The figure holding the rose brushed it across his burnished-silver, expressionless mask. He tipped the bloom toward Estessa, watching the exchange with Andrew, watching the Viscount sneer. Behind the mask, his dark eyes glittered, and although no emotion could possibly be conveyed through the simple, hinted-at lines of a mouth, there seemed to be some brand of amusement in his eyes. Tall, with rich, dark hair, broad shoulders and a bold stance, he turned heads, even though the features of his face remained a mystery.
A woman, her hair piled in an elaborate series of braids, floated near. She bent forward, allowing a generous portion of her powdered décolletage to spill into the masked man's view. He didn't know her name, didn't need to or care to, but he did inhale her perfume, and the scent of her intoxication beneath it. She shuddered pleasurably under the scrutiny of his gaze, shaking her head to show off the peacock feathers decorating a half-mask.
Her champagne giggle seemed obscene, sounding through lips painted a shiny, vulgar red, but her lips looked black, to Symon. Behind his mask, Symon's pointy smile broadened. He offered her an arm, all dashing, old world charm, and she took it, walking her perfect, lacquered fingernails up his sleeve. Symon lead the woman into the ballroom, his head dipped toward her as though he cared to listen to her coy words. He glanced up again, in time to see Estessa, still at the top of the stairs.
Just as Symon began to make a gracious show of handing over the rose, he stopped...faltered, really, and reeled. The woman turned fully into him, a giggle dying before it could bubble from her lips.
"Darling? Are you all right?" Her question sounded like it came through a throat made of tin, it warbled and faded. Symon's stunned gaze shifted to her, to her lips, still black. He looked at the rose again. The color of a heart, of a perfect, poison apple, of blood. Blood, so pure he could taste it, smell it.
His new companion paled and she frowned, looking older, somehow, the fluffy feathers around her eye-mask drooping. Symon pulled away from her and looked up again, this time finding Estessa descending the staircase.
Estessa. He knew her name instantly, heard it whispered wordlessly, in weak, human thoughts. He watched her, completely riveted this time, unable to peel his gaze away. She wore white. But her skin seemed to glow, fair, like the palest peach. Her eyes, a strangely pale violet, flashed over the crowd. Her hair, darkness with gold threaded through it, fell free over the delicate line of her shoulders.
She walked right past him, in splendid, glorious color. He reached a greedy hand out to touch her, but a growl sounded in his mind, preventing the contact. Symon snarled in response, eliciting a frightened cry from the woman trying to tend him, and causing a stir among the immediate people surrounding where he stood.
Another one watched from within the crowd. Another one, tall, elegant, imposing. But instead of a mask, he stood swathed in shadow, wearing the darkness like it was tailor-made. He, too, looked up toward where the host of the event stood. And then, in perfect stillness he remained, as in a beat of time, waiting for a breath that would never be drawn.
Beautiful, powerful Ivan. Centuries had passed; centuries, where the only passion in existence came from the culmination of the hunt, where the only colors lived in ancient memories, and where the only reason not to embrace the mounting darkness was to deliver his twin from it. Ages ago, Ivan had buried the hope of finding his lifemate, he put it to ground in the way of humans, in a grave deep within him.
And, two hundred years ago, when Symon succumbed to the darkest dread of their race, Ivan dug up that buried hope and murdered it. When a rare Carpathian female was born, he no longer cared to calculate at what point she'd become of age, or consider that she might be the light...his light.
Even when his Prince found and successfully claimed his lifemate (a human!) and the forbidden became possibility, even then, Ivan only sought Symon. From their youngest years, there existed a promise between them, if one should turn, the other must slay him and then swallow the sun.
But now, that dormant place within him, the place where he'd buried and smothered hope, suddenly sparked alive, flaring through him, assaulting his eyes with color and igniting emotion. Ivan saw her eyes first, even at a distance, he saw the unusual shade of her eyes, like amethyst. Helpless, he could only study Estessa's face, commit to memory every delicate angle and curve. Need, desire and undeniable instinct consumed him. This floodgate raged so strong, that it spilled over...into his twin.
While Estessa wound through the crowd, heading for the orchestra, Ivan launched toward Symon, a blur too fast to be conceived by human eyes. The brothers evaporated into a wispy, twisting mist, spinning out of the room with a flutter of exquisite drapery and a rattling of windows. The feather-bedecked woman gasped and collapsed into a dead faint, with a few people gathering around her to attend. Andrew's servants quickly detected the disturbance, and gallantly whisked the woman away for care.
The swirling, slashing brawl extended well outdoors, landing in the center of the hedge maze. Claws slashed and tore, fangs snapped air as the brothers attacked, frenzied beasts. Ivan, in an inconceivably huge wolven form, thrust a sharp, sabre-like claw clean through Symon, aiming for his heart, but falling lower when Symon attempted to leap out of the way. The vampire's toxic blood scorched the grass. While Ivan had Symon impaled there, he lifted another claw to tear at Symon's heart, but a sound filled his ears, filled his mind, stalling him.
Estessa's voice, sweet and pure, penetrated through vicious layers of Carpathian and vampiric rage.
Ivan's confusion seeped into his brother, and Symon wasted no time in taking advantage of the hesitation, dislodging himself from Ivan's claw with a slick, sickening lurch. The brothers stood at odds, fierce, frightening beasts with flaming eyes and feral snarls.
"You know who she is, what she is..." rasped Symon around a mouthful of deadly, pointed teeth. "She is my--"
"No!" Ivan roared, cutting him off. "I see the colors! Ifeel! Not you, Symon!" He had not called his brother by name since Symon turned.
Symon laughed, an eerie, mirthless sound. He gestured toward a stone dais at the center of the clearing, there in the center of the maze. Tangled around it, a bramble of roses bloomed.
"Gold," said Symon. "Petals of gold." Symon grinned, a horrible, twisted version of Ivan.
"No," Ivan repeated, wanting to disbelieve. But those roses were gold, shimmering under the beam of the moon. "You see through me. She is mine. It is too late for you." Ivan hung onto control by a filament.
The brothers turned, simultaneously, scenting the air. Humans. Vampire slayers who did not discern between true vampires and Carpathians. And another scent, sweet, irresistible.
Estessa.
The pair launched, one target, one prize, one need consuming them both.