You are reluctant, Sorin added. You fear a new Underground will end up like the old, but I tell you, we can anticipate your blood brothers’ tricks, if any should cross us again. Do you not long for a rest, Master? Have you not already fallen in love with this town and wished to become a part of it?
They passed an Italian restaurant, garlic wafting out from the ivy-decorated trellises. It had no effect on Benedikte; immunity to the herb’s properties was one of his personal talents, and his blood had passed it on to Sorin. He wished he had thought to use that sort of one-way repulsion on Andre back when—
He didn’t want to think of London. Didn’t want to think of how, since those times, he’d cultivated such a shell that nothing got through to him anyway. Feeling cancelled, he spent much of his time in vaporous form, though Sorin had convinced Benedikte to shift into his old body and hit the streets tonight.
“Stop wallowing in grief,” his son had said. “We have collected a fortune throughout the years, so let us enjoy it. Let us at least pretend to have a life in this town where imagination makes the prospect so simple.”
Why not, the Master had apathetically agreed. It might break the monotony, if nothing else.
Beyond the Italian restaurant, they passed a church, which brought a wooden laugh from Benedikte. It wasn’t until, farther down, they came to a movie theater that the Master paused under the shining marquee.
With a mocking smile to Sorin, he bowed to the altar of film, then set off on his stalk again. He knew his son understood the cruel joke, the absence of rules that allowed them both to exist. After London, even Sorin had lost some faith, becoming numb to spiritual meaning and, therefore, increasingly immune to it, as well.
But, again, maybe the immunity was only another talent. A destiny.
Before long, they arrived at the Ambassador Hotel, where a pocketful of cash would buy them some mindless leisure, if they were lucky. And if they were really fortunate, maybe there’d even be something tasty on the menu.
Smile, Master, Sorin thought as they walked beneath the awning of the Cocoanut Grove. Out of all places, I thought this should make you the happiest.
When they paused at the entrance, a blast of music, color, and joviality hit Benedikte’s vampire senses, overwhelming him.
Sorin was right. Happiness was all over the menu.
A band played a Tony Bennett tune onstage, leading a floor full of perfect people to dance and laugh. Palm trees from The Sheik, Rudolph Valentino’s biggest movie, spread their leaves over what looked to be a Moorish palace, complete with gilded pillars and tables clothed in white. Small table lamps cast golden lights on the jubilant faces of men and women wearing evening gowns, minks, and diamonds.
Consumed by the lustrous haze, the vampire took a step forward, recognizing one of his idols dining and mingling. Lana Turner, using her dimples on a willing romantic victim.
As he and Sorin flashed their money and were shown to a table, the word home consumed the vampire again. It was all he could do to remain in his seat, taking in everything while holding his breath.
Time moved in a breeze, heavy with an intoxicating twist that he hadn’t experienced since meeting Sorin—a night that had changed the path of his wanderings. And, at some point, when his son left him alone, Benedikte barely noticed.
He was too wrapped in the perfumes, the throb of a hundred heartbeats entwining through his own veins.
Eventually, when Sorin came back, presumably from dancing, Benedikte focused on his son, vision finally locking into place.
“Care to take a turn?” the younger vampire asked, arms around the waists of two beautiful women smiling with red-lipstick confidence. Twins, with their black hair worn as short as Liz Taylor’s, eyes big and blue, skin pale and tempting.
Benedikte’s lust suddenly reared up, beating in time to a rumba the band was now playing.
“Hey, hey, hold on there!” A man with sparkling hazel eyes, also clad in a tuxedo, came up behind Sorin. He had a wide, youthful smile with a flop of brown hair covering most of his brow. It took Benedikte a moment to absorb that he was staring at one of Hollywood’s biggest actors, Edward Waters.
The star took one of the twins by the hand. “Are you stealing my partner?”
He wasn’t angry, and Benedikte knew that Sorin had already read this, too. Even so, the younger vampire inclined his head toward the actor, graciously surrendering only one twin.
“Quite the gentleman,” Edward Waters said, duly impressed. He stuck out his hand to Sorin and introduced himself.
When the actor turned to Benedikte, the vampire laughed. Actually laughed. “We’re acquainted by way of the screen. I’m Benny.” His masquerade name.
Sorin had shaken Edward’s hand without deigning to offer his own moniker. “You’re familiar with Geneva and Ginny?”
The girls fawned over Edward, saying they knew him well.
The matinee idol gestured to a nearby table, where slick-haired men with cigars enjoyed their steaks. With a boyish bow of the head, he said, “I’m trying to make my way over there. Dealmakers. One of them’s got a part I’d sell my soul for, if you know what I mean.”