I walk into the party with senses wide open, hoping that, just this once, I will not have to get kicked out of or run away from it, since this is a particularly beautiful party, full of lush candlelight and marble, flowing with people just as pale and easy on the eyes as the room that contains them. Yes, I want to stay here, but it is doubtful that I can. In case you hadn't noticed, hitmen don't often go over well at parties; everyone there automatically assumes you're out to kill them and asks the host(ess) to throw you out before you can draw your gun.

This time, I am attending a vampire soiree, so, of course, the repurcussions will be tenfold if they happen to suspect I have blessed bullets on me or something; which I actually do, tucked into the wonderfully convenient inside pocket of my black waistcoat, tailored specially for the occasion, but what they don't know won't hurt them until I start shooting. After all, a man has to protect himself somehow in a room full of centuries-old vampires who-for the most part-would sooner slit his throat than shake his hand.

But there are those select few in every crowd.

With all the grace of a tiger hiding in a doe's skin-all willow tree limbs and swishing white kimono-Heidi, a vampire more commonly known throughout London as The Duchess, approaches me, silent, blond subjugate trailing adoringly behind her; he is not one I've met. Bowing respectfully low-she is the most powerful vampire in this city, and I myself have helped her kill more than a few unlucky souls who had the misfortune of messing with her-and keep my tone distant yet polite, warm. "Duchess."

"Well, if it isn't Gentleman Jack." she replies, tone made of gaseous seduction, and holds out her alabaster left hand for me to kiss. "A distinct pleasure, as always."

"Ah, Duchess," I straighten and smile cordially, "I'm afraid that the pleasure is mine entirely."

With a wave and a giggle, she returns my smile with twice the cheer and a flash of needly fangs behind her pouty lips, then beckons her subjugate. "Oh, Fletcher darling, have you met Jack?"

I shake my head with my smile fixed in place and proffer a hand. "No, I don't believe we have, Mister. . . Fletcher, is it?"

Fletcher, with strangely familiar blond hair in curls, dips his head far lower than he should, his voice very small and respectful. "Good day, sir."

"Please, just call me Jack." I tell him; I know I have seen him somewhere before. Not with The Duchess, though, I haven't done a job for her in months, and he can't have been with her that long. Something about him tugs at my memories, reminding me again just how hazy they are beginning to get; keeping track of so many secrets is certainly taking its toll. I cannot remember.

A cold hand on my upper arm startles me; The Duchess is talking to me. "What brings you here tonight, Jack? A small break for The Gentleman's constant work?"

I manage a tight smile and avoid the question, snatching an envelope from my pocket. "I seem to have secured myself an invitation to this fine event. De Quincey's parties are often quite the event, or so I'm told."

The Duchess nods, raising her thin, brown eyebrows, and comments, "You certainly do get around."

"All in a day's work, Duchess," I modestly mumble with a hint of a shrug. "And I am quite glad to be here, since I am able to see you here. It really has been too long." If The Duchess were human, she would've had a healthy, shell-pink blush to go with her pleased expression; I gesture vaguely to the hubbub around us. "It appears that de Quincey has quite outdone himself this time, don't you agree?"

Her almost-black eyes widen a fraction; I'm using an old code-which she introduced me to-for use in just this sort of situation. What it means is this: De Quincey is on my hit list. Will you keep quiet? I am briefly terrified that she will say no and my cover will be blown, my stolen invite revealed, my life taken; then, with a slight tilt of her head, she concedes, "I should think so. Quite a prestigious gathering, you know."

I smile; she's in, and she's telling me that all the higher-up vampire socialites are present. I could kill two birds with the same stone, simultaneously, if the Shadowhunters don't screw up their side of the bargain. This is exactly why I normally work alone, but apparently the Nephilim feel the need to stick their noses where they are too large to fit and infiltrate Downworld. That sort of thing is all right for a human, a mundane that is easily dismissed, but a Shadowhunter just causes trouble. "So, what's the latest news in your parts? Any gossip to be had?"

"You know I'm no gossip-monger, Duchess, but I have heard rumors."

"Such as?" she prompts, smoothing her already-flawless brown bun.

I lean in a little closer and murmur, "All hell and pandemonium has broken loose, and even the angels can't seem to stop it." Translation: The Pandemonium Club is turning Downworld upside-down, and the Shadowhunters are so caught up in it all, they barely know where to start.

"I see," says The Duchess, unconsciously trailing her fingers through Fletcher's maddeningly familiar hair. "Will you stay for the ceremony? I've heard it's going to be quite interesting."

"I've heard something very much the same, my fair Duchess. You know how de Quincey is; the moment something in this city changes, he has to make a big splash to draw every eye back to him." I tease lightly, hoping she reads the implied meaning that something big is going on, and de Quincey's party-and the ceremony accompanying it-are all a ploy for something even bigger.

The Duchess plucks a champagne glass full of blood off a passing tray and delicately takes a sip that turns her lips frighteningly red before whispering, "And what a splash it shall be."