Endless Night (13 page)

“Formal. Most will be in Victorian garb. You didn’t bring anything?” His voice told me he was a bit concerned with my lack of preparation.

“No. I wasn’t aware of any of the events this weekend. I packed like I was going on vacation. And one generally does not bring a full Victorian gown as a carry-on.”

His brow creased in the center. “Well, I’m not sure then. Oh, maybe…” he trailed off as he got up from the edge of the bed.

He walked to the beautiful armoire that stood in the other corner of the room. I noticed the gray and blue striped pajama pants he’d been wearing. They flopped around his bare feet as he moved so confidently across the room. I stood there like an idiot and watched him open both doors to the cherry wood cabinet.

“Here you are,” he pulled a wooden hanger from the cabinet covered in lace and frills. All pink and black.

“Borrow a dress from someone else’s stash? Not my style. Besides, I’m not your average bear. My big ass will never fit into that,” my head shook vehemently protesting.

“Hmm. Well, then who’s this for?” he pulled a scrawled note from the hook of the hanger and handed it to me.

Cyrus stood very still and quiet while I read the words on the parchment paper. ‘Dylan, a sexy gown for the minx I know is hidden within you. Release your inhibitions and have some fun for once. Your beauty will shine if you let it. I love you more than you know. Yours, Tatum.’

I didn’t know what to say. The ace up her sleeve? I’d been so pissed at her for the way she’d been acting then she goes and totally redeemed herself.
Well, kind of. Not letting me embarrass myself was kind of her thing. And to have had an awesome and likely expensive costume hidden in my room, for Lord knew how long, was very much in the style of Tatum Price. I knew in there somewhere she loved me and I loved her too. Even if she was a cunt bitch whore.

“You sneaky monkey. How long has that been there?” I asked Cyrus.

“A while,” he stepped closer and handed me the hanger. “Get ready.” He leaned forward and caught me off-guard with a kiss on my forehead. “I cannot wait to see it on you.”

Without another word, he left me alone in my room without a view. Being alone for the first time in over a full day was a bit of a shock to the senses. My brain was actually able to process all that I’d absorbed in the events of my Friday night.

Cyrus was the second in command for the House of whatever in Los Angeles, there were headless bitches all over the United States, a wicked voodoo queen was out for my head, and I puked on an extremely hot vampire boy. What in the fuck was happening to my life?

Why, suddenly, did I know there was a lifestyle vampire hierarchy, and how in the fuck did I end up in such a compromising position with one of them? There were some fan girls who would pay good money to end up in my situation. Unfortunately for some, these vampy boys were not immortal. Or sparkly. They were on the other hand
, annoying, bossy, sexy, and likely pretty dangerous. Aside from the whole living forever thing, they were pretty true to form. Coffins in the basement? Yet to be confirmed. But I had to say, if my dream of dead things in the basement of the house of Dracula came to fruition, I swore I was done with the whole mess of them. If only to save my own skin.

Since when did I become little miss premonition?

Chapter Thirteen

My newly acquired ball gown, if you could call it that, showed off a lot more skin that I’d ever intended on showing. I didn’t even show off this much in a bathing suit. The top-half consisted of a faux sheer corset, lacing up my back from the top of my ass. A shrug went over the top with sleeves that ended in oversized ruffles. The skirt was mostly open in the front and showed off my stocking clad legs complete with pink garter. It was bustled and made my ass look bigger than it actually was; I wasn’t exactly happy with that. Other than looking like a massive slut, the costume was pretty killer. I forced myself to relax and figured there would never be another occasion in which I would ever be able to wear it, so I’d better suck it up and have fun.

“So sick,” Tatum burst into the room without warning and made me jump.

The sight of her caused a flurry of mixed emotions to flutter around in my head. I hadn’t talked to her at length the majority of the trip and had so much to say it hurt my tongue to keep it well bitten.

“Thank you so much. I had no idea I’d need something like this. I love it, but did you really have to make it so…little?” I laughed a bit and checked out my awesome rack in the full mirror that should be a window.

Tatum was quiet for a minute before she said, “Hmm, well, it looks really great on you.” Her reflection in the mirror over my shoulder showed a wrinkle in the center of her neatly plucked eyebrows.

“Really? I feel like a cow,” I did feel a bit like a sausage crammed in the corset, but I knew it wasn’t as bad as my ego made it out to be.

“Let me tighten those lacings for you.” She set her huge makeup case on the dresser and came to me.

“Oh, yeah, that’s what I need to be…
umph…oh…ah…uck.” Tatum pulled and tugged at the ribbon that held me in that sexy device of torture. “Well, at least I know I won’t be eating anything tonight. Or, breathing.” I checked the mirror one last time and was astonished at the size of my waistline. Fuck breathing, skinny beat oxygen any day.

Tatum didn’t talk much after that. She grabbed her makeup bag and started away at my face. Powder puffs and pointed pencils swiped across my eyes. Thank God
, she was tall enough to work on me standing up; I doubted I’d be able to sit strapped into that corset the way I was. I was kind of glad she’d told me to keep my mouth shut while she worked. It was very likely something inappropriate would come out and she’d jab me in the eye with a pencil.

Tatum was cinched into her corseted dress too. She just had less to squeeze into it. All black, floor length, and high collared, Tatum’s gown was more authentic than mine and so not her style at all. I really liked the pin striping on the fabric, but the lack of cleavage threw me.

“What gives? Why am I dressed up like I’m headed off to Moulin Rouge and you look like your auditioning for Gothic Mary Poppins?” I asked during a gap in sharp objects.

“I’m attached,” she said with a shrug and went back to work. “You, my darling, haven’t had a good dicking in a long while. You need
titties. I don’t.” Tatum moved her lips, but never adjusted her hands as they swiped makeup across my face.

“So, what you’re saying is, Malcolm picked it out?” I regretted being snotty right after I said it. Word of advice: never talk shit to the guy holding sharp objects to your eye. Just saying.

She didn’t stop her work, “Yes. It matches his. Being
his,
I need to dress similarly. It’s kind of a tradition thing.”

His? What has become of my friend? The girl who nailed Cyrus square in the nose just to shut him up.

Breathing a sigh of relief she didn’t jab me good in the eye, I said, “Isn’t that a little high school?”

“Ha, wait until you see what Cyrus is wearing,” she laughed and continued her swoops over my face.

“Why? Why would I care?” I asked, as if I truly didn’t. Secretly, I hoped he’d be wearing…nothing. Never mind.

“You care, don’t act like you don’t. And really, you should, you’re his escort. He has to match you,” her brows raised and she laughed through her nose.

“Pink lace? Why in the fuck would you pick pink lace if you knew we’d have to match?” Ok, I did care. I didn’t mind pink on a guy, but I hated to be the reason the poor thing was stuck in pink for the night.

“Me? Why…” Tatum asked through furrowed brows.

“What a lovely sight,” Malcolm said from the doorway, breaking Tatum’s concentration.

Cyrus stood behind the red
-haired walking dildo, peering over his shoulder. Tatum turned from me and blushed at her suitor. I threw up in my mouth a bit and rolled my eyes. I hoped she’d finished her job because I figured she’d ditch me for her man in no time. I was right.

“Are we ready?” she asked with a giddy smile. She was a totally different person around him. Like he had some kind of power over her. Vampire pixie dust or some shit. I guessed this weekend was all about power. Who had it, who
didn’t. Who wanted it, who didn’t give a fuck. That’d be me. I was a firm believer in never relinquishing control to anyone. Others could only have power over you if you allowed it to happen. So I just…didn’t. I wished others could do the same.

“You look amazing, Ms. Hart.” Cyrus moved past the two idiots in black on black pin stripes and into the room toward me.

Looking at his perfect face, I cringed in preparation of seeing the thin red line of a recent injury. An injury I’d caused. But there was nothing to be found. He’d been bleeding profusely only an hour ago and there was nothing to show of my handy work?

Maybe it
isn’tt as bad as all that? Ha! Maybe he’s a goddamned vampire you fucking idiot! Shut up inner-Dylan. You’re out of your element.

He was wearing pink to match mine, but he made that shit look good. Really, all he wore was a pink shirt the rest was black and very Victorian. Down to the ascot and spats on his shoes. If it was anyone else, I’d have laughed it was so over the top, but Cyrus could have walked in wearing clown shoes and it would’ve looked pretty damn good. The only thing he was missing was a silk top hat.

“How do I look?” he flipped a black silk hat in his left hand and put it on his head.

There it is. Now I might laugh.

Why isn’t your lip fucked?
“Don’t you feel ridiculous?” I asked, avoiding the subject that ran rampant through my thoughts, although feeling a bit absurd myself. At some point, I would get to the bottom of all this vampire bullshit. Really, I would.

“It’s Halloween, Dylan. Don’t you like a good costume party?” he flashed a set of shiny white teeth and his eyes shimmered away. If they could bottle that charm and market it, Cyrus would be swimming in cash.

“Oh, I guess you’re right. It is Halloween. All of this vampire shit made me forget there was an actual reason for all this insanity,” I laughed at my own idiocy and shook my head. “So, do you think my new
best friend
will be in attendance?”

“I don’t think so. She performs at the Masque every year, but she isn’t welcome at the ball. Tonight is for VIP guests only, for the most part. As long as you stay with me, you will be safe until we can get you back home,” He smiled a natural and caring smile. I doubted he showed that bad boy off to just anybody.

“We’ll meet you downstairs,” Tatum called from the doorway on her way out.

“Well, that visit was short-lived,” my brows rose with sarcastic annoyance.

“Hmm, well, it won’t matter what those two choose to do with their evening. Tonight, my darling Dylan, I believe you belong to me,” he wriggled his eyebrows up and down. “I do hope that won’t be a problem.”

Better than a poke in the eye
with a sharp stick. Shit, better than anything else that could feasibly be happening.

“I think we can make that work.” It was my turn to sparkle with charm. Or at least drool charm.

“Well then, I’ll leave you to finish up.” Cyrus pulled my hand to his lips and pressed a kiss to my knuckles. It wasn’t the first time a vampy boy had kissed my hand, but it was the first time a vampy boy donning a silk top hat and tailed coat had.

What wonderfully
ethereal happenings have occurred since I stumbled into this scene.

The door closed gently and I was alone in my room again, hopefully for the last time until I was in my own room in my own house
, in my own damn town. Tatum had laced me, prepped me, spackled me, and now I was as sexy as I could be. Honest.

I grabbed my small purse and tossed my necessities in it. Forcing one last look in the mirror, I moved my heeled boots toward the mirror that should be a window. The heavy gold frame that surrounded the obviously aged glass was adorned with intricate carvings of nude females wrapped haphazardly in thin cloth. I hadn’t really noticed the design before, but I supposed I hadn’t intentionally avoided my own reflection during my previous visits to the mirror. I took a step closer to the frame and took a good look at the naked ladies it bore. Each seemed to have their own intentions and seemingly their own personality. One woman carried a clay jar, another balanced a basket of fruit on her head, and yet another held a large circular symbol of some kind. The women were scattered in a sea of roses and grapes on either side trailing up to the top of the frame. There, at the apex of it all, sat another woman. Seemingly singular in her mission and the obvious center of the scene, the woman sat atop a throne of roses and flowing cloth. Her chest was bare proving it was in fact a woman, but the head bore a set of horns and a snout as a bull would have. A disturbing and odd ornament for a mirror frame, but oddly enough, not the strangest thing I’d seen in a day. I made the mental note to ask Cyrus the next time he was alone in my room with me.

Momentarily satisfied with my inspection of the mirror that should be a window, I finally looked at my own reflection. There before me stood a quite pretty, much thinner, gothic version of me. Tatum had done an excellent job of transforming my usual frumpy self into something that could pass for the escort of the Secondus of the House of Idiot Ginger Vamps.

“Hmm, not bad,” I said to my reflection as I turned in each direction to get an idea of the full picture.

My chest bulged upward damn near into my chin, creating a deep cavernous cleavage I could’ve held a beer with. Tatum had left a beaded choker on my dresser to wear if I wanted to, but I thought it looked much nicer with an exposed neck. I blinked my eyes and looked at myself again. In the mirror, it looked like there was a red line around my neck. I rubbed away at it, but it didn’t wipe from the glass. Having no clue how I’d have gotten red stuff on my neck I licked my finger and rubbed it along the stain on my skin. To my surprise it smeared into thin smudges along my throat. The more I wiped, the more the red line grew. Thicker and thicker until finally, drips of red poured from it at various points.

My breathing became heavy nearing the point of erratic. Somehow, with absolutely zero antecedents, my throat had been slit open and was spilling blood into the beautiful plunge of my breasts. My pale skin looked like bloody snow against the stark red of the supposed blood. Frantically, I tore at my neck trying desperately to stop the red liquid from dripping from my body. After a few seconds, the blood began pumping out like milk from an overturned jug. A glugging noise gurgled from my throat as I stood watching myself bleed to death from a phantom wound. My small hands clamped desperately to my ever bleeding neck. I stumbled backward toward my pink and gold bed. My weak legs almost toppled unto the bed and gave up, but my will to survive shoved them into gear. I spun away from the view of the mirror and stumbled toward the door in hopes of finding help before it was too late.

My feet tripped over themselves, as they tended to do, and I fell hard to the floor. Out of sheer muscle memory, my hands left the guzzling wound at my neck and reached out to catch my fall. In that moment, I caught the sight of my pale white hands. They were clean, slender fingers and painted nails free of the gore they should’ve been bathed in. My senses returned to me and I took that instant to analyze the situation. My hands showed no signs of having been covered in blood. I looked down to my bulging chest and saw no red streaks trailing down into my corset top. Confused and bewildered, I crawled back toward the mirror. My brain refused to accept what it saw. There, in the mirror that should be a window, was me. Quite pretty, much thinner, gothic, blood-free version of me. No slice along the flesh of my neck. No blood trails down my cleavage.

“What in the fuck?” I exclaimed through ragged breaths.

I sat on the floor in my amazing ball gown and wondered why in the fuck I wasn’t covered in blood. Or shit, why I wasn’t dead. But most importantly, when I’d finally dropped off the deep end into sheer psychosis.

Through the fog of unbridled confusion, I heard my phone ding letting me know I had a message. Brought back to reality, even momentarily, I reached toward my dropped purse and pulled out my phone. My shaking hands fumbled with the buttons before I learned that Mike
had sent me a photo. Out of a need for human interaction, I checked the message. I was horrified to see what came through. He’d been tasteful about it, but it still wasn’t what I needed to see in that moment.

The photo depicted the chest of a woman with a large bit of wood protruding from the center of it. I couldn’t see the head region, thanks to Mike’s excellent camera angle, but I knew there was likely nothing to be seen. Other than the bloody stump left
behind, that was. The focal point of the photo was of a tattoo just to the left of the wooden stake. I was still horribly shaken by my momentary loss of reality, but I was certain I’d seen that tattoo before. Not in that placement, but I’d seen the symbol. The text with the photo read, “Any ideas?” He was looking for my help. I hated to even put myself into that headless mess, but I actually knew where I’d seen that symbol before, and the fact that it now belonged to someone missing their head, scared the living shit out of me. Against everything I’d stood for twenty-four hours before, I called Mike.