Chapter 8

This is your brother?” Violet asked curiously, her lilting voice rising. “The one who . . .”

“No!” I waved my arm in front of me, as though batting away an absurd question. “An old friend,” I lied. My heart thudded against my rib cage. Even though I’d been actively seeking him out all afternoon, it was a shock to be face-to-face again after all these years.

“Oh yes, Stefan and I go way back.” Damon leered. “In fact, sometimes I think I’d die for him.”

I shifted uneasily, appraising my brother, all too aware of Violet standing next to me. I studied him, taking in each aspect of his appearance.

He hadn’t aged. It was a ludicrous observation, but it was the first one that struck me. Of course, I hadn’t either, but I was so used to seeing my face in the glass every morning that it wasn’t remarkable, just a fact of my existence. But seeing Damon as fresh-faced and wrinkle-free as he’d been the night we’d both died was jarring.

But, on closer inspection, there was a difference. His eyes had changed. They seemed darker, somehow, full of secrets and horrors and deaths. Who knew what he’d done these past twenty years? If it was anything like what he’d been doing in London, then he’d been keeping himself and local law enforcement agencies quite busy.

“You’re looking good,” Damon remarked, as if we were neighbors who’d merely bumped into each other in a town square, not brothers who’d last seen each other across the ocean decades ago.

“As are you,” I allowed. His dark hair was slicked back and he was wearing an expensive suit with a silk tie knotted around his neck.

“And who’s this lovely lady?” Damon asked, extending his hand to Violet.

“She’s none of your concern—”

“I’m Violet Burns,” Violet said, curtseying and blushing as Damon took her hand and brought it to his lips for a kiss.

“Charmed. Damon DeSangue,” Damon said. I grimaced at the familiar way the false name dripped off his tongue. I did note, however, that he’d lost the affected Italian accent he’d insisted on using back in New York.

“And what are we doing here?” he asked.

“We’re just leaving—”

“No!” Violet interjected. “Please, let us stay. Our hotel is ever so close, we’re right at the Cumberland,” she said to Damon, batting her eyes as if to charm him. “And we’re looking for my sister,” she added, her voice drowned out by Damon’s showy display of shock at our choice of hotel.

“The Cumberland!” Damon said as my stomach sank. The last thing I wanted was for him to know the name of our hotel. “Aren’t you moving up in the world, Stefan!”

No more games, I said under my breath. We’re too old for that.

I never outgrew my fondness for games, Damon replied, not moving his lips.

Just don’t hurt her, I said through gritted teeth. But Damon didn’t say anything, and only half-shook his head in a gesture that was impossible for me to read. Violet continued to stare at him, her expression worshipful. Typical. Damon always commanded attention from women. Just then, a tall, beautiful woman wearing a midnight-blue silk dress and false eyelashes swanned up to him, two glasses of champagne in her hands. I spotted a gold-threaded silk scarf wrapped several times around her neck. I was sure if she unwrapped it, I’d see two small puncture holes on her neck from Damon’s fangs. Damon, noticing my gaze, raised his eyebrow and smirked. Violet let out a gasp.

“Charlotte Dumont!” she squealed, clapping her hands with delight. I smiled at her, happy she’d at least been paying attention to the show. I couldn’t believe I’d let such an obvious clue almost slip through my fingers.

“Why, yes, that’s my name,” Charlotte said, giggling as she handed a champagne flute to Damon. “I can’t leave you for a moment!” she said to Damon, playfully swatting him on his arm. “Every time I do, I come back to see a crowd fawning over you. And I’m supposed to be the star of our twosome!” She pouted.

“Don’t worry, darling,” Damon said, placing his hand on her shoulder in a move so tender, it surprised me. Did he actually like this woman, or was he just using her for money and status? “This is my old friend, Stefan . . . if that’s what you’re going by nowadays?”

“Stefan Pine, and this is my friend, Violet,” I explained, taking Charlotte’s delicate hand and bringing it to my lips for a kiss.

“I’m an actress. From America,” Violet said, trying hard to put on an American accent as she sank into a deep curtsy.

“Are you?” Charlotte asked pointedly, a sharp edge to her tone as she tried to determine whether or not Violet was competition.

“Well, I’d like to be,” Violet demurred, clearly realizing that her statement was not the best way to get in Charlotte’s good graces. “So would my sister. Cora Burns. Do you know her?”

Charlotte’s expression softened slightly. “Cora . . . the name sounds familiar,” Charlotte said, tugging on Damon’s shirtsleeve. “Do we know a Cora, love?”

Damon rolled his eyes. “As if I could keep track of everyone we meet. That’s what the society pages are for, right? If they’re there, then I’ve met them. And if not, then I haven’t.”

“Well, if you meet her, please tell her that her sister is looking for her,” Violet said tentatively. I felt nothing but relief. Charlotte seemed somewhat familiar with Cora’s name. Maybe Cora simply had gone off with a theater producer.

“Doesn’t ring a bell, sweetheart, sorry.” Damon shrugged.

“It’s okay,” Violet said sadly. “Just so she knows I’m looking.”

“Speaking of looking,” Charlotte said brightly, breaking the silence, “I think I need another glass of champagne.” In the short conversation, she’d already drained her whole flute. “Would you like to come with me? And maybe if you’re lucky, I’ll introduce you to Mr. Mackintosh, the producer of our little show. Your sister’s not the only one who could be an actress.”