“No!” Damon said, annoyed. “I’m having far too much fun with my wicked lady of the stage. And let me tell you, she is wicked,” he said, suggestively waggling his eyebrows.
“Fine,” I said. I wouldn’t give Damon the satisfaction of listening to his exploits. “But the murders . . .”
“Are being done by some stupid human who’ll be caught sooner or later,” Damon said, shrugging.
“No.” I shook my head and briefly explained what I’d seen, the bloody SALVATORE—I SHALL HAVE MY REVENGE message in Dutfield Park.
“So?” Damon asked, barely a flicker crossing his face.
“I think it could be Klaus,” I snapped, frustrated at having to spell out what appeared so obvious to me. “Who else writes bloody messages and knows our name?”
Damon’s eyes widened slightly, only to immediately go back to his satisfied, lazy expression. “That’s your clue?” he asked. “Because anyone could write that. And I hate to bruise your ego, Stefan, but we’re not exactly the only Salvatores in the world. It could even be the name of one of those Whitechapel girls. I’m not concerned. And of course the murderer, whoever he was, used blood to write. Ink and paper just doesn’t have the same horrific effect.” He sighed, glancing over to the bar, where Violet and Charlotte were tipping back their glasses of champagne and giggling.
“Now, if you’ll excuse me, I need a drink. Come with me, brother. Let’s celebrate our reunion,” he said, picking his way through the crowd. I followed him, furious. He was acting like I’d told him a joke. Didn’t he care that a psychotic vampire was on the loose? Didn’t it bother him that we might be the target of a murderer?
Apparently not. Every few steps, he was stopped by various admirers: girls I recognized from the chorus, a small man with an enormous white bushy beard who seemed to be the theater tailor, and a barrel-chested man with gold cufflinks and a top hat whom I imagined to be one of the producers for the company. I tried to ask him light questions to see if he had any connection to Cora, but I knew this man wasn’t the one. He had a thick British accent and dark hair. Nothing like Eliza’s description. Every time Damon was stopped, he laughed and smiled, clinking his glass and offering up compliments. I had to hand it to him—on the surface, Damon was nothing but a perfect gentleman.
“See how well I’m behaving?” Damon asked after we finally got to the bar and the bartender offered us two glasses of champagne.
“Like a regular priest,” I said. It was odd to be at a party with Damon. One part of me still wanted it to be like it had been back when we were humans, when we’d always anticipate what the other was going to do or say. The other, wiser part of me knew I could never trust Damon as a vampire—after all, he’d killed Callie, he’d have killed the Sutherlands if Klaus and his minions hadn’t gotten to them first, and he left Lexi and I twenty years ago, barely saying good-bye.
And yet, in his mind, nothing would settle the score that Damon thought existed between us. After all, I was the one who’d turned Damon into a vampire. He’d begged me not to, but I’d forced him to drink blood, had forced him to live out this eternity. He’d never forgiven me. Over time, even though there was a mounting list of offenses and wrongs that he’d done me, I still would erase them all from my mind if it meant we could be true brothers, like we’d been before. And it was all too painful to realize that would never come to pass when, even to outsiders, we appeared to be the best of friends. Indeed, Damon was constantly introducing me to a whole host of people as his “old friend Stefan from the States,” and all I could do was smile, nod, and wish I lived in a world where it truly was that simple.
“Charlotte was bewitching as always,” I heard a voice say and glanced up. A tall blond gentleman was standing next to Damon. He was wearing a white silk shirt buttoned all the way to the top of his neck, along with an elegant black to
pcoat. His shoes were Italian leather, and it was impossible to tell his age—he could be anywhere from twenty-five to forty.
“Samuel!” Damon exclaimed, giving the man a hearty clap on the back. “This is Stefan, an old friend.”
“Hello,” I said stiffly, bowing my head slightly. I sensed Samuel appraising my rough hands, chapped and cut up from weeks of hard physical labor, as well as the five o’clock shadow forming on my face. I’d fallen out of the habit of daily shaves while at Abbott Manor.
“Welcome,” Samuel said after a long moment. “Any friend of Damon’s is a friend of mine.” But before he could say anything else, Charlotte and Violet walked toward us, Violet clearly tipsy.
“This is the most exquisite day of my life!” Violet announced to no one in particular, flinging her champagne glass up in a toast so violently that the liquid sprayed in a constellation-like pattern on her silk dress.
“To imagine, I was like that once,” Charlotte said in mock horror. “I do hope you take her home and teach her some of the finer points of mingling in polite society,” she added, looking pointedly at me.
“Well, unfortunately, Violet will get none of that with Stefan, darling. Although she will get a lot of lessons. Stefan loves hearing himself talk. Why, I think he’s talked me to death in the past.”
“I almost love talking as much as Damon loves listening to himself,” I said, an undercurrent of annoyance evident beneath my jocular tone. I needed to get Violet back to the hotel. After all, she had to work tomorrow night. But I knew it would be a challenge to get her to willingly leave this party. And we still hadn’t found Cora.
“Well, I must go, but will I see you and Charlotte tomorrow near Grove House?” Samuel asked after a moment, glancing meaningfully at Damon.
“Of course.” Damon nodded.
“One o’clock? It has to be before my show,” Charlotte said.
“Yes,” Samuel said. “And, Stefan? Would you and your friend like to come? It could be amusing,” he said dryly. I blinked at him. I felt everything he said was just on the edge of an insult, but it was impossible to pinpoint what was so offensive about the words themselves.
“Want to come to a party, brother?” Damon asked, raising his eyebrows.
“Oh, please?” Violet asked, clapping her hands together.
“We’ll see,” I said stiffly.
“Violet, would you like to come?” Typical Damon. “Stefan will if he can pencil it in between his moralizing, Shakespeare reading, and detective work.”
“Detective work?” Charlotte asked in confusion.