With a sigh, Jasmine breaks off toward that back door. For an unknown, stupid reason, I follow her.
She opens the door.
Inside, the floor is covered in splatters and smears of red. A man stands, frozen and half limp while a man in a gray suit attacks his neck.
“Markov!” Jasmine snaps. “The evening is over. Let the man go before you turn him.”
The man in the suit snaps away from the bloodied neck. His face is covered in blood, but beneath that, I see black veins rising all over his face, his eyes dark. His glowing eyes snap to me and turn wild.
“No,” Jasmine says, her tone rising only slightly. “You don’t get to touch Miss Ryan. And look at this mess you’ve made.”
The man has absolutely no regrets on his bloody face. “He made for a delicious meal.” His accent is heavily British.
“Time to go.” Jasmine sounds increasingly annoyed. But without waiting for him, she turns and walks toward the doors. I hurry to keep up with her, not about to be left with this psychopath for even one second.
OUTSIDE, SEEMINGLY WAITING FOR US, are three limos. Two are already full, so I have no choice but to ride with Jasmine and Markov.
“I really am glad that you have joined us tonight,” Jasmine says with a smile once we’ve started driving. She takes her mask off. “I’m afraid that there’s been a lot of unneeded fear created, and I worry over what you’ve been told.”
“You said there were two sides to every story,” I say, folding my hands on my lap, even though what I’m really doing is resting my hands on the most easily accessible stake hidden in my dress. “I’m just making sure I get both sides.”
“You’re a smart woman, Alivia Conrath,” Markov says as he takes a handkerchief from his pocket and attempts to clean the blood from his face. His eyes no longer glow. Jasmine smiles and crosses her legs and stretches her arms across the back of her seat.
“It’s Ryan,” I correct Markov. “I’ve never been a Conrath.”
“Fair enough¸” Jasmine concedes.
“You may have never claimed the name,” Markov interjects. “But the blood runs through your veins, nonetheless.”
“It’s true,” I agree. “It seems that family and blood are everything here.”
“Here, families are not always born of blood, but earned through blood,” Markov says darkly.
“Now, now, Markov,” Jasmine chides. “Let’s not scare the poor woman.”
“How old are you?” Markov asks, ignoring Jasmine’s invitation to be quiet.
I hesitate in answering, not eager to give too many details away. I have to play this situation with my cards held close. “Twenty-two,” I respond because I can’t think of how it can hurt me.
“Time is ticking.”
And I’m afraid I know exactly what he’s saying.
We drive for ten minutes and pull onto a dirt driveway, much like Ian’s. The air smells murky and wet. We’re back in swamp territory. I look out the front window. The moon shines bright and full behind what looks to be another plantation style house.
Elijah Conrath’s home. Before he was killed.
“I thought this was once a plantation,” I say as I observe the standing water and the decrepit trees rising from the muck. “Now it’s a swamp. How did that happen?”
“Curses are one of those things not only found in fairytales and horror stories,” Markov says.
“You mean witches are real, too?” I ask. I’m calm on the outside, but internally, I’m freaking out. I’ve barely gotten my head around vampires—I think witches might send me over the edge.
“If they are, they’ve kept themselves entirely hidden for all of time,” Jasmine says. “Witches, the universe, karma. There is something out there and it has a wicked sense of justice.”
This is an entire story, huge and complicated, but we’re almost to the House, and my attention is focused to it.
As we pull closer, I see that this house is not like my own.
The white paint is peeling and falling from the walls and pillars. A tree looks like it has taken over the north side of the building. There are branches poking into several broken windows. The porch looks like it is sagging and half ready to collapse. Black streaks lick here and there, evidence of the fire that happened more than a century ago.
The House is shameful in more than one way.
The limos park in the front, the doors open, and the vampires file out.
Someone opens the grand but dirty front door. The entry was once majestic, but the marble floor is cracked in multiple places. The chandelier is missing crystals. And the entire place is dark because the windows have been covered. Soft lamps glow here and there, and I’m sure they’re lit for my benefit.