Vampires Never Get Old - Zoraida Cordova Page 0,77

congealed blood puddings. Bea’s favorite gatherings were blood-tastings, where Mama would have Sora infuse blood with spices and herbs. This unlocked their deep flavors and exaggerated latent talents and memories hidden in mortal hemoglobin, the result giving the most glorious high.

But they’d never been to a ball. Her stomach squeezed. Bea had only read about them in books. The dancing and champagne and pretty people. Lovers meeting in dark corners. Lovers talking until sunrise. Lovers kissing and out of breath. This would be the place where she’d look for it.

“Don’t stare. Don’t wander off. Don’t ask intrusive questions. Mind your business. We don’t need anyone minding us,” Mama added.

The water-coach arrived and they eased into it as though sinking into a warm blood bath, careful not to ruin their beautiful gowns. Its lanterns bobbed left and right, scattering a constellation of light over Bea’s mother and sisters. Bea thought she’d never seen them look so beautiful. Cookie was wrapped in white silk that hugged her, then flared out in a beaded mermaid’s tail. She could’ve easily been en route to her wedding. Sora wore only black, always, and her gown rippled out in dark waves of tulle like she was a ballerina who’d escaped the underworld. Annie Ruth’s mid-length gown revealed slivers of her perfect skin through its lacy pattern.

Their mother wore a velvet dress, a red ribbon curling itself around every curve of her hourglass frame. Her red lip told all that she’d bite; her teeth the sharpest. Bea felt like she’d never look as stunning as Evangeline Turner. Mama often dressed up, but never like this, as if she wanted to be seen, as if she wanted to be a storm, the boom of thunder and the crash of lightning in a room. Bea gazed down at the layers of her own dress, the yellow of sunlit honey, and wasn’t sure Mama made the right choice.

The water-coach glided along, its glittering nose slicing through boat traffic as they made their way to the Garden District. The houses transformed into decadent tarts on a series of silver platters; some rosy red or robin’s egg blue, and a few mint green or the indigo of a sunset. Garlands and window boxes frosted them like ornate icing.

Bea knew the house they were headed to before they turned onto St. Charles Avenue. An energy tugged at her bones as if cords had been tied to them, threatening to yank her forward.

A four-story midnight-black home stretched high above, three lattice balconies spilling over with the best-dressed people Bea had ever seen. Lavish water-coaches paused at a double pier, unloading pretty passengers.

“Do you feel that?” she asked.

“Feel what?” Annie Ruth replied.

“I feel it, too,” Cookie said.

“Same,” Sora added.

“When many immortal folk gather, it creates that pull. And the Barons are here,” Mama said. “It’s a warning.”

A sensation made Bea jerk.

Cookie gasped. “But they’re our enemies.”

“I haven’t forgotten,” Mama replied.

Annie Ruth shivered with fear despite the thick heat, but Bea felt curiosity rise inside her. They’d always been told that the only thing that could kill an Eternal woman was the men who walked the roads of the dead and tended to the crossroads. Not garlic, not holy water, not the sun, not werewolves, not silver, and never any stakes.

Only the Shadow Barons.

But Bea had never seen what they looked like until that young man showed up on their doorstep earlier. In her head, a Baron was some disgusting creature, a boogeyman waiting to drag them to the layers of the land of the dead. After her hundredth birthday, when she was trusted enough to venture out on her own, Mama gave her the talk. “You’ll feel real danger for the first time. You’ll see the mark: the key to the crossroads branded on their deep-brown flesh.”

“Why would the Barons be invited?” Annie Ruth asked. “Why would they bring the invitation in the first place?”

“They didn’t consult me on the guest list, babies,” Mama snapped. “It is the night the five Wards come together. All old grudges and grievances put aside for the moment. All to frolic and fellowship. I used to attend every year with my own mama before she petrified.”

“Who else is in there, Mama?” Bea whispered.

“All the folk of the world. The conjure women will have their cauldrons, the fae their enchanted fruit, the soucouyants their fire, and more. This place is a tuning fork.”

Bea had known that other types of peculiar folk roamed the world, but she rarely came across them.