bottle of blood from the side table and flew into the foyer. "Whoever it is, you can piss off!" Almost wrenching the door off its hinges, his resentment found its target.

The narrow man in the porch rattled his umbrella and propped it by the sculptured fire bird in the archway. "I will gladly piss off when I have imparted the news I have been tasked with bringing to you, Lord Demaret," he said, tilting his bowler hat. "Do you have time to talk?"

Bertram recognised the bordered lapels and aloof expression of a lawyer and swigged at his drink. "Go on," he prompted, thumping on his chest to dislodge a belch.

"I am Jasper Bailey, attorney and representative of the Davenport family," the visitor declared. From the top pocket of his jacket, he withdrew a crisp business card. The lord simply stared at it.

"So?"

"So, it is with deep regret that I must be the one to inform you Miss Francesca Davenport has passed away."

The neck of the bottle rested against Bertram's chin, blood sloshing at the abrupt halt of motion. He lowered the drink. "What has that got to do with me? Couldn't you have just sent a letter and flowers like everyone else does?"

"The situation is a little more delicate than that." Jasper's gaze trailed momentarily to his car before returning to the spindly lord. "May I come in?"

Bertram scowled but let him pass through the domed doorway and slammed the entrance shut with a harsh kick. To his amusement, the lawyer startled, and he sauntered by him with a smirk.

"You appear dressed for a party," Jasper said, shrugging off his coat and hanging it on the rack by the demolished mirror. Spiked fragments scattered across the mahogany sideboard like fallen stars, glass powder glittering helplessly in the grime.