The party that evening was called A Thousand and One Nights, in homage to the extravagant Oriental Ball thrown at the residence in 1969. Like that party, tonight’s would feature dancing slave girls, half-naked torchbearers, zither players, and Hindu musicians. Of course, there would also be a few modern additions: the entire cast from a Bollywood musical would perform at midnight, and instead of having papier-mache elephants at the entrance, a pair of real Indian elephants had been borrowed from a traveling Thai circus. The pachyderms would be carrying riders under golden canopies.

The newspapers had already nicknamed it The Last Party. The party to end all parties. The party that would mark the end of an era. The last night that the fabled building would house royalty.

Because the H’tel Lambert had been sold. Tomorrow it would no longer be home to the surviving family of Louis- Philippe, the last king of France. Tomorrow the property would belong to a foreign conglomerate. Tomorrow the chateau would fall into the hands of developers who were rich enough to have met its steep asking price. Tomorrow it would be divided up, or renovated, or made into a museum, or whatever the conglomerate had planned for it.

But tonight it was the scene of one last grand Bal des Vampires: Parisian Blue Blood society gathering together one final time in a celebration worthy of Scheherazade.

“Cordelia told me Balzac made a pass at her once, during a ball here. She was a deb then, in an earlier cycle, before she became my grandmother,” she told Oliver as they made their way down into the vast basement kitchens, where modern stainless-steel appliances were installed next to medieval hearths.

“She said he was pretty drunk. Can you imagine?”

“One of France’s leading lights hitting on an eighteen-year-old girl?” He smirked, pushing open a swinging door. “Totally.”

The party was in two hours, and they found the cooks angrily yelling at each other, the whole kitchen in a flurry of hurried preparation. Steam was billowing from giant industrial- size vats, and the place smelled of sizzling butter, smoky and delicious.

“What are you doing here?” the head chef demanded when the wait staff arrived. “Allez, allez, upstairs with you?”

The chef had a brief argument with the staff director, but in the end they agreed that the servers could help the grounds crew, and Schuyler and Oliver were separated.

Schuyler was sent outside, where she found the elephant trainers explaining to the actor and actress playing the King and Queen of Siam how to manage the beasts. Looking to be useful, she set about lighting candles, smoothing down tablecloths, and arranging the floral centerpieces just so. All around her, the courtyard was a cacophony of noise, with performers and acrobats jumping off the roofs, musicians tuning up, and dancing slave girls giggling at the half-naked male models. Finally all the candles were lit. The tables were set. Every thing was ready. One thing was for sure. This was going to be some party.

She found Oliver polishing glassware at his station.

“Remember, meet me at the bottom of the staircase after your first round,” Oliver whispered, trying not to attract too much attention from the other servers. “I’ll look out for you.” They had been ordered by their superiors to turn off their cell phones, not that it mattered since neither of them was able to get a signal. No cell phone towers were allowed on the exclusive part of the island.

Schuyler nodded. They had their assignments: she would be part of the team responsible for welcoming guests with trays of champagne the minute they alighted from the boats. Oliver would be upstairs, working the back bar.

“And, Sky? It’ll be all right. She’ll have to see you.” He smiled. “I’ll make sure of it.” His bravado endeared him to her even more. Dear, sweet, kind Oliver, who had left everything he loved in New York to save and protect her. She knew he was just as afraid as she was, but he wasn’t going to show it.

Tonight’s plan was a long shot at best. She didn’t even know if the Countess of Paris, the evening’s hostess and the soon-to-be-former owner of the H’tel Lambert, would remember her. Much less offer them the refuge they so desperately sought. But she had to ask, for her sake and for Oliver’s. And if she ever wanted vengeance on the demon who had killed her grandfather, she had to try.

The European Conclave was her last and only hope.

 CHAPTER 5

Mimi

Stepping into someone’s subconscious is like discovering a new planet. Everyone’s internal world is different and unique. Some are cluttered, stuffed with dark and kinky secrets pushed to the edge of their minds, like racy underwear and handcuffs shoved in the back of a closet. Some are as pristine and clear as a spring meadow: all hopping bunnies and falling snowflakes. Those are rare. This guy’s psyche looked pretty standard, and Mimi chose a neutral environment in which to interrogate him, his childhood home. A suburban kitchen: white tiles, Formica table, clean, orderly, ordinary.

Kingsley pulled up a stool across from Frat Boy. “Why did you lie to us?” he asked. In the glom the Venator looked fiercely handsome. The glom did that to vampires: made them look even more beautiful than they already were.

“What are you talking about?” the guy asked, a confused look on his face. ‘show him.”

Mimi found the memory and played it on the television set on the kitchen counter.

“You remember this night?” Kingsley asked as they observed Frat Boy step out onto a hotel balcony and watch a tall man carrying a child-size bundle out of the resort gates. “You remember this man?”

Jordan Llewellyn had been missing for over a year. The eleven-year-old girl had been kidnapped from her hotel room at the same time the Conclave was being slaughtered at a party by Silver Bloods.

The Venators had scanned the mind-memories of everyone at the hotel who was there the night the little girl had disappeared, every guest, every staff member, from security guards to the chambermaids, with no luck. The Llewellyns had been too traumatized to be of much help. Which was understandable, but still useless. No one knew anything, no one remembered anything. Except for the guy sitting in front of them now.

“You told us you saw something. That you saw this man when you stepped outside for a cigarette that night,” Kingsley said. ‘this man does not exist. You lied to us.”

“But I don’t smoke,” Frat Boy protested. “I don’t remember this at all. What is this? Who are you?” In the bar, Mimi could see that he was starting to stir. They didn’t have much time.

“Why did you lie to us? Answer the question?” Kingsley barked. For months they had tracked down every man who had stayed in the hotel who fit the description Frat Boy had given them. They had chased down marketing executives, businessmen on holiday, tourists and locals. But nothing of significance had turned up. After the better part of a year, they began to wonder if they were chasing a ghost, a phantom, a mirage. The whole team was frustrated and on edge. Just yesterday the Conclave had ordered them to give up the mission and return to New York. Jordan was gone, case closed. But Kingsley decided they needed to pay their witness another visit.

“Let me rephrase this: who told you to lie to us?” Kingsley asked.

“Nobody . . . I don’t know what you want me to say . . . I don’t remember that night. I don’t even remember you guys. Who are you? What are you doing in my mom’s kitchen?”

“Why were you in Rio?” Ted Lennox asked mildly, playing good cop.

“A buddy of mine was getting married. . . .” he slurred. “We were there for the bachelor party.”

“You went all the way to Rio for a bachelor party? You?” Mimi scoffed, peering through to the real world, looking down at his prone form sprawled on the table. The guy looked like the farthest he ever traveled was the corner 7-Eleven.