The Vampire of the Opera (The Skylark and the Eagle Book 1) by Morgan De Guerre

Author:Morgan De Guerre [De Guerre, Morgan]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 2021-04-28T16:00:00+00:00

haptr 21 arcu

 arbrhp f ran ra

Saturday, April 4

I woke up tense like a violin string. It was rare enough that I slept, but when I did, it was deep and dreamless. Waking up exhausted after a restless night reminded me of being alive in the worst way possible.

The weekly appointment with Dorian came at the perfect time. I needed my dose of deep relaxation at the magic hands of my barber. Kay and Mike were getting too friendly, and that was making me anxious.

Palazzo Orlov, my home in the city, was kept pristine, like a beautiful museum where I was the only visitor.

The oak floorboards sparkled under the new coat of wax, not a mote of dust could be seen on the black marble mantelpiece, and my spring coats had been moved to the front rack in the closet.

I picked one at random and slipped my phone in the inner pocket.

My staff had learned to stay out of my way when I was home. Only DuChat showed up, always at the right moment. After a restless night, it most certainly wasn’t the right time, and my butler was nowhere to be seen.

My parents looked disapprovingly at me from their paintings on the first landing. When Marianne and Eugene Orlov lived there, the palace brimmed with life. They were sociable people and patrons of the arts. Many poets had gotten their start in my mother’s literary salon.

My parents loved organizing private parties for their closest friends, as well as galas and other formal events, concerts that showcased famous artists and new talents, and, of course, balls. My fondest memories were the masquerades. For those extravagant affairs, I forsook the peace and quiet of our country estate and rode into town. Vincent was right. I did like wearing masks. Even before I needed them.

I floated over the floors, unwilling to disturb the silence of this mausoleum. Only the gate clanged loudly in the predawn silence. I was a dozen steps away by the time the lock engaged. Was I walking too fast, or was the lock too slow? I considered asking the Hound to have a look at my security measures.

A brisk walk through the cold morning air took me to the small park down the street. I sat on a bench and called a car, grateful the technological advancement of this age allowed me to enter the details of the trip, saving me from any interaction with the driver.

When I looked up from my phone, I was met with the bronze likeness of a man I had once known. The statue of King Aleksei II watched over this small park, nestled at the heart of Bakirville’s oldest district.

What would you think of all this, old man? I asked the statue silently. You died believing we had no hope against the might of Mora. And here we stand. Richer than them. Stronger than them. More feared than they ever were.

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