A trail of glowing light twisted and turned as far as the eye could see, twinkling behind sparse branches. By day, the ground was a carpet of rich russet, flaming orange and brilliant gold, but by night the surround of the palatial destination existed in velvety darkness. The earthy musk of autumn clung to the air, teasing with the memory of summer, allowing the feminine guests to still bare their shoulders with a reason beyond the scope of fashion.
The sprawling grounds, as meticulously manicured as their owner, boasted gardens so flawless that some believed the roses had been painted by masters. There were whispers among the posh partygoers that their host possessed plush green walkways, where a length of carpet was rolled out, so it could not be marred beneath treading feet.
People traveled far and wide to attend the soirees held by the Viscount DeSurrey. His European title intrigued his American guests, as did his old money. He held festivities on the grandest scale. It felt like being transported into another era, long ago, and even those opposed to his less favorable qualities had to admit that the opulence was worth their host's cold, austere behavior.
The very best of New England's society could be found in attendance. Of course, another type of Society existed for Andrew DeSurrey. A fanatical one, bent with purpose and a zealot's frightening righteousness.
All manners of Society were captivated by the Viscount. After all, he kept his property with all the care given to the finest treasure. And, he kept his crown jewel on an ornate pedestal, out of touch, yet in plain sight where it was certain to be admired, if not envied.
While the guests arrived, the Viscount's crown jewel sat in perfect posture before an oversized marble vanity. The mirror reflected a petite, doll-like woman from several angles and although she gazed into her own remarkable lavender eyes, she did not appear to truly see anything at all.
She wore long, dark hair down and completely unadorned. In fact, she left a tiny tiara set in glistening diamonds atop the cool vanity, discarded, disdained.
She would not wear it.
Tonight was the last night, she decided. Tonight, when Andrew least expected it, Estessa was going to leave. Run away. Painstaking preparation had been made. All she had to do was cross through the woods, find the hiking pack she stashed and...vanish. Her stomach clenched in fear, but her smooth features did not betray her.
Estessa stood, allowing only a scant glance to the fine perfection of her brilliant white gown. It shimmered beneath the soft flickers of candlelight, outlining her small, curving figure splendidly. The bodice, fitted loveliness, tapered to a little waist that flared into soft, curving hips. The rest of her figure could be guessed at, hidden beneath the voluminous sweep of the skirts, under which only the very tips of tiny silk slippers sometimes peeked. The Viscount spared no expense to her wardrobe, and for every article of clothing, she had a matching set of gloves.
She always wore gloves. Dainty gloves of the finest kid. Tonight, in pure white.
She met the Viscount at the top of the grand, swirling marble staircase. He waited there in suitable perfection, not a strand out of place, his cold grey eyes assessed her as they'd done a thousand times, with a quick cursory scan. Only when Andrew felt certain it would make her uncomfortable did he award her with a lingering gaze. Estessa was met with his satisfaction and she knew this by the pensive way he studied the glossy half-moons of his manicured fingernails.
He murmured to her, "My dear, you are nearly complete..."
This was his method of subtle admonishment for her misconduct in lacking the tiara. Estessa answered without words, only risking to meet his eyes briefly before sweeping her gaze down toward the throng that assembled through the wide, arching doors. The Viscount smirked and understood well enough that the girl exercised an attempt to shrug off his restraints.
"Very well," he allowed aristocratically, waving his hand as he donned his gloves and began a straight-backed descent of the stairs. He paused and held a hand to her and she obliged, slipping her slender gloved fingers into his grasp and accompanying him in a heralded entrance to those who awaited below. The Viscount graciously accepted his guests, although he practiced minimal conversation.
Estessa received no one and simply stood like any other of a number of ornaments he possessed. If she was aware (and she was) of any sets of eyes roaming appreciatively or sometimes enviously over her, she gave no indication of it. Once in a great while, she met the eyes of people as they passed. After all, she had a job to do. The Viscount had alternative reasons for holding these events, well beyond those to showcase his wealth.
The Viscount's study had molded Estessa into a very specialized little hunter. Her psychic gifts had proven covetous to three vampires, so far. Her very presence lured them into The Society's traps. What Andrew (and the Society) had not understood was they had yet to deal with an Ancient. It was a matter of time before this luck ran out.
Andrew glanced around at his prize from a slight distance, although he quickly looked away again because she wore a most subtle smile, her lash-fringed eyes cast demurely to the side as she watched some distant figure pluck a stem from a centerpiece.
The Viscount suffered a white hot, soul-severing moment of recollection, and a sneer briefly curled his arrogant upper lip. He hated her when she reminded him of Eleanor.
The girl's older sister had been his cherished wife and the Viscount had loved Eleanor, in his skewed manner. At the very least, he held her prized and cherished and had painstakingly won her fair hand. But ten years ago, when Estessa was still a strange, haunted, wide-eyed child barely hinting at the blossom she'd become, her sister had found a secret passion, her true lifemate. A Carpathian.
Eleanor had confided this forbidden love to Estessa, filling the girl's head with flower-laced visions of beauty and romance. But still...forbidden. By every law outside of the Carpathians' unique society, Eleanor belonged to Andrew DeSurrey.
Little Estessa had tried to warn her sister, her young life had been plagued with impressions of others. All she had to do was touch and she could read imprints of thoughts and emotions as easily as she could recite poetry from a page. This was the reason she covered her cursed hands in gloves.
Estessa felt her brother-in-law's rage when he discovered Eleanor planned to leave him, that night, to abandon him so she could be with her true lifemate. Little Estessa begged Eleanor to wait. To wait until the day was over, until the sun had set, to tell Andrew the truth.
Foolish, excited, Eleanor did not wait. Estessa watched from a hidden place while her sister confessed to Andrew. The Viscount's face remained impassive, at first.
Where Eleanor saw beauty and boundless pleasure, the Viscount saw her Carpathian mate as a taster of blood, a usurper of life, a Vampire of legend. Eleanor had made her choice, and when the Viscount understood that his beautiful flower was about to hand herself over to the thorn, he bade her to grant him one last good-bye, and with Estessa watching from her hiding place, he sliced Eleanor's pretty throat like butter beneath his precise blade. His rage showed, then. And he looked to the spot, where, too horrified to scream, Estessa emerged. She flew at him, and when she touched him, she learned that the Viscount knew she'd been watching all along.
Eleanor died, bleeding, on the floor, in a patch of bright sunlight. What became of her lifemate, Estessa never knew, because afterward, the Viscount vanished to the United States, with Estessa, still a tender child, in shielded tow. He spent vast resources on the Society, determined to wipe all manners of Vampire from the world.
Andrew exploited Estessa's gift-curse of her hands like it was his to command, depriving her of the gloves until she thought she'd go mad. Along the way he impressed upon the girl that her sister's death was attributed to Estessa's failure to inform him of Eleanor's affair. Through this, he taught her to hate Vampires and wish them into extinction.
The Viscount shot another glance toward his prodigy, and she knew the warning. The little smile fell slack on her beautiful features. She was the only woman in attendance at the masquerade that lacked a mask or headdress of some kind, and she was also the only woman wearing white. It was the single, infamous rule of the Viscount's galas.
No one was to wear white. No one but Estessa.
And so the angelic vision swept down the last two stairs and through a crowd that parted without a need for her to break stride. Estessa positioned herself before the musicians and the choir drew to a harmonious close. Without warning or fanfare her voice rose above the hushed murmurs of the crowd, garnering the attention of every soul in attendance.
She sang in a dead language, a haunting melody without the need of embellishment. When it ended, the audience clung to the lingering of her final note and paused in breathless anticipation of more. But she left them disappointed and they finally acquiesced with regal applause.
Estessa stepped down and slipped out, a little blur of white, through an alcove that lead to the hedge maze, not yet lit for the guests to enjoy.