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II. Chloe
The moon that night was waxing brightly; there was not a single wisp of cloud in the night sky and the usual brightness of the stars was dimmed in the moon’s radiance. The air was crisp and pungent with the smell of stale coldness, for it was at that certain temperature when all smells seemed too cold to linger and faded away into the gelid winds. On the cobblestone streets carriages ran their way around the many twists and turns of the city streets. The passengers wore fur coats with silk-lined top hats, decadent scarves, or sequined gloves more for opulence than for any real effort to mitigate the skin-paling coldness.
Hushed whispers glided along the wind and if listening closely one could discern among the excited whispers the words of ball, rich, beautiful, and love. Each carriage had a lantern in front, perched precariously on one side by a thin stick of timber and a long strand of gossamer string. Far above in the cloudless sky, an owl, stretching its wings on a nightly flight, had a bird’s eye view of a sentinel-like line of bright balls of light, traversing steadily towards an opulent mansion.
The mansion was frighteningly large, swathed mainly in shadow where circuitous halls wrapped themselves around the house leading into many empty rooms, cold and frozen over with disuse. It spanned over many acres and rose high into the sky. The surrounding land was very well kept; the hands of the hundreds of servants that maintained this façade were never to be seen at work. The mansion was fenced off from the outside world with high rising, spiked-top iron fences that glittered in the night. A thin film of frost captured and reflected the luminous moonlight.
Exiting the carriages, the guests were greeted by valets and escorted up the marble entrance steps towards large mahogany doors which glided open noiselessly. People still lingered outside the doors however, their breaths condensing quickly in the brisk winter night. Cigarettes were lit, perched upon ivory holders, elegantly held up to wind-chapped lips and inhaled slowly and casually, then exhaled. Smoke curled and furled around the air, snaking its coils around the noses of the meanderers.
Inside a chandelier shimmered, casting flickering lights down on the ballroom. Feet graced the marble dance floor, gliding here, stepping there, their wavering reflections on the marble making them seem like they were dancing on polished ice. No faces were seen; dancers and host alike danced and conversed in mystery. Bone white masks veiled the faces of the attendees, giving everyone a mysterious luminance. These beguiling masks were cut so that only one’s lips could be seen -- or kissed – whilst all else lay hidden behind porcelain and shadows.
Opposite from the entry oak doors was a large alcove, carved into the wall, displaying the darkness of night through crystal glass. The window itself rose high into the ceiling and was embellished on either side by flowing, velvet drapery which fell to the floor in an elegant spread. On either side of the bed were night stands carved with lavish leaves and foliage weaving in and out of the wood. A second set of doors were set in the walls that lay between the vanity and alcove, leading into a winding walk-in closet which housed innumerable silk gowns in every shade of every color of the rainbow. There were black and grey-silver gowns, tied in silk and lace for funerals and dinner-nights out; there were red and lavender gowns, lined with glass beads and velvet for parties and luncheons; and finally there were white and pastel-colored gowns, simple and light upon the skin for everyday lounging and living.
As extensive and expensive as this closet was the beauty of the clothes which it housed were latent and unfulfilled, for their wearer, who completed their beauty with life and exuberance, lay sleeping on the final piece of furniture in the room: a plush armoire emanating a hue of dark crimson, draped with blankets of silky velvet and fur.
Her head was cradled in her arms which rested on the rim of armoire; the pressure of her cheeks on her frail forearms tinted them pink. The tilt of her head puckered her lips slightly open, revealing straight teeth fencing in a moist tongue. The dim lighting of the room cast her eyelashes’ shadows across her cheek, their darkness a stark contrast with the pallor of her skin. She was wearing a soft white gown which molded to her body; from the arch of her shoulders to the curve of her hip resting sideways and finally to her elegant legs, one of which slung askew off the armoire where the molding of the gown tapered off where it wafted in the slight draft of the mansion.
The silence of the room, only interrupted by the almost imperceptible hum of the orchestra downstairs, created a comfortable atmospheric blanket which had lulled the girl into sleep. Her breathing was even, her chest rising and falling rhythmically. Her breath fluttered the rim of her white gown revealing sharp collarbones which arched gracefully from the base of her neck out to the breadth of her shoulders where the piece of clothing lazily hung off. The girl could have lain this way for hours, until the pale morning light caressed her features in the early hours of dawn, but just then, a sharp click was heard, the volume of the orchestra rose slightly, and the door to her room glided back. The darkness of the mahogany was then replaced by a brighter wall of light.
The figure that opened the door stood at the entry way, his stout and portly form molded by the light of the door. The figure slowly advanced into the room, passed the bed, vanity and closet to the very edge of the armoire in on which the sleeping girl lay. The old man bent down on his knees and raised his withered hand. Placing it on her bare shoulders, he gently began shake.
“Chloe, child,” the old man said, “Chloe, my dear, wake up!”
The shaking of the old man in an effort to wake her made the girl’s gown slip lower down her shoulders, her eyebrows furrowing. Her eyes fluttered open, slowly; the dim lighting of the room did not pain her sleepy eyes. Her pupils slowly grew wider and focused upon the figure crouched in front of her face. Recognition slowly dawned in the form of a sleepy smile which she offered to the old man.
“Father,” she said in a voice honeyed with sleep, “I must have fallen asleep.” As sincere as she sounded, and she sounded very sincere indeed to her father, she made no attempts to get off the warm armoire.
“Oh, child, what will I do with you?” The old man offered a warm smile to the girl and slowly stood up which a little effort due to age and coldness, when the old man finally stood up he did so with a grunt. “You said you would not take more than a few minutes. I began to wonder when you were gone for more than an hour!”
“Father, I was feeling awfully tired, and thought I would just lay down for a bit…I suppose I was a little more tired than I thought.” Now the girl did sit herself up, her back erect and her palms resting gracefully on top of each other in her lap, a habit she had taken to, growing up the daughter of an aristocrat. She looked up under lashes at her father with a small smile.
“You know I am only hosting this ball for you,” the old man began, in a tired but loving tone. “I won’t be around for much longer, and I would like for you to be cared for.” His grey brows furrowed at the last two words, and he began to pace back and forth. “Oh, child, what will I ever do with you?”
“You need not to worry about me, Father; I should be worrying about you.” Chloe quickly turned the conversation around, “At your age, Father, you should be resting, not organizing efforts to help my love life.” At this Chloe stood up and placed a caring hand upon her father’s shoulders. The old man smiled at her and placed his time-worn hand on top of hers, sighing quietly.
“I expect it must be so,” said the old man as he turned and walked towards the door, the blue velvet tail of his tailored suit swishing back and forth with his gait. As he reached the door, hand already on the brass knob, he turned and said, “Do hurry, child, your audience, is after all, waiting.” With a quick smile and a glint in his eyes, the old man was gone, the door clicking shut behind him.
Chloe sighed and reached out her hands to grasp the bedpost. She let them slowly slide down the length; her fingers were undulating over the cool and smooth mahogany as she brought her forehead to rest upon its surface. Her breath slightly condensed upon the wood as it breezed past her parted lips; the area which it touched dimmed and dulled. Chloe closed her eyes in this state and mentally prepared herself for a night of empty smiles and meaningless chatter. How she wished to be able to please her father, to put his worried mind to rest. She felt as though she had to prove her worth to him. She wanted to fulfill his wishes for her, even if she knew she could not.
Her mother had fought a helpless battle against influenza after she was born; the process of giving birth to Chloe had weakened the aged woman too much. Chloe grew up knowing only her father but knowing that her life was lacking somehow. She seemed to have almost missed that gentle touch or that calming whisper which she never actually experienced at a mother’s hand. She missed it nonetheless; she pined for it. To mitigate her yearning for a mother’s touch, Chloe dedicated her life to making her father happy. She knew he had lost much when she was born and she hoped to be all that he wanted her to be, to make up for that loss. This brought her back to her current state of yearning to find a man, to marry, and to let her father pass away into old age with not a thing to worry more.
But unfortunately for her, and for many others, she was sure, finding someone to love was not an easy thing to do -- if possible at all. It took time, she told herself. Time was integral in planting the seed of love first in the soils of attraction, watering it slowly with trust and emotion and perhaps, something there would sprout into a beautiful thing that others would wish to have for themselves. For this thing to grow, Chloe found – and here was her predicament – it needed the most fitting ambiance to flourish and grow unhindered. The time to find this fitting situation was not granted to her, and here was her problem.
Chloe decided then that she could not deal with this now, she had plenty of time to muse upon it later under less pressing matters. The girl pushed herself off the bedpost and walked over to the closet. As she opened the doors, darkness met her, sort of dizzy darkness, like soot smothered over shadows, an intangible thing wrapped in something so plainly and undesirably corporeal. She blindly reached in and pulled out the first dress her hands fell upon, and quickly closed the doors with a sharp snick.
Sitting down in front of her vanity after dressing, Chloe took a polished wooden brush off the gleaming surface and began to brush her hair, slowly, watching her idle movements reflected in the mirror. She watched as her fine brown locks were untangled through the bristles of the brush and listened to the quiet shh, shh of the brush gliding through her hair. Chloe felt at peace, truly and wholly.
A gentle knock intruded upon her equanimity, quickly followed by the clicking of the door.
“Mademoiselle Chloe, I am sorry to interrupt…” said a quiet voice.
Chloe paused in mid-stroke and looked over at the door and then she smiled, “Anne, you interrupt not at all, please come in.” Chloe placed the brush once again on the surface and turned to face her maid, giving the girl her full attention.
“Your father asked me to bring this to you,” the girl paused and brought from behind her back a delicate porcelain mask which she held into the light. Anne then walked into the room and placed it upon the vanity, hands quickly going back behind her.
“Thank you, Anne,” Chloe smiled again at the servant, and continued, “Another night, it seems, of entertaining. When will Father ever understand…?”
Anne smiled sympathetically towards her mistress and moved to pick up the brush. Holding it firmly in her hand she began the run it through her mistress’ already straight hair. “He means for the best,” she assuaged, “You should consider, Mademoiselle, what he is saying.”
Chloe sighed, knowing that Anne was indeed right and things just couldn’t be helped for now. She reached across the table where her mask lay and secured it upon her face, licking her lips as she did so, observing the action in the mirror. Anne finished brushing her hair, and Chloe stood up, walking over to the door and placing her hand on the cold brass, Chloe turned around once more and smiled at Anne, still standing in the same spot. Chloe took a deep breath and exited the room, walking the short distance of the hall to the top of the stairs, and descended the marble steps.
The tender skin which encased the slight vein he knew was the softest patch of skin on the whole body, in either men or women. He had drunk from both at one time or another; the sinking of his fangs into a female was more gentle and tentative as to not startle her away, confusing her senses with his gentle easing as an affectionate nip on the neck. With men, however, Leo used more force, and from experience he knew they liked it that way; his nose smothered in the mane of hair behind their ear, one hand grasping the neck to one side, the other snaking its treacherous way around slender waists to hold secure, and then the final sheathing of his fangs into the tougher skin which yielded, to his surprise the first time he tasted, a sweeter yet bitter taste.
All the same, Leo’s eyes roamed across the dance floor, skipping quickly over almost everyone. But then he noticed descending the marble stairway, a figure clad in a black gown, the silk of its make imbuing the air around it with a glossy darkness.
The gleaming black gown draped her body, long laced gloves wrapped her hands, and a shadow-like shawl to match graced her shoulders sensually. His eyes followed up the arch of her shoulders, pass her neck, and fell immediately upon her eyes which were accentuated by their bone-white incasing. Those eyes, much like a pair of which he used to look endlessly into, looked straight ahead, seemingly straight at Leo, ostensibly reopened after being forever closed by murder.
The vampire watched as the girl stepped onto the floor and examined the ball. She made no move to approach any of the idlers, instead opting to walk towards an old stout man, dressed in a finely tailored blue suit. As she reached him her left hand gracefully lifted up in a slow motion, resting on his shoulders, drawing his attention. Leo watched for a few minutes more, as the girl fell into conversing with the man and he watched as she talked and laughed, her jugular tensing and flexing before his sight. His animalistic instincts screamed to be sated, but one look at those eyes and those intrinsic needs were quickly pushed aside; Leo was entranced.
Leo slowly approached her across the dance floor after more minutes of watching and observing, his eyes skirting to her own. Pushing aside bodies as he passed, he only saw one person that night, one person that would hold his heart for the rest of time, as they seemingly did, so many years ago. Leo approached her and stood mere inches behind her. He noticed the fray of rebellious hair at the nape of her neck; he stood there watching for quite sometime.
The old man who stood in front of Chloe noticed this peculiar person and cocked an eyebrow at his daughter, smiled mischievously, and walked away, interrupting Chloe mid-sentence. Chloe huffed and furrowed her brows, and turning around, she found herself eye to chest with Leo. Her eyes immediately fell upon his silver brooch in the shape of a crescent moon melding into a howling wolf.
“Excuse me, Monsieur, but can I help you?” Chloe looked up to see the face of her intruder but was only greeted by an expanse of white porcelain, dull yet glimmering all the same in the light; frustrated, she glared at the only things that could be seen, blue eyes.
“Good evening, Mademoiselle.” A quirk of the person’s lip incensed Chloe; oh the nerve of him, she thought.
“Monsieur, can I help you,” she reiterated in a slightly terse tone, which, even in her annoyed state, she did not mean to divulge.
At this Leo laughed and spoke, “May I have this dance?”
To be continued.
Author's note. I previously had other chapters of this story on this account but have taken them down because I've decided to fully edit and revise them before putting them up. I will periodically upload them back up as they are being finished. Thank you.