Violets Are Blue (Alex Cross 7)

IT COULD only happen like this in New Orleans. I spent part of the afternoon securing a couple of printed invitations, and then Jamilla and I prepared our costumes for that night. The ball began at midnight, but we’d heard that most of the crowd wouldn’t start to arrive until closer to two.

It had already been a long night for us by the time the festivities started. We waited until just past two to approach the house. Some of the party goers were college age, a few were even younger, but at least half of the crowd looked to be thirty or older. A few arrived in limousines and other expensive cars. The dress for the night was definitely eye-catching: antique morning coats and top hats, velvet Victorian gowns, corsets, walking sticks, tiaras.

The Goth crowd sheathed their androgynous bodies mostly in black leather and velvet, with frilly white and black lace on several of the women. There were body piercings everywhere, belly rings, dog collars, black lipstick, and gobs of mascara on both the men and the women.

Bloodred eyes stared from every direction. It was difficult to look away from them. A song called “Pistol Grip Pump” played from hidden speakers outside the house. Fangs were everywhere. And stage blood. A few of the women wore black or purple velvet bands around their necks, presumably to conceal bite marks.

It got more interesting and eerie inside the house. People were addressing one another with titled names, Sir Nicholas, Mistress Anne, The Baroness, Prince William, Master Ormson. A statuesque woman walked by and brazenly sized up Jamilla. She was bronzed with body paint and wore a bronze-colored thong. The iron scent of blood mingled with smoky leather and pungent oil from wall torches.

Jamilla looked ready; she was definitely tough. She had on a tight, sleek black dress with leather boots and black stockings. If she’d wanted to look sexy, she’d succeeded. She had purchased black lipstick and leather wristbands at a place called the Little Shop of Fantasy on Dumaine Street. She’d also helped me with my outfit: a morning coat that scraped the floor, cravat, black trousers, and black boots that came to my knees.

No one seemed to pay much attention to the two of us. We checked out the main floor, then flowed with the crowd down into the basement. There were flaming torches everywhere on the stone walls. The floors were dirt and stone. It was cold and damp and musty.

“Jesus, Alex,” Jamilla whispered close to my ear. She took my arm, held it tight. “I don’t think I would have believed it if I wasn’t standing right here.”

I felt exactly the same. Many of those congregating downstairs wore canine teeth that were terrifying, especially in such large numbers. Electrified candelabras and fiery torches were the only sources of light. I saw human skulls nailed into the walls, and I was sure they were real.

I started checking to make sure we could get out of there if we had to. I wasn’t sure about a quick escape. The crowd was thickening, and the feeling was claustrophobic. I wondered if someone was supposed to die here tonight. If so, who?

Then I heard a deep voice announce, “The Sire is here. Bow your heads.”

Chapter 72

THE CAVERNOUS underground room was quiet and tense. I had the uncomfortable feeling that I was about to see something I wasn’t supposed to. Then Daniel Erickson and Charles Defoe made their grand entrance.

The magicians epitomized outrageous bohemian royalty. The audience of faithful obediently bowed their heads. Both men were physically impressive. Charles was bare chested and wore skintight leather pants with boots. He was an erotic-looking man with a powerful build. Daniel had on a tight black frock coat with black trousers and a black silk cravat. He was well muscled but slender at the waist.

Tugging against a heavy metal leash in front of them was a white Bengal tiger. Jamilla and I exchanged looks. “This is getting interesting in a hurry,” she whispered.

Daniel stopped to talk with several of the young men. I remembered that the earliest murder victims were all men. The tiger was less than ten feet away from me. What part did it play in this? Was it just a symbol—and for what?

Charles came and stood next to Daniel against the far wall. He whispered something close to Daniel’s face. They laughed and looked around the room.

Daniel finally spoke in a loud, clear voice. I could tell he expected to be listened to. His confidence was charismatic. “I am the Sire. What a vibrant and alive gathering this is,” he said. “I can feel the energy coursing through this room. It excites me.

“The force harnessed here knows no limits. Believe in it. Believe in yourselves. Tonight is a special night. So come with me to the next room. The next level. Come, if you believe—or even better, if you don’t.”

Chapter 73

I HAD never seen anything like this. Jamilla and I were quiet and wide-eyed as we entered an even larger chamber in the basement. The room was lit by wall sconces, most of them electric. The brutal fangs gleamed everywhere. The white tiger had begun to growl, and I recalled the bites into human flesh.

If you hunt for vampires . . .

What was happening in this eerie cellar? What was the purpose of tonight’s gathering? Who were these ghouls—hundreds of them?

Daniel and Charles stood beside two tall, handsome men in satiny black robes. They looked to be in their early twenties, maybe even younger. They looked like young gods. Everyone crowded forward to see what would happen next.

“I am here to anoint two new vampire princes,” Daniel announced with grave authority. The persona was the same one he used onstage. “Bow before them!”

A woman in front screamed. “Our princes!” she shrieked. “Dark princes! I worship you!”

“Silence!” Charles shouted. “Take that stupid cow out of here. Banish her.”

The lights suddenly blinked once, then went completely out. The few burning torches were doused. I reached for Jamilla, and we slid back toward the nearest wall.

I couldn’t see anything. I felt a cold spot at the center of my chest.

“What the hell is happening, Alex?”