Later that afternoon, I sent Freya a short text, thanking her for giving me the opportunity to update my notebook, and I sent Fallon some photos of the outfit I chose to wear to that night's festivities. It seemed that long legs and long arms were all the rage, and the dressmaker at the shop at which I made my hasty purchase said the ensemble I selected was certain to turn every head and to stop a few hearts.

If the dress did not do so, I certainly would try. And I was touched that Fallon agreed with the salesclerk's estimation. She rewarded me by sending me some pictures of her own, attired in a somewhat less modest fashion.

I decided against using the limousine that Isolde offered to send for me. It had become the custom at such fetes that guests were asked not to drive, so I decided to engage a car service of my own. I didn't trust any driver that Isolde might send, and driving a rental car introduced complications of its own.

If I had to flee the tony estate ahead of any pursuers, I would prefer to do so on foot rather than risk having an automobile rented in my name, even under an assumed name, showing up on a police report. Just as a precaution, I used an old alias to hire the livery vehicle that was to ferry me to Kenilworth.

The car the service sent me was swank, and the driver seemed an agreeable fellow with good taste in music. He appeared surprised when I sent him home for the evening with a huge tip and a friendly wink.

The Kenilworth estate of Ambra Sinclair wasn't quite enough to take a person's breath away, but it was a remarkable mansion of limestone and perfectly tucked brick. New arrivals, of whom there were many, were met by handsomely liveried servants, outdoor warmers, and the mellow sounds of a musical ensemble emanating from an open verandah. It looked to be quite the affair.

It would have been foolish not to keep my eye out for others of my kind, and I certainly did so. But for just a few minutes as I walked up the long front staircase and through the mansion's large double doors, I allowed myself to play worldly sophisticate and simply to soak in the elegance and splendor of the place. Isolde was just that kind of creature, and she surrounded herself with great culture and beauty.

The mansion's foyer was enormous, high, and sweeping in ways that even her corporate offices were not, and I felt the urge to reassess my use of the word "mansion." This grand place was a virtual palace. There easily were a hundred or more guests spread comfortably throughout the broad chamber, and yet the place did not feel the least crowded.

It struck me that this must be how vampires in the movies lived.

I seldom am swarmed by men at social occasions. First, because I infrequently have the opportunity to doll myself up as I had for this event, and second, because—and you may find this hard to believe—I sometimes put off a hostile vibe. No, honestly, this is what I'm told. Either way, I did my best that evening to be enchanting and to appear available.

The first fellow who approached was a man in his mid-fifties who exuded the confidence of one born to wealth, the very type of person who has bored me for eight centuries. I did my best to be cordial and accepted the proffered drink while I scanned the room for threats and opportunities.

Of the hundred and fifty or so people I could see in this room and in the reception area beyond, I counted no fewer than six of my kind. Only one looked familiar, a chap who I had met in China in ... oh, a long time ago.

The second and third of my would-be suitors had just introduced themselves—they came as a pair, it seemed—when I saw something that very nearly caused me to spit up my drink. On the extreme far side of the next room over, I spied an old lover.

I wasn't sure at first what to do. Things had not ended well for us a hundred and some years before, and though our paths had crossed several times since, and though he was always cordial, I wasn't sure what to think of his being there. Nor was I certain that he did not harbor some grudge over .... Well, is it ever productive to dredge up who did what to whom?

"Well, piss," I almost said aloud.

By that time, another would-be suitor had arrived, and the men soon were vying to tell me the funniest joke and to impress me with their various statistics. I couldn't have given two fucks which was richer, cleverer, or better endowed. But I smiled and laughed when it appeared smiling and laughing was called for, until such a time that I wanted to see the rest of the place. Then I allowed the first of the men, who appeared to be the richest and the least intelligent, to show me into the reception area.

I would have to face my old flame sooner or later, so best it be in a large crowd. As luck would have it, though, by the time the wealthy whatshisname had led me to the reception area, my ex was nowhere to be seen.

I hoped it wasn't me.

Whatshisname—Warren, or Warden, or Wallace, or something like that—soon was introducing me to several very boring people and referring (for the second time) to his yacht moored off Barbados, when I noted something about the room. In addition to the six blood drinkers I already had identified, I now saw two more.

However, only one of those had acknowledged me, a woman who I had not met before. I can't express how odd that situation was.

Some blood drinkers were sociable, and others were introverts. It wasn't uncommon for one of us to go several years without speaking to another of our kind. It's not like we had a club. In fact, we were somewhat cliquish, and by no means had I met every blood drinker in the world.

And yet, we could identify one another, and we always acknowledged the presence of another of our kind, if only by a nod or a meeting of gazes. There was no rule that demanded it. It simply was one of those things. A single blood drinker might neglect that minor courtesy on an evening. But seven out of eight?

Oof.

I excused myself to Warren and his friends under the pretense of powdering my nose and gave myself a tour of the place. Where was Isolde? It wasn't like the perfect hostess to neglect her guests. Even if she was ensconced in a corner with a friend, her kind always found a way to work the room—or, rooms, in this case. The affair seemed to take up the entire vast building. There had to have been close to four hundred people present that night. It was an event.

My self-guided tour, the second of the day, was for more than just seeking my target. I wanted to get a good look at the place in case I decided to come back later that evening, or on another day. It would be easy to lose one's way in such a vast place. On the good side, large buildings always meant more doors and windows.

And where would the lady of the house spend her time? She was like me. She seldom slept or rested as a normal human might. But she would have a bedroom. (No, there were no coffins filled with native earth.) And she would have some sort of study where she did her work.

Isolde moved around in the day. I still was having trouble adjusting to that, and to the way it continued to bump up against my thinking process.

I made my way through several large and beautifully appointed rooms, taking a little time here and there to admire the art. I tried to blend in, so a little bit of flattery, flirting, and finesse was required. After twenty or so minutes of schmoozing, I still had not seen my hostess/target, but I had a better sense of the layout of the building.

At about that time, I spied Isolde's flunky, the one whose pockets she had pilfered in search of her card, and I approached with the intent of inquiring about his mistress. In my well coiffured state, it took the fellow a few moments to realize who I was, but, when he did, his eyes flew wide, and his face began to tremble. I think I very nearly scared the dickens out of the lad.

One thing was obvious from the young man's reaction. Isolde had told the fellow who it was with whom she'd spoken near the auditorium earlier that day. Now that he knew, he was terrified.

"I'm looking for Ambra," I told the lad in my most disarming voice. Sweet innocence, I found, tended to frighten such persons more than an angry growl. "Could you point me in her direction?"

The young man actually stammered, and did so for the better part of thirty seconds.

"Just point, honey," I said at last.

He nodded and began to walk toward the rear of the building, and after a short time led me up a flight of stairs and down a delicious hallway lined in flawless teak wood. Was there a single part of this vast place that was not perfectly designed and executed?

Throughout our short walk, the flunky said not a single word, and at the end of it, he stopped at a broad oak door and, after opening the portal for me, ushered me inside.

The place was a good-sized library, and by my first count about twenty people were present. On a balcony, just to the right as I entered, Isolde stood telling a story to a group of entranced admirers. I couldn't help but notice nearly a third of those present were drinkers of blood, two of whom I recalled from years past.

But that wasn't what caught my eye. Standing off to my left, stock still and terrified, was my sweet friend Freya-Lynn.