“Poor little wretch,” someone afflicted with a heavy British accent and a sense of entitlement said, and I opened my eyes. Effortlessly slipping from Greek to Italian to French and finally reverting to the English language, the woman, dressed in an emerald floor-length velvet gown—her face oily and starkly white—smoothed her golden-red hair beneath a crown drowning in rubies, emeralds, and sapphires. Clucking her tongue, she said, “Oh, how I remember the agonizing pain. It was not so unlike finding oneself on the Duke of Exeter’s rack within the Tower of London, would you not agree, Socrates?”
Socrates sniffed long, crinkling his nose. “Unarguably, a most barbaric device, Elizabeth.” He puffed his chest, muscular in appearance beneath a plain floor-length ivory garment, and narrowed his eyes. “But leave it to indolent Englishmen to resort to medieval torture, not content until the enemy is torn in two. Because, God knows, a philosophical approach requires far too much commitment.”
Elizabeth stomped the frigid floor. “For heaven’s sake. Now is not the time to quibble over our ancestral shortcomings. There’s much to be done.”
Looking down his nose, Socrates scrutinized me from head to toe. “I believe I have stated my opinion on the matter at hand. Granting a mortal immortality is one thing; equipping a fledgling with our extraordinary powers is quite another.”
Elizabeth tipped her head toward a shoulder and sneered. “Hypocrite! Am I mistaken, or did you not insist on accompanying us to collect the girl? We have made our decision, so I suggest you either take your leave or, from this moment forward, keep your self-indulgent opinions to yourself.” She loomed over me, her alabaster skin a sharp contrast to cheeks caked with rouge. She brushed my cheek with her hand, leaving behind a feathery layer of dust. And just as when Bianca had touched me, most of my pain subsided.
“Is this true that you are in agreement, Leonardo?” asked Socrates when another vampire approached, tugging multicolored hosiery toward his thighs.
Leonardo da Vinci’s exaggerated gaze swept the room. “As I do not see Bianca or Razvan present, the task falls to one of us.” A prolonged smirk stretched his lips. “We have discussed this in tedious detail. But perhaps the passing centuries have rendered you absentminded. The deed done, do allow us to carry on.”
“My dear sir, was it not you who voiced the loudest objection when Bianca and Razvan chose to adopt Celestine and Nicholas?”
Hands stationed at his hips, Leonardo smirked. “Ah, that you remember. It would appear your forgetfulness is most selective, Socrates. Do make your point.”
“As I recall, it was you who said, ‘It is only a matter of time before the Toroks petition their children’s immortality.’ And, if I’m not mistaken, you flew into a rage, the likes of which scattered every enchanted creature deep into the forest.”
Leonardo sighed and rolled his eyes. “Circumstances change. As I see it, in a world brimming with calamity, we can use all the help we can get.”
“Agreed,” Socrates replied, “but why should we contribute our remarkable abilities? Let us appoint Bianca as Celestine’s Maker and be done with it.”
Elizabeth puffed her cheeks and sliced the air with a bejeweled hand. “You know very well that even though it was Yesenia who performed Bianca’s Adaption, she refused to bequeath every one of our extraordinary powers. Besides, I think it best those closest to Celestine keep their distance for the time being. As Leonardo said, Socrates, the deed is done. Our predecessors have given the ceremony their blessing because, apparently, the Omniscients comprehend the benefits in granting a decorated detective such exceptional powers. Who are we to argue?” She cleared her throat and rattled off something that sounded French, directing the remark to a curiously sedate man huddled over quill pen and paper in a far corner. “Michel de Nostredame.” When he didn’t respond, she crossed the room with a whoosh, creating a transitory and unwelcome draft. “The time is at hand. Do set aside your propensity to prophesize every little thing for a time more fitting.”
Queen Elizabeth I, Socrates, Nostradamus, Leonardo da Vinci! Is it possible? My head felt as if it might explode, growing anxiety making it nearly impossible to catch a breath. Homicidal and suicidal urges competed with equal fierceness, the bone-gnawing pain tempting me to rip sections from my hair and gouge out my eyes. Those moments of unadulterated insanity passed nearly as quickly as they began, only to return minutes later with increased severity and without warning.
Taking the infamous prophet by the hand, Elizabeth whizzed him across the room with a dramatic flourish. Puffing an objection to the layers of petticoats flying about his face, Nostradamus wiggled free, trailing indigo ink.
Elizabeth straightened her skirts and wig with chalk-like hands. “After much debate, Celestine, we have chosen Nostradamus as your benefactor. Despite my disagreement, it seems Leonardo finds favor with the good physician’s ability to foresee future events in a timelier manner. Pfft. In my day, soothsayers were a shilling a dozen, most motivated not by God’s whisper, but rather a pint or two of ale or a flask of canary wine. Nevertheless, let the Adaption commence!”
“If I may have a word,” Nostradamus said and pulled the others aside. As they huddled inches below the vaulted ceiling, my eyes scanned the palatial room constructed entirely of crystalline ice. A large spaceship-inspired chandelier dominated the ceiling; jagged, reflective icicles served as pendant lights. Smaller creatures of various species inhabited each dangling ornament suspended from the glacier’s center, as if imprisoned in a ghastly terrarium. The lush grass—more a dense, velvety green carpet—transiently recorded anything that contacted its surface. Dusk had long ago claimed its grip and a brilliant but counterfeit constellation revealed itself—that of Orion, which emerged through a sluggish progression of twinkling lights, nearly blinding its observers as it reflected off the iced enclosure in a sporadic sequence. Fragrant scents of mint, mimosa, cinnamon, rose, violet, and jasmine assaulted my nostrils—my sense of smell now was heightened, but the combination failed to mask the underlying and unpleasant odor of something strikingly similar to decay.
The majority of the palace was nearly identical to images I’d seen of Hampton Court, the great hall higher than it was wide. Above it, a minstrel’s gallery spanned the entire back section and a large stone fireplace sat idle against an exterior wall. Weighty, blood-red drapes dressed floor-to-ceiling mullioned windows. Snarling impish gargoyles, stationed on either side, clasped the ends of braided golden ropes between jagged teeth and secured the draperies in a partially open position.
The furnishings were sparse, a testament to the Elders’ pragmatic disposition. Other than a meticulously carved conference table and cathedral chairs, and a high-backed chair—so large it dominated the room—the hall lay empty. The palace was about as welcoming as a mausoleum. God, I wanted to go home. For this to be a nightmare from which I would soon awaken, grateful for my mundane life catching criminals, my biggest fear drawing my weapon, my greatest fear squeezing the trigger.
Elizabeth raised her voice. “How you drone on, dearest Nostredame. But, yes, I suppose we should have told you. If you’re unwilling, do speak your piece or allow us to proceed.”
I got the impression Nostradamus was previously unaware the others had chosen him to perform my Adaption.
“Prior notification would have proved most courteous; however, I have no objection,” Nostradamus replied with a wave of his hand.
The Elders floated from the ceiling, Elizabeth’s satin slippers kissing the glacial floor with a soft rustle.
“We have decided against your destruction, as you most certainly are aware, Celestine. Consider this a gift, one we can reclaim at a moment’s notice, should you fail to cooperate.” She gripped my wrist and brought her nose within an inch of mine. “Need I elaborate?”
I swallowed past the lump in my throat and shook my head as I thought of Nick. Neither Razvan nor Bianca was present for his Adaption. They’d locked themselves behind my father’s study door, my mother’s quiet sobbing and their hushed angst-filled words often seeping into the marbled hallway. Common sense convinced me that they weren’t nearly as worried about the process itself as they were Nick’s ability to obey the Realm’s strict code afterward. Nick had never been able to control his urges. We all worried he’d slip out and exsanguinate every mortal he could lay his hands on. Because Tristan had granted Nick immortality, he was the one most agitated. He paced the hall outside my father’s study, with his head in his hands, as he mumbled incoherently; if Nick failed to obey the code, it meant the end of them both. Surely, if Nick could resist temptation, so could I.
I felt a tickle inside my head, like a feather swish-swish-swishing over the nerve endings, and from my experiences living with Bianca, I knew one of the Elders was either intruding on my thoughts or instilling a few of their own.
Unable to resist the intrusion, I surrendered to memories of Nick and me, hand-in-hand, as we roamed the Torok mansion. I closed my eyes, cherishing Nick’s crooked smile beneath sapphire eyes glowing giddy with anticipation as he sought mischief around every eerie corner, undaunted by the ill-tempered vampires we’d often encounter—piss-yellow eyes gliding over us coolly as if our very existence were a scourge requiring decimation. Nor was Nick afraid of the ghoulish apparitions, whose long spidery fingers snagged our ankles and wrists and tested our courage. My brother was part of me, despite the occasional denouncement or our disparate convictions that often bubbled to the surface and somehow fortified our connection. I often wondered what it would be like, my growing older, Nick never aging. As much as I resisted my current circumstance, a smile tugged my lips when I realized, maybe for the first time, that now he and I would always be young, and together forever.
“Celestine,” Elizabeth bellowed, yanking me back to the present. “We may as well tell her before we continue,” she said to the others. “Because should she not consent, I see no reason to proceed. Which will most certainly break Bianca’s heart,” she added under her breath.
My eyebrows twitched as they knitted together. What else could they possibly have in store? I cringed when considering the possibilities. My heart was already in my throat. Up until Yesenia’s attack, I had thought I had nerves of steel. No more. I was on the brink of a nervous breakdown.
She blew out a long breath. “While it is true that the Omniscients agreed to your Adaption, that agreement comes with a few strings attached.”
“I don’t understand.”
Her lips strained against a tight smile. “Oh, I think you do. You’re a very astute young woman. But while you will not be permitted to grant immortality willy-nilly, due to the growing number of our enemy, it is imperative we fortify our ranks. Which means if and when the occasion presents itself—”
“Wait. You’re saying you expect me—”
“You know precisely what we expect. You are to grant those dying and deserving the gift of rebirth.”
I pitched forward, shaking my head and failing to rein in a snarl. Just when I nearly had my head wrapped around accepting their idea of immortality, she had changed the rules. “I can’t agree to that,” I said, choking on the words. “I won’t.”
Leonardo materialized directly before me. “I pray you reconsider. Either that or prepare to carry your severed head into the afterlife . . . should one even exist for our kind.”