Nikola Tesla finished tying his white bow tie in front of the mirror, making sure it was exactly even and straight. He put on his black evening coat, his white shirt cuffs showing precisely a quarter of an inch. One last smooth down of his hair and mustache, and he was ready.

He picked up his overcoat and took the elevator down to the lobby of the Hotel Gerlach. He had recently moved from the Astor House to the more up-to-date hotel that was only a few blocks from the new Madison Square Garden with its shops, theaters, and restaurants. He was in a very good mood, recently returned from Europe where he had been elected to the Royal Society of Great Britain.

Nikola waited in the lobby for his friend Sam Clemens to arrive with the carriage. Tonight was going to be very special. They were on their way to the Player's Club to see once-President and President-elect again Grover Cleveland deliver a speech in honor of the club's founder, Edwin Booth. They were both members of the club, and everyone who was anyone in New York would be there.

Well, probably all eight hundred members of the club anyway. While Nikola greatly enjoyed conversation with an intelligent woman, sometimes it was nice to have a boy's night out with male companions. Ah, there was the carriage now.

He slipped on his coat. It was December 31, 1892, and there was a cold rain and high wind. In spite of being mostly impervious to the cold, Nikola always tried to blend in. No one on this side of the Atlantic knew his true nature and he felt he was much safer that way.

As he hurried out to the carriage, Tesla reminded himself to address his friend as Mark tonight, not Sam. After all, the writings of Mark Twain were what had made his friend a founding member of the Player's Club and he was always called Mark there.

"Good evening, Mark," he said as he got in the carriage. "Will you be in New York long?" Twain and his family were currently living abroad to save money, but he was back on a visit.

"Tesla! Haven't seen you in a while, congratulations on the Royal Society." Twain handed Nikola one of his stogies and they both lit up. The vampire smoked on occasion, mostly because it was part of male bonding.

"They were kind to me," Nikola said, trying to sound humble. "Anything new coming out?"

Twain snorted at Tesla's self-deprecating statement. That was one thing Nikola liked about him; he always made it clear he thought the inventor had no need to be humble. "I've got a few things in the works. How long do you think the big man will talk tonight? I hope he doesn't ramble on for hours."

Nikola nodded in agreement and they caught up on each other's work for a few minutes until they arrived at no. 16, Gramercy Park. They never discussed finances; both had hit highs and lows during the years of their friendship. By tacit agreement one might pay for both on their outings for a year and then silently switch as fortunes changed; but tonight involved nothing but good fellowship and honoring the founder of the club on its five year anniversary.

Nikola had a second agenda as well. Meeting wealthy men as a social equal and maintaining their awareness of his work was a good policy for times when he needed money. A night at the club was an investment for his future needs, and especially tonight when he was sure every member currently in the city would attend.

Of course he would never ask for money in a social situation, it would be crass and unmannerly. Nor would he mention his work unless asked. However, he was always asked. Tesla's next invention could point to future huge profits and losses just as men had made millions in copper when it suddenly became needed for electric wires.

There were a great many carriages arriving, and they waited in line to exit until they were before the door. Then they made the same dash as everyone else, arriving inside the huge mansion a bit damp. They handed off their coats, snagged drinks, and headed up the mahogany stairs to the main rooms where most people were drifting.

They had time to mingle. Cleveland was scheduled to speak at midnight, and it wasn't even eleven yet. The President-elect and a few select members were dining now in the Grill Room, while the other members arrived. Nikola sipped his whiskey. He preferred wine, but at the Player's Club hard liquor was what a man drank, although there would likely be champagne later to toast Booth. He didn't mind too much, it was very good whiskey. He and Twain split up, and Nikola found himself in a mixed group of industrialists, artists, and actors discussing Cleveland's opposition to the Sherman Act and preference for the gold standard and what it would mean for the economy. Bo-ring.

Tesla listened politely for a few minutes and then moved on. Mark had located the hors d'oeuvres and was filling a plate. Nikola was quickly buttonholed by a pair of bankers who wanted to know what he was working on. Nikola didn't care much for bankers; they had money but always wanted back whatever they gave plus interest. Still, they knew a lot of wealthy men. He had just started to explain his current work when there was a loud bang that sounded very much like a gun. Conversation halted.

An excited man appeared in the doorway and called, "Does anyone speak Russian? Anyone?"

Nicola hesitated. He was fluent in Serbian, Croatian, and Czech, and he could manage in Russian, but perhaps someone else . . . no, no one stepped forward so he raised his hand and said, "I can, a bit. What do you need?"

The man gestured urgently. "This way, quickly, there isn't much time!"

Nikola set his drink on a table as he hurried to the man's side, but got no explanation as he was tugged down a hall into a side room. The vampire knew before he entered someone was badly wounded, he could smell the blood. Tesla took firm control over his fangs that wanted to extend at that enticing scent.

The man on the floor was dressed in formal evening clothes and lying in a pool of his own blood. Nikola didn't recognize him. He was still alive, struggling to breathe with a chest wound. Tesla crouched down and then knelt carefully, trying not to stain his most expensive suit. The man was whispering something and Nikola put his ear to his mouth to hear.

He was startled to hear, "Tesla?" He replied, "Da."

The dying man then spoke to him in English! "Tell . . . white rose bud . . . it's Wexford, three others . . . waiters . . . Cleveland." There was a long exhalation in his ear; the man was dead.

Nikola sat back and stared at the body, his mind working furiously. What was that all about? There were three other men in the room all looking at him and waiting for an explanation.

Tesla didn't understand what he had just heard, but he knew one thing. The man had faked speaking only Russian to reach him specifically. What he had said had been a message for his ears only.

"Um, he just wanted me to pass a message to his family, that he loved them, and, ah, that he had some money hidden in a specific place in his house. Does anyone know who he was?"

One of the other men knelt on the other side of the body and began searching it. Nikola recognized him as a member of the club security staff and made no objection. But aside from a little money, a small comb, and a handkerchief, the dead man's pockets were empty.

"We'd best fetch the police," the security man said. A second man in the room nodded and left. The security man turned to Nikola and said, "Thank you, Mister Tesla, as you can see there's nothing more to be done here. You will be contacted when he is identified so his message can be passed to his family."

Nikola understood he'd been dismissed and left. He looked himself over in the hall and found just a tiny smear of blood near his left knee, and took a moment in a washroom to clean it as well as he could. At least it didn't show much on his black suit.

Tesla picked up a new drink from a passing waiter, and looked at the man carefully for a change. But he just appeared to be a waiter, nothing else. Nikola was disturbed by the cloak-and-dagger aspect of what he had been told. Who was Wexford, and who or what was white rose bud? Not a name, surely—a way of identifying someone? There were a few men wearing boutonnieres, so perhaps . . . he began scanning the room.

Twain rejoined him. "So?"

Nikola just shook his head. "Man wanted to pass on something to his family before he died." He would have welcomed help figuring out what it all meant, but he wasn't sure the little he knew wasn't dangerous. The dying man had deceived everyone around him and whispered his information, and there had to be an important reason for that. Twain could handle himself, but Nikola didn't want to endanger his friend.

"Staff?"

Nikola replied, "He wasn't dressed as staff," while he continued to look, moving a little through the crowd.

"We don't have any Russian members. Who shot him and why?"

"No idea. It's a mystery. Maybe you can get a story out of it."

Mark thought for a moment, but then shook his head. "Too unbelievable, and what sort of explanation could I invent?"

Nikola shrugged. "I see someone I need to talk to." He moved off. He intended to get through all the rooms and find a white rose bud. The sooner he was done with this the better. He had plans for a long, jolly evening, and wasn't at all interested in whatever else was going on.

But Twain tagged along after him. The writer could see there was more to it than Tesla was saying by the change in his friend's behavior. When Nikola stopped and scanned the next room, Mark asked, "What are you looking for, Nikola? Maybe I can help."

The tall inventor took his eyes off of the crowd and turned to Twain. "All right, this is going to take all night by myself. I'm looking for a white rose bud, and don't ask, I won't tell you. If you spot one, don't let on to anyone but me."

Twain's eyes lit up. He loved adventure and something was definitely going on. First he would find the white rose bud and then work on Tesla for the rest of the story. Nikola went right and Mark went left through the room, meeting up on the far side.

"Anything?" Nikola asked. Twain shook his head, and they checked the staircase which was filling up, younger members perching on the bannister, but saw no rose buds of any color. They worked their way into the main room. There were nearly three hundred men there beginning to gather for the speech.

Almost at once Nikola spotted a white rose bud boutonniere across the room, and Twain pointed out a second. But they found no others. One was a middle-aged man, average height, slightly paunchy, dark-haired with a small mustache and goatee. The other was younger, about the same height, slimly built with reddish-brown shoulder-length hair tied back and a large mustache.

Tesla turned to his friend. Mark Twain was a student of human nature and much better at making deductions about strangers than Nikola.

"I don't know exactly what you're looking for, but you likely want the older man, Nikola. Diamond ring and stick pin, air of command means he's wealthy and powerful. If you have a problem to dump, dump on him, he'll handle it. The other is likely one of Booth's actors or maybe an artist—not a lot of money, a little uncomfortable in society, the hair to show he's artistic or a rebel or just different from his father."

Nikola nodded. Twain was probably right. There was something familiar about the younger fellow, though. Had he seen him on the stage, perhaps? Forty percent of the Player's Club membership were actors, so that was likely it. Tesla started moving toward the older man.

It was difficult keeping an eye on his target while wending through the press of men all dressed very similarly. Nikola thought he was close when the younger reddish-haired fellow stepped in front of him. Tesla began to go around him, but glanced at his face and was stopped by a very familiar pair of blue eyes.

The fellow said nothing, but just jerked his head to the side in a "follow me" gesture. Nikola followed, out of the room and to the deserted library. He made sure the door was closed behind him and the room was empty before he said, "Do you have no respect for tradition? Women are absolutely not allowed in the Player's Club, Helen Magus! Or is it Mrs. Druitt?"