Covet the Night, page 7
L
aurel was right. Gwen's gown was bound to leave hearts on the floor. Her heart was currently somewhere on her bedroom floor, after she'd first gotten a glimpse of herself.
Her gown was a bold creation of red on red with all the fixings. Strapless sweetheart bodice featuring a double strap open back? Check. A racy side slit that forced Gwen to shorten her stride lest she offered a sneak peek of her goods to the court? Check. Glittering red sequins to highlight her curves and a luxe mermaid train? Double-check. Every time Gwen caught her reflection, she paused to stare. She'd never felt so glamorous. Her soon-to-be sisters had gushed when they saw her. Hazel and Lily had playfully argued over who would put the finishing touches on Gwen's makeup—though somehow, Poppy ended up with the coveted position. It warmed Gwen's heart more than she cared to admit to being fussed over so.
"Are you ready?" Liv sidled up next to Gwen before a large mirror in the hall they waited in.
"I can't dance," Gwen replied casually with a small smirk playing on her lips.
"Ah, but can you drink, ma chérie?"
"I think I'll need to to make it through the night."
Liv chuckled and smoothed a fallen curl back into place using the mirror before them. The buxom French woman looked like she'd been taken out of some pinup magazine. Her sleeveless red velvet gown was skintight and boasted a classic V-neck bodice. But what drew Gwen's eye were her elbow-length black gloves.
"You look stunning."
A pleased flush crawled up Liv's neck as she smiled graciously at Gwen.
"Oui," she agreed with a breathless laugh and twinkle in her eye. "I do hope the others arrive soon. I wish to go in and make my mark."
Gwen considered their sister lines—Violet and Rosemary respectively—mingling together off to the left. They were dressed like sin itself in various shades of red and chattering excitedly with one another. Now and then, a sister or two would glance fondly over at Gwen and Liv. The attention lifted Gwen's smile higher until she remembered Lily's one-word description of their household: poisonous.
What did that say about Liv's character? And more importantly, what had the Rosemary sister line done to deserve the title?
Voices and laughter sounded from the other end of the hall. Gwen and Liv turned to catch sight of the remaining sister lines' approach. First came Madame Roux's sister line with Antonia, then Orchid's with Brit. Last was Cassia, who trailed behind with only Rebecca at her side.
Though the other initiates weren't outfitted completely in red, like Liv or herself, Gwen was helpless to notice that each carried some bold red token on their person. Rubies dripped from Antonia's neck and ears. Brit wore a sleeveless black bodysuit artfully draped with chiffon the color of a well-aged merlot. The effect was daring and fearless. Gwen was certain no one else could pull it off but the statuesque Australian.
And then there was Rebecca.
Her dress clung to her torso before fanning out in elaborate petals. The ombré of black to red was stunning. Gwen caught the other American's eye and passed along a small smile, which Rebecca returned with a light blush.
"We shall proceed oldest to youngest. Line up accordingly with your sister line," Madame Roux instructed, her voice rising a decibel above the rest.
The sisterhood made no undue haste to comply, chatting happily as they arranged themselves as if they had a thousand times before. Gwen supposed they had.
The Violet sister line was second-seeded in the overall line. Directly behind them, Cassia stood protectively in front of Rebecca. Confusion doused Gwen momentarily as she pondered over their placement. Cassia was the youngest of Coral's children, which should have rightfully put her and Rebecca at the end of the line. Yet because the original matriarchs of the Rosemary and Orchid line were dead, she'd surpassed their sister lines in rank as newer, younger blood had taken to lead the other lines. Satisfied with her conclusion, Gwen peered farther down the line. Gloved fingers waved at her, and towering at the back was Brit, which left Antonia at the head with Madame Roux's line.
"Eyes forward, pet." Gwen's head snapped to the front. "You won't want to miss this," Laurel said.
Their grand procession began, skirts lifting as they ascended a small tucked-away stairwell. The staccato of heels echoed off the curved walls, accompanied by the gentle swish of fabrics. All became silent as a door creaked loudly open. Lively voices and crystal glasses chimed together in cheerful repose to flood the stairwell with their merriment.
Gwen gasped as she reached the top and got her first glimpse of the Lunarium. It was the crowning jewel atop the highest floor in the Dark Court.
It was beautiful—no, magical. She quickly pinched her forearm to make sure it wasn't a dream.
It wasn't.
The ceiling was pitched high in a glass dome where dozens of globe-like chandeliers, placed in trios and acts of five, bathed the greenhouse in light—for it was a greenhouse. The uppermost floor of the Dark Court was reserved for the Royal Households and those they favored. It was decked out in exotic plants. Everywhere Gwen looked, her eyes met with greenery. The collection of flowers, shrubbery, and trees created nooks to sit and rest as well as private alcoves. Their sweet-smelling aroma perfumed the room.
As they cut deeper into the room, Gwen eyed the spacious checkered dance floor in giddy excitement. She'd not lied to Liv earlier when she said she couldn't dance… nor had she specified the type of dance she was incapable of executing. Laurel had painted vivid scenes of romantic waltzes, spirited baroque steps, and arresting gallopades at the balls and private dances hosted by the various households. Gwen knew none, but Laurel had promised she would learn in time.
"Mouth closed, pet." Gwen startled at the voice so near her ear and offered a grin to Laurel as a glass of champagne was pressed into her hand. "Welcome to the Lunarium. Back before Vienna had electricity running through its veins, you could see the stars quite well from this room. Of course, some things have changed here over time—the flora, furniture, and the chandeliers most recently—but it has always been a refuge for the Royal Households."
"It's incredible." Gwen sipped the champagne with a wistful sigh on her lips. The effervescence tickled the roof of her mouth.
Laurel's hand rested briefly on Gwen's back, ushering her toward a pair of flowering shrubs.
"You're certain to be stolen away from me tonight—there will be no helping it—so allow me to point out some people for you," Laurel said. "Do you see the cluster of vampyrés over there?" Gwen spotted the foursome with ease. "They're members of the Delacroix Household. You'd do well to show them some deference—but only some, mind you. The Roux and Delacroix are the only remaining original founding households."
"Is that the fleur-de-lis embroidered on their clothes?"
"Yes," Laurel answered with spirit. "The Delacroix love to wear their emblem in some shape or form: embroidery, jewelry, and one of them—I believe Drake—has it tattooed on the backs of his hands.”
"Who are they?" Gwen inclined her head to the right, where a pair of gentlemen in finely tailored suits stood next to one another.
"Jakob Vrana and his childe, Sebastian." The latter's name was spoken with unconcealed disgust. Catching Gwen's wide-eyed response, Laurel huffed. Gwen swore her eyes flashed crimson. "This portion of our conversation never occurred, do you understand, Gwen?" After a hasty nod, Laurel inched closer. "The last of Cassia's line—whose name I shall not speak—was expelled from our household for her treachery and now flaunts her relationship with Sebastian for all to see. It was only two short years ago that their head of household, Jakob, publicly accepted her into their family. It's an insult to us all."
Gwen smoothed her expression to one of neutrality and dragged her gaze away from the handsome men. "Why was it allowed?"
"It's never been done before, and, as such, no rule against it was made. What rankles more is the court's acceptance of it. No doubt, Jakob's other childe, Ruby, had some hand in swaying people's opinions. Or Jax." Murder courted Laurel's features in sharp downturns before she smoothed their edges. "The Vranas are nothing if not cunning, and they certainly know how to bide their time. They are… admirable in that sense."
Unable to resist, Gwen swept her gaze back to the men covertly. Both were tall and fairly lean, one fair-haired and the other dark. Smirks came and went on their faces as they surveyed the occupants of the Lunarium.
And then the blond locked eyes with Gwen. His bright blue eyes pinned her to the spot and ran over her appraisingly.
Gwen's pulse jumped as she jerked her eyes away and glued her attention to a more worthy spectacle. A hum of strings vibrated through the room, and a line of couples filed out to the dance floor. They took their places and, after an eight-count, bounded off in unison. They looked as if they were dancing on air, their movements so graceful and swift. Gwen spared Laurel a glance and found her grinning back at her.
"Come." With confidence, she led Gwen deeper into the Lunarium.
Heated eyes followed their progress, raising Gwen's blood pressure and heartbeat. Laurel tossed a smirk over her shoulder at Gwen before she slanted her lips into a sharklike smile that kept the other predators at bay. Mostly.
The courtiers had been warned not to touch or bite the Roux's heirs or else face the wrath of the sisterhood, but there were some who couldn't resist….
Fingers grazed Gwen's spine. A scrape of nails touched her wrist. A sly tongue tasted her ear. Gwen gasped and spun, looking in every direction for the culprits, but found none.
"Be mindful of the games you play tonight," Laurel said, not breaking her stride. "I want you to indulge your senses to the fullest. Drink and eat all you like, flirt and tease as you like, but save your flesh and blood for the sisterhood. These vampyrés are well-versed in all manners of play that won't compromise your body. Don't let them sweet-talk you into anything more than voyeurism—" Laurel halted abruptly, her head cocked to the side. "I suppose if the paddles and whips are brought out, you might enjoy that if you wish, though do keep in mind their strength may be too much for you. Sometimes we forget our strength."
Laurel turned to face her charge. Her knuckles grazed Gwen's neck fondly.
"I'm not a fan of paddles or whips," Gwen found herself saying.
Laurel's smirk returned. "Perhaps not now…." Gwen blushed scarlet, and Laurel laughed. "Come now, don't be such a prude, pet. The Roux are no stranger to exploiting our bodies for the greater advantage. It can be quite fun really. The years of foreplay. The long hours of seduction. The climax is always exquisite, and one way or another, we always end up with what we want: information, a favor, blackmail. Your body is your greatest weapon. It can take down even the mightiest of men… and women, for that matter. Now, shall I continue pointing out who’s who?"
"Yes, please."
Arm in arm, they continued about the room at a more leisurely pace. "Over there, you have the Habsburgs. You can always identify them by their chins and their abysmal attire. And over there are the Gunwyns." Laurel scrunched her nose at the group of males. "Both are Major Households here at court. I'm surprised the Pulzins weren't invited," Laurel added thoughtfully. "They've won a number of sunlight rings from other households fighting in the Pits. Oh." Laurel paused. Her sights narrowed on a woman striding across the floor to three women in red and silver robes.
"Who is she?"
"That’s Valdora. She's the leader of the Tempest Clan of sorcerers. The three she's thundering toward like a deranged bull are our sorcerers." Laurel patted Gwen's hand reassuringly at her startled expression. "We keep a handful of sorcerers on retainers for various tasks that require magic. If they wear robes of red and silver, they're ours. Anyone else isn't worth your time."
Gwen's head bobbed robotically; her eyes trained on the sorceress's interaction with the Roux's sorcerers. The woman wore deep amethyst robes fitted with a corset over top and had long blonde hair that reached her waist.
"You can identify the clans by the color of their robes. Amethyst for the tempests, red and silver for the Roux, etcetera, etcetera." Laurel waved her hand in the air, clearly unimpressed. "We've about a half dozen clans here at court, but I rarely keep count."
"What's a tempest?"
Laurel's eyebrows hunched forward. "She's still a sorceress but a bit more… elevated. Her powers touch the elements. The magic of her kind is often used in warcraft or on the battlefield. I wonder if the Delacroix invited her." Laurel glanced at Gwen with a wry smirk. "They're always trying to show off and compensate for their lack of appeal."
They drifted into silence then, sipping idly on their drinks as they studied the room. Vampyré and sorcerer alike had dressed to impress. Crystals and jewels glinted in the glow of the chandeliers. Fangs gleamed. Hands wandered freely.
Gwen wondered if it was like that here always—this unapologetic decadence and freedom.
She didn't think she would mind.
Her censored upbringing had left her with a hunger for the finer things in life. And the Dark Court was proving to have all that and more.
Gwen's casual observance fell back to the Delacroix. About a dozen of their household stood on a short platform, railed off from the crowd lingering near the dance floor. Although their outfits were undoubtedly of high quality, they were outdated and cumbersome.
Many women wore their hair down to their waist with crystal hairpins in the shape of flowers and butterflies scattered about the curly masses. Their gowns were far bigger than the creation Rebecca wore. The longer Gwen stared, the more she thought the gowns plucked straight from the nineteenth century: voluminous skirts, off-the-shoulder sleeves, and matching jewelry sets that would make a queen pea-green with envy.
For a moment, Gwen felt a pang of pity for them. The Roux wanted new blood for the sisterhood to help bring them into the new century.
One look at the Delacroix was proof enough that the other Royal Household was stuck in a different time.
A delighted cry roused a small section of the crowd over by a cluster of fig trees. Bolts of emerald light streaked through the air before bursting into small fireworks. Gwen's mouth fell open in awe as she joined the second round of applause.
"That's Valdora! She’s making the fireworks!"
"I see that," Laurel replied dryly.
A woman dressed in creamy organza came to collect their empty glasses. What was meant to be a quick glance in the woman's direction turned into an unflattering gape by Gwen. Not that gaping has ever been attractive, Gwen thought distantly as she absorbed the woman's dress or lack thereof.
The woman was swathed in organza from neck to toes and nothing else. Every part of her was visible, from her dark areolas to the triangular hair nestled at her groin. There were also numerous bite marks scattered over her body. Some were an angry red, while others had healed to pink indentations.
Gwen locked eyes with her. The woman smiled serenely back as if lost in a dream state. She offered Gwen a new glass languidly. Gwen took it instinctively and, with great effort, forced her gaze back to Valdora's magic show. The Roux sorcerers had joined in conjuring vibrant designs in the air that would crackle off into miniature lightning streaks. Out of the corner of her eye, Gwen saw the woman depart and breathed a sigh. The fresh glass touched her lips when Laurel spoke.
"I wouldn't do that if I were you."
Gwen blinked down at the contents of her glass and gave a small shriek. She released the glass reflexively. Laurel snatched it from the air before its purely bloodied contents could spill.
"Sorry." Mortifying heat infused Gwen's cheeks.
"There's no need to apologize," Laurel said, her crimson eyes warm and comforting. Her gaze swung back to the magic on display; the warmth quickly faded from her eyes. "Valdora can try to win hearts all she likes, but it won't work. Her brand of politics is just too…." Laurel's nose scrunched. "Nice."
"Why is she trying to win hearts?"
"To turn this court upside down. She thinks there should be equal representation of supernaturals at the higher levels of the court and is petitioning for a number of sorcerers and shifters to be given Minor or Major Household status." Laurel scowled. "I dare think she presumes to have representation at the highest of levels as a Royal Household." Her upper lip rose to show off her fangs. "The sheer gall of it is almost unbelievable. Vampyrés built this court to live in accordance with our nature, no one else's. Why should we kowtow to the whims of supernaturals who have no rightful claim to the court?"
Gwen didn't know what to say to Laurel's biting rant, so she said nothing at all. Her sire-to-be was staring at the sorcerers and the magic show with unnerving intensity. As the silence stretched on between them and the show came to its end, Laurel's look began to soften. Gwen caught sight of the couples leaving the dance floor as the violinist struck the final chords to the latest number in a dramatic swipe of his bow. Polite applause peppered the crowd.
"She might have made a compelling hybrid," Laurel commented out of the blue, finishing her glass to then start on Gwen's misallocated one. The vampyré stared off into the distance, ruby eyes looking beyond the prattling crowd. "Alas, as far as we know, only shifters and lycans can be made into hybrids. Perhaps it’s the sorcerer's magic that rejects so heartily the intrusion of vampyré blood. Lycans and shifters, on the other hand… it's simply going from one kind of monster to another."
"How exactly is a hybrid made?"
Laurel downed the bloody champagne in her hand and let the thin flute dangle from her fingertips. As her tongue darted out to swipe the excess off her lips, she passed a bland glance at Gwen.
"It matters not. I was merely lost in thought and rambling. You've no need to worry about Valdora's silly ambitions or hybrids. The Roux Household would never deign to attempt such a lurid practice. It would be in bad taste and form. If you ask me, hybrids are—"
"An abomination?"
The intruder owned a thoroughly masculine voice with a smooth-as-whiskey Scottish inflection. Gwen stiffened and hurriedly tried to mask her dismay.
