Page 587 of Flirting with Darkness

It certainly didn’t pack the punch of Scottish spirits.

Ghost decided he could afford a bit more of the less strong drink.

Lifting the nearest full glass in two fingers, he downed it in several swallows, leaving the empty on a servant’s tray as he made his way back through the crowd.

He strongly considered slipping away for real that time.

Most of the crowd was drunk on the Count’s vodka and wine anyway.

He doubted anyone would even notice.

Ghost had begun to think this “bloodletting” of which his sister had spoken would either not happen at all on this night, or occurred somewhere else, with some other group of people. He considered finding the tower stairs yet again, getting another look at that strange clock, his father’s book of magicks on its stone pedestal, the stone archway.

He wanted to “look” at it all the way he had learned to look at his father’s sycophants, and at most of the others in this room, including his sister.

He could see auras around everyone now.

He could see them without trying.

He wanted to know what he would see of that clock and book, now that he was conscious of looking for such things.

He had just picked up another glass of champagne and was edging towards the back of the room, when iron-like fingers gripped his upper arm.

When he looked over that time, dark blue eyes met his at the same height as his own.

Ghost scowled.

He stared into the face of Count Aslanov, his father, from only a few inches away. He didn’t avert his gaze, but anger rose in him.

He’d known.

Somehow, the Count had known Ghost intended to leave.

Those blue eyes smiled, accompanied by a twitch of his lips.

“Patience, my son,” the Count murmured.

Releasing Ghost’s upper arm briefly, he slid his whole arm through Ghost’s instead, gripping his forearm with that same iron clasp.

“The show is about to begin. You would not wish to miss that, would you?”

Ghost refrained from answering.

Still, he let his father guide him down one side of the room, past the twirling and dancing couples, drawing even with the Christmas tree long enough for Ghost to gaze up at it, noting the sheer enormity of the trunk and branches, thick with dark green needles.

He could smell some spice in the candles burning there.

Cinnamon, perhaps. Cinnamon and vanilla mixed with cloves.

The smell permeated the room, Ghost realized. It had created a kind of drowsiness in him, in the same way the music had drawn him into a fantastical state.

They had just reached the open glass doors, and the lion fountain now covered in a few inches of snow, when a loud gong began to sound, reverberating through the cavernous room.

Immediately, the band ceased to play.

The couples ended their twirling dances mid-step.

Clusters of guests ceased their talking and laughing.

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