Page 588 of Flirting with Darkness

Eyes turned to stare at the Count, and now at Ghost, too.

Most of those not dancing stood around ice sculptures where the champagne and vodka had been laid out, holding bread with cheese and caviar, small custards topped with chocolate and strawberries, small sandwiches and escargot and pieces of fish and raw oysters. They froze at the sound of the gong, eyes unfocused, expressions blank and confused.

The dancing couples looked the same, sweaty and drunk with music and champagne and the wafting smells of the enormous tree.

“What is this sorcery?” Ghost muttered.

He had not asked the question looking for an answer.

His father answered him anyway.

“A once in a lifetime kind, my son,” the Count murmured.

Ghost continued to stare around the room.

He couldn’t quite make himself understand, despite his father’s words. How had that sound produced such a uniform response from all of them? How was it possible? No group of human beings was that well trained, no matter who they were.

But he knew.

Ghost already knew what this was.

His father was telling the truth.

His “important” ritual, whatever that entailed, was about to begin.

12

THE LION’S HEAD

His father clapped his hands.

The sound rang out in the quiet after the last gong faded.

A smile changed his austere features, briefly making him look almost young.

The look in his eyes became jovial, even happy.

Or perhaps simply normal, like any host of an enormous party filled with drunken family and friends and other guests for whom he held affection.

“Come my friends! Come closer!”

Count Aslanov’s voice vibrated the air of the high-ceilinged space.

It drew his wealthy guests to him, his words even more hauntingly mesmerizing than the music, or that dizzying smell.

“I have a special treat for all of you now!” he boomed. “You will not wish to miss it!”

The Count released Ghost’s arm to address his guests.

He held out his arms and hands. “Come, come! Outside! All of you! Join me here, on the terrace where you can see. You won’t be outside long, I promise you! And all of you have drunk enough spirits to brave the cold for the time I have in mind!”

The crowd laughed.

Aslanov smiled with them. Stepping closer to Ghost, he once more gripped his son’s arm, holding it with a magnetic force that felt more like imprisonment than affection.

“Do not drink the toast offered,” his father murmured.

Ghost glanced at him, frowning.

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