“Every man, woman, and child is capable of extreme and utter prejudice and cruelty when they feel justified in their hatred. Right or wrong. We are all capable of lashing out when in pain. No one, not even you or I, is immune from that. As Plato said, be kind to everyone” Sherrilyn Kenyon
Watching this (and fearing broken ankles with each loop) I can’t helping thinking about that old quote Ginger Rogers did everything Fred Astaire did, except backwards and in high heels.
But no, if you watch closely you’ll see she doesn’t even step on the last chair. That means she had to trust that fucker to lift her gently to the ground while he was spinning down onto that chair. That takes major guts. I’d be pissing myself and fearing a broken neck if I were in her place. Kudos to her.
Okay so this is true, but a tiny part of a wider truth.
Ginger Rogers was a FUCKING BADASS. Ignore for a sec the rampant sexism in Hollywood (they once bleached her hair blonde in wardrobe without telling her beforehand), the fact that she fought her whole career against typecasting and stereotyping from fellow actors (Katharine Hepburn famously said of the Astaire/Rogers partnership “she gave him sex. He gave her class” ) for starting out in musicals, and went on to have a career lasting over fifty years, winning a Best Actress Oscar (Kitty Foyle, 1940). But… JUST focusing on the Astaire movies…
Not only did she dance “backwards” in high heels, the dances were a task in themselves. Astaire was an absolute perfectionist and choreographed for himself, so as a younger, less experienced dancer Rogers came in at a disadvantage and worked her ass off to match him.
Then there’s the filming complications… these numbers were filmed in ONE TAKE. So one thing goes wrong and you have to start over. Maybe you make a mistake or maybe your dress flies up because…
Ginger had to contend with her wardrobe. Dancing in heels is the norm at this time, but dancing in a dress designed for cinema cameras… not so much. They were heavy, embellished, uncomfortable, restrictive and cumbersome and essentially a third member of the dance, strapped to the body of one partner.Not only did she have to dance and look good, she had to control the dress too!
Take this routine from Swing Time… (it gets going proper at 1:30ish)
This dress has weights, YES WEIGHTS, sewn in to the hem to make it fly out and create a visual effect. So it’s heavy, it hurts if it hits you, and your partner gets mad if it hits him. So you gotta control it.
Well it turns out all these factors on this set, this particular day aren’t going so well. So you’re doing take after take, here’s no labour laws, so at 4am after 18 hours you’re still going, even though part of the routine requires you to spin up those curved stairs with no rail at high speed….
Okay so now back to those high heels. In Ginger’s autobiography she vividly remembers this night as the night she bled though her shoes. They did so many takes, her feet blistered, bled, and the white satin high heels she was wearing finished he night pink because they were literally full of blood. And still they keep shooting. She keeps dancing.
The take they use in the film is the last. Early hours. Bloody feet. And she spins, acts and bosses out until that last second. Because she was that professional, talented and bloody minded. This is the last set of spins…
So I say once again. Ginger Rogers was a badass.
She did everything Fred Astaire did backwards, in high heels, wearing a 20 pound dress, exhausted, injured and standing in a pool of her own blood. And watching her perform, you would never know.
Women Rule,
Fred Astaire, Ginger Rogers, Dancing,high heels, dancing backwards, exhausted, weighted dress, badass, dancing backwards, sexism, jealousy, tap dance, perfectionism, mean, angry, one take
“Nïx rarely texts.” Because no one ever responded. But how exactly was one supposed to reply to messages like: Smurf! or I’m charismatic… or Bad dogs get no burgers ?
Lucia the Archer to Gareth Macreive in Pleasure of a Dark Prince in IAD
Pleasure of a Dark Prince
Kresley Cole
Love stories
2010
431
Can the beast seduce a beauty and make her love him. . . .? A promise of pleasure . . . from a brutal warrior determined to protect her. Never far from her bow, Lucia the Huntress is as mysterious as she is beautiful. But the secrets she harbors could destroy her-and those she loves-and every day brings more danger. It isn't safe for her to be with Garreth MacRieve, yet whenever she sees the fierce werewolf with his smoldering eyes, she finds herself surrendering to his kiss. An uncontrollable need . . . that can only be sated with her touch. From the shadows, Garreth, prince of the Lykae, has long watched over Lucia, the lovely little Valkyrie who alternately maddens him and inflames his lust. He aches to claim the seductive creature as his own and keep her safe from harm, but first he must convince her to accept him as her guardian. To do that he'll exploit Lucia's greatest weakness-her desire for him.
Broken hearts healed. Maybe the cracks were always there, like thin scars, but they healed. People lived and worked, laughed and ate, walked and talked with those cracks. For many, even the scars healed and they loved again.
When I first encountered the literary classic Lolita, I was the same age as the infamous female character. I was 15 and had heard about a book in which a grown man carries on a sexual relationship with a much younger girl. Naturally, I quickly sought out the book and devoured the entire contents on my bedroom floor, parsing through Humbert Humbert‘s French and his erotic fascination for his stepdaughter, the light of his life, the fire of his loins — Dolores Haze. I remember being in the ninth grade and turning over the cover that presented a coy pair of saddle shoes as I hurried through the final pages in homeroom.
Although I remember admiring the book for all its literary prowess, what I don’t recall is how much of the truth of that story resonated with me given that I was a kid myself. Because it wasn’t until I reread the book as an adult that I realized Lolita had been raped. She had been raped repeatedly, from the time she was 12 to when she was 15 years old.
As a young woman now, it’s startling to see how that fundamental crux of the novel has been obscured in contemporary culture with even the suggestion of what it means to be “a Lolita” these days. Tossed about now, a “Lolita” archetype has come to suggest a sexually precocious, flirtatious underage girl who invites the attention of older men despite her young age. A Lolita now implies a young girl who is sexy, despite her pigtails and lollipops, and who teases men even though she is supposed to be off-limits.
In describing his now banned perfume ad, Marc Jacobs was very frank about the intentions of his sexy child ad and why he chose young Dakota Fanning to be featured in it. The designer described the actress as a “contemporary Lolita,” adding that she was “seductive, yet sweet.” Propping her up in a child’s dress that was spread about her thighs, and with a flower bottle placed right between her legs, the styling was sufficient to make the 17-year-old look even younger. The text below read “Oh Lola!,” cementing the Lolita reference completely. The teenager looks about 12 years old in the sexualizing advertisement, which is the same age Lolita is when the book begins.
And yet Marc Jacobs’ interpretation of Lolita as “seductive” is completely false, as are all other usages of Lolita to imply a “seductive, yet sweet” little girl who desires sex with older men.
Lolita is narrated by a self-admitted pedophile whose penchant for extremely young girls dates all the way back to his youth. Twelve-year-old Dolores Haze was not the first of Humbert Humbert’s victims; she was just the last. His recounting of events is unreliable given that he is serially attracted to girl children or “nymphets” as he affectionately calls them. And his endless rationalizing of his”love” for Lolita, their “affair,” their “romance” glosses over his consistent sexual attacks on her beginning in the notorious hotel room shortly after her mother dies.
This man who marries Lolita’s mother, in a sole effort to get access to the child, fantasizes about drugging her in the hopes of raping her — a hypothetical scenario which eventually does come to fruition. Later on as he realizes that Lolita is aging out of his preferred age bracket, he entertains the thought of impregnating her with a daughter so that he can in turn rape that child when Lolita gets too old
Lolita does make repeated attempts to get away from her rapist and stepfather by trying to alert others as to how she is being abused. According to Humbert, she invites the company of anyone which annoys him given that the pervert doesn’t want to be discovered. And yet, he manipulates her from truly notifying the authorities by telling her that without him — her only living relative — she’ll become a ward of the state. By spoiling her with dresses and comic books and soda pop, he reminds her that going into the system will deny her such luxuries and so she is better off being raped by him whenever he pleases than living without new presents.
Given that Humbert is a pedophile, his first-person account is far from trustworthy when deciphering what actually happened to Lolita. But, Vladimir Nabokov does give us some clues despite our unreliable narrator. For their entire first year together on the road as they wade from town to town, Humbert recalls her bouts of crying and “moodiness” — perfectly understandable emotions considering that she is being raped day and night. A woman in town even inquires to Humbert what cat has been scratching him given the the marks on his arms — vigilant attempts by Lolita to get away from her attacker and guardian. He controls every aspect of her young life, consumed with the thought that she will leave him with the aid of too much allowance money or perhaps a boyfriend. He interrogates her constantly about her friends and eventually ransacks her bedroom revoking all her money. Lolita is often taunted with things she desires in exchange for sexual favors as Nabokov writes in one scene:
“How sweet it was to bring that coffee to her, and then deny it until she had done her morning duty.”
Lolita eventually does get away from her abusive stepfather by age 15, but the fact that she has been immortalized as this illicit literary vixen is not only deeply troublesome, it’s also a completely inaccurate reading of the book. And Marc Jacobs is not alone in his highly problematic misinterpretation of child rape and abuse as “sexy.” Some publications and publishing houses actually recognize the years of abuse as love.
On the 50th anniversary edition of Lolita, which I purchased for the sake of writing this piece, there sits on the back cover a quote from Vanity Fair which reads:
“The only convincing love story of our century.”
The edition, which was published by Vintage International, recounts the story as “Vladimir Nabokov’s most famous and controversial novel” but also as having something to say about love. The back cover concludes in its summary:
“Most of all, it is a meditation on love — love as outrage and hallucinations, madness and transformation.”
“Love” holds no space in this novel, which details the repeated sexual violation of a child. Although Humbert desperately tries to convince the reader that he is in love with his stepdaughter, the scratches on his arms imply something else entirely. Because the lecherous Humbert has couched his pedophilia in romantic language, the young girl he repeatedly violated seems to have passed through into pop culture as a tween temptress rather than a rape victim.
Conflating love or sexiness with the rape of literature’s most misunderstood child is dangerous in that it perpetuates the mythology that young girls are some how participating in their own violation. That they are instigating these attacks by encouraging and inciting the lust of men with their flirty demeanor and child-like innocence.
Let it be known that even Lolita, pop culture’s first “sexy little girl” was not looking to seduce her stepfather. Lolita, like a lot of young girls, was raped.
I was going through this at age 11 when i got my hands on the book, and i never read it as sexual. I cried and related to her on such a deep level. Anyone who thinks lolita is a love story is gross.
Too real. Lolita means so much to me, because I was raped by an older adult man when I was 15 and years later when I came forward about it people said it was my fault because I flirted with him. A friend of his even teased me with the comment “weren’t you his little Lolita?” Lolita. Is Not. A love story. The continuous sexual abuse of a teenage girl is not love.
What chaps my ass is that NABOKOV didn’t see it as a love story. He found Humbert repugnant and went out of his way to make him so.
He hated that people saw it as romantic when he’d meant to write a fucking horror novel.
I hate when people call themselves Lolita or that fucking Lana del Rey song.This book is about a little girl being raped constantly and they make it seem like a seduction or tease.Please people read this article or read what the book really is this story makes my gut churn.I was being molested as a kid and had mental games played on me.Please Please Please to save another persons life stop romanticizing this story let people know this isn’t no old century love this is rape
Rape is never ok. Nor is a relationship between an adult and a child. I read a lot but it is imperative that this be a truth of our age. Too many people refuse to stand up to protect that truth. Many of my favorite heroines were abused as children.
So, Cassie knows something is up when she is escorted into the vampire senates meeting room. Tony is there via mirror, but he is digging a hole for himself. The mirror gets taken away…and Cassie gets her first look at the North American Vampire Senate led by none other than Cleopatra herself…Rather then try to explain, ill just quote from here …then i will hit you with what i think
Besides the Consul’s, there were twelve places at the table. More than half were empty, but the ones that were filled made up for it. A dark-haired woman sat nearest to me, dressed in a long velvet gown. A little cap decorated with pearls as big as my thumb framed her face, and heavy gold embroidery traced its way up her burgundy skirts. Her skin had the opalescent sheen of naturally pale skin that hasn’t seen the sun in centuries, and was marred only by a ridge of scar tissue around her throat that a silk ribbon didn’t quite conceal. Someone had gotten close enough to this beauty to take her head but hadn’t heard that this alone won’t kill a vamp. If the heart is intact, the body will mend, although I winced at the amount of effort it must have taken to heal a wound like that. Next to her sat the only person at the table I recognized. I could hardly fail to do so since Tony boasted about his connection to the famous Dracula line at every opportunity, and had portraits of all three brothers on the wall of his throne room. He had been made not by Vlad III Tepes, the Dracula of legend, but by the great man’s elder brother, Mircea. We’d entertained him in Philly when I was eleven. Like many children, I loved a good story, which was lucky since there was little Mircea liked better than to go on about the bad old days. He’d told me how, when his younger brothers Vlad and Radu were in Adrianople as hostages—the Ottoman sultan didn’t trust their father to honor a treaty otherwise—Mircea encountered a vengeful gypsy. She hated his father for seducing and then throwing aside her sister, who’d been Dracula’s local nobles captured, tortured and buried him alive, something that might have been a real downer if he hadn’t already been dead. Under the circumstances, it was more an inconvenience than anything else. I’d been too young when I met him to realize that the handsome young man who told me Romanian folk tales was actually older than Tony by about a century. He sent me an encouraging smile now out of a face that had looked thirty for five hundred years. I smiled back in spite of myself; I’d had my first crush on those brown velvet eyes, and I’d forgotten how attractive he was. Those same features had won his longer-lived brother Radu the title of “the Handsome” back in the sixteenth century. Mircea paused to brush a speck of lint off his snazzy black suit. Other than Rafe, who preferred more casual chic, Mircea was the only vamp I knew who cared much about modern fashion. Maybe that was why I’d never seen him wearing the court regalia of old Wallachia, or possibly the clothes then had just sucked. In any case, he looked completely up-to-date now, except for the long, black ponytail. I was glad to see him, but even assuming he remembered me fondly, I doubted one vote would do me much good. Speaking of a need to update a wardrobe, the vamp next to Mircea—the same one who had been loitering around the waiting room—looked like a GQ ad, if the magazine had been printed in the seventeenth century. Considering that I’d spent a lot of time in a Goth club, I didn’t object to the embroidered frock coat, frothy shirt and knee britches he was wearing. I’d seen weirder getups, and at least this one was flattering—silk hose shows off legs better than most modern styles, and his were worth playing up. The sticking point was that the whole deal was in buttercup yellow satin. I’m sorry, but a vamp in yellow is just wrong, especially when you throw in bright blue eyes and glossy auburn curls cascading halfway down his back. He was very handsome, with one of those open, honest faces you automatically trust. It really irritated me that it belonged to a vamp. I gave him a tentative smile anyway on the theory that it couldn’t hurt, and he’d already eaten. I needed to get this blood off me before I started looking to someone like a walking hors d’oeuvre. The remaining vamps, two on the far side of the Consul, were so alike that I assumed they had to be related. I found out later that it was a coincidence. The man was almost as old as the Consul, having started life as one of Nero’s bodyguards even though his mother had been a slave captured somewhere much farther north than Italy. He’d been one of the emperor’s favorites for having even more sadistic tastes than his master: want to guess who really burned Rome? The woman, who looked so much like Portia that I did a double take, had been born in the antebellum South. She was said to have killed more Union soldiers in the twenty miles or so around her family home than the Confederate military did, and to have mourned the end of the war and the easy hunting that had gone with it. So, different eras, countries and backgrounds, but they looked like twins with their milky complexions and wavy dark hair. They even had similar eye color, a light brownish gold, like the light through autumn leaves, and were dressed in complementary outfits of white and silver. Admittedly, his was a toga while she looked like she was on her way to a Savannah ball, but they looked good together. The Consul gave me time to size everyone up before she spoke, but when she did, I had no desire to look anywhere else. Wherever her kohl-rimmed gaze landed, it felt like tiny pinpricks along my skin. The sensation was not quite painful, but I had the impression that the pins could become swords very easily. “You see how many of our seats are empty, how many voices silenced.” I blinked in surprise. I’d assumed there was a problem, but not that—four ancient vampires aren’t exactly easy to kill. But she confirmed it. “We are greatly weakened. The loss of some of the greatest among us is felt keenly by all in this room, but if it continues, it will echo around the world.” She stopped, and at first I thought it was for a dramatic pause, but then she zoned out on me. Some of the really old ones do that sometimes, drawing into themselves for a minute or an hour or a rather crude one with no paint to cover its clay exterior and poorly defined features. Tomas and the new guy seemed to be arguing about something, but their voices were too low to hear. I had a brief moment of nostalgia for Tony’s audience hall, where most of those present were murderous scumbags, but at least I knew their names. I was jumpy enough standing in blood-soaked clothing in front of a group of vamps powerful enough to kill me with little more than a thought, without also having to work in the dark. Rafe was a comfort at my back, but I’d have preferred someone whose specialty was more in the guns-and-knives line. “We are missing six of our number,” the Consul abruptly continued. “Four are irrecoverable, and two others hover on the edge of the abyss. If any power known to us can restore them, it will be done. But it may well be that we strive in vain, for our enemy has lately obtained a new weapon, which can undo us at our very conception.”…“Tomas, attend us.” She had barely finished speaking before Tomas appeared beside me. “Can she be of use?” He was resolutely not looking at me. I wanted to yell at him, to ask what kind of coward couldn’t even hold my gaze while he betrayed me, but Rafe’s fingers tightened almost painfully and I regained control. “I believe so. She occasionally speaks when there seems to be no one there, and tonight … I cannot explain what happened to one of the assassins. There were five. I killed three, and her ward dealt with another; but as for the last …” “Tomas, don’t.” I definitely did not want him to finish that sentence. It would not be good if the Senate decided I was a threat, and if they found out about the exploding vamp, they might feel a tad on edge. How can even an ancient master fight against something she can’t see or feel? Of course, Portia’s intervention had been a fluke—I don’t go around with an army of ghosts and I sure as hell can’t command any that I meet up with that. I somehow doubted they’d take my word. Most ghosts are too weak to do what Portia’s friends had managed; she must have called every active spirit in the cemetery and, even working together, they had barely had enough power. It wasn’t something I could duplicate, but if the Senate didn’t believe that, it could get me killed. Tomas’ jaw tightened, but he didn’t look at me. Big surprise. “I am not sure how the last assassin died. Cassandra must have killed it, but I did not see how.” That was true, but he had definitely seen frozen vamp parts all over the aisle, and there weren’t a lot of ways they could have gotten there. I was surprised he’d hedged his reply for me, but it didn’t matter. One glance at the Consul was enough to show that she wasn’t fooled. Before she could call him on it, the short blond who’d been eavesdropping from the doorway suddenly darted around the guards and ran towards us. I wasn’t worried; it was easy to see by the way he moved and the suntan on his cheeks that this was no vampire. Two of the guards followed, so quickly that they were just smears of color against the red sandstone walls, then overtook him. They reached us first and put themselves between Rafe and me and the newcomer, although they didn’t try to restrain him. In fact, they seemed more interested in keeping an eye on me. “I will speak, Consul, and you had best instruct your servants not to lay hands on me unless you wish to escalate this to war!” The blond’s booming voice was well-educated British, but his outfit didn’t match it. His hair was the only normal thing about him—close cropped and without noticeable style. But his T-shirt was crossed with enough ammunition to take out a platoon, and he had a tool belt slung low on his hips that, along with a strap across his back, looked like it carried one of every type of handheld weapon on the market. I recognized a machete, two knives, a sawed-off shotgun, a crossbow, two handguns—one strapped to his thigh—and a couple of honest-to-God grenades. There were other things I couldn’t identify, including a row of cork-topped bottles along the front of the belt. The getup, sort of mad scientist meets Rambo, would have made me smile, except that I believe in showing respect for someone carrying that much hardware. not vampire—you have no right to speak for her!” “That can easily be remedied.” I jumped as a low, sibilant voice spoke in my ear. I twisted in Rafe’s grip to see a tall, cadaverous vamp with greasy black hair and glittering beetle eyes bending towards me. I’d met him only once before, and we hadn’t gotten along. I somehow didn’t think this time would be any different. Jack, still sometimes called by his famous nickname, had had an abrupt end to his early career in the streets of London when he met Senate member Augusta, one of those missing at the moment, while she was on a European vacation. She showed him what a truly ripping good time was before bringing him over. He had been promoted to the Senate only recently, but had served as their unofficial torturer almost since she made him. He’d come to Philly to do some freelance work once and hadn’t liked that Tony refused to throw me in as a bonus for a job well done. I’d been relieved not to see him in the Senate chamber when I arrived, and there was no entrance on that side of the room. But figuring out where he’d come from was not as big a priority as wondering why his lips were curled back and his long, dingy fangs fully extended. Rafe jerked me away and Tomas shifted to be able to watch both new arrivals. Before things got more interesting, the Consul intervened. “Sit down, Jack. She belongs to Lord Mircea, as you know.” Mircea smiled at me, apparently un-fazed. Either he trusted Jack a lot more than I did, or the fact that he was Tony’s master, and by vampire law mine as well, didn’t mean much to him. I was betting on the latter, knowing my luck. Jack backed away, but he didn’t like it. He gave a whine like a child deprived of a treat as he assumed his seat. “She looks like a slut.” “Better than like an undertaker.” It was true—his heavy Victorian clothes would have looked perfectly at home in a funeral parlor—but that wasn’t why I said it. I’d learned early that fear was power, and I was deathly afraid of Jack. Even in life he’d been pleasure. He bared his fangs at me again in response. It could have been a smile, but I doubted it. “The mages do not have a monopoly on honor, Pritkin,” the Consul continued, ignoring Jack and me like we were two naughty children acting up in front of a guest. “We will keep our agreement with them if they keep theirs with us.”…He gestured at me. “She is human and a magic user; that makes her fate ours to decide.” He flexed his hands as if he’d like to grab something, maybe a weapon, maybe me, maybe both. “Give her to me and I swear you will never have reason to regret it.” Mircea was regarding him the way a good housewife looks at a bug crawling across her newly cleaned kitchen floor. “But Cassie might, would she not?” he asked in his usual mild voice. I’d never heard him raise it, although he’d stayed with Tony for almost a year. The Consul looked as cool as a bronze statue, but a wave of power fluttered by me, like a warm summer breeze with tiny drops of acid in it. I flinched and resisted the urge to wipe at my skin. If the mage noticed it, he gave no sign. “We have yet to determine who has the better claim, Pritkin.” “There is nothing to discuss. The Pythia wants the rogue strange that he seemed so concerned with my future. I’d never met him before in my life and it didn’t help my confusion that none of the mages who came to Tony’s had ever given me a second glance. As merely the vampire’s pet clairvoyant, I’d been beneath contempt. It had annoyed me that outcasts with no more status in the magical community than I had treated me like a charlatan at a carnival. But at the moment I’d gladly take a little scornful indifference. The whole session was beginning to feel like a bunch of dogs fighting over a bone, with me as the bone. I didn’t like it, but there wasn’t a lot I could do about it. “She belongs with those who can best defend her and her gift.” The Consul did serene well. I wondered if it was natural talent or if her two-thousand-odd years of life had helped teach her composure. Maybe both. “I find it interesting, Pritkin, that your Circle now speaks of protecting her. Not so long ago you asked our help in finding her, dead or alive, with the implication being that the former was preferable.” The blond’s eyes flashed dangerously. “Do not presume to put words in the mouth of the Circle! You don’t understand the danger. Only the Circle can protect her, and protect others from her.” For the first time he looked directly at me, and the snarl on his face would have bared fangs if he’d been a vamp. As it was, it told me I had another enemy to worry about. His gaze flicked over me like a whip, and he didn’t seem to like what he saw. “She has been allowed to mature unschooled, cut off from everyone who could have taught her control. It is a recipe for disaster.” I met those narrowed green eyes and something that looked almost like fear crossed over them for a second. His hand moved to the knife in a sheath on his wrist, and for a moment, I actually thought he was going to throw it at me. Rafe must have thought so, too, for he tensed, but the Consul’s voice cut in before anyone could move. “The Silver Circle was once great, Pritkin. Do you tell us that you cannot protect one of your own merely because she roams beyond the fold? Have you become so weak?” His face darkened with anger and his hand continued to fondle the knife, although it stayed in its little leather holder. I looked into those crystalline green eyes and suddenly the picture came The mages at Tony’s had been scared to death of them because they were authorized to kill rogue magic users on sight. Mages who pissed off the Circle weren’t allowed ever to use magic again; if they did and were discovered, it was a death sentence. But why had the Silver Circle sent a freaking war mage after me? Most people even in the magical community treat clairvoyants like shysters with no more ability than a Halloween witch; we don’t even register on the radar for them. But the fact that there are a lot of con artists doesn’t mean that some of us aren’t real. I wondered if the Circle had finally come to that conclusion, too, and decided to start eliminating rivals to their power, beginning with me. It sounded like my kind of luck. If the mage attacked me while I was under the Senate’s protection, I was pretty sure they could kill him and get away with it. Even the Silver Circle couldn’t protest the death of one of their members if he’d brought it on himself. The odds were good, then, that he wouldn’t kill me, but I still sent Tomas a glare. He could have given back my gun once we’d arrived. It wasn’t like I could hurt any of the Senate with it, even if I was crazy enough to try, and it would have been a comfort. Especially if he’d planned on letting war mages come in armed to the teeth. “She already bears our greatest ward. She drew strength from all of us tonight; it was not only your vampire who saved her!” “No, it was a joint effort, as this entire enterprise must be,” GQ cut in smoothly. I was surprised that anyone dared to speak for the Consul, but no one challenged him or even seemed to find it odd. Maybe the Senate was a democratic bunch, but if so, they’d be the first vamps I knew who fit that category. The hierarchy at Tony’s was based on strength, with “might makes right” pretty much the only rule. The other families were the same, as far as I knew. The Senate ruled because they were strong enough to scare even vamps like Tony, which meant the redhead couldn’t be as harmless as he looked, or they’d have eaten him alive years ago. To my surprise, GQ acknowledged that I was in the room instead of simply talking about me like I was a stick of furniture. “Allow me to introduce myself. I am Louis-César,” he said and executed a damn good bow. “ A votre service, mademoiselle .” His some. I no longer had the impression that I might be on the menu. Unlike most twenty-first-century females, I know the proper response to a formal bow. Both the governess and chief tutor Tony assigned me had been born in the Victorian era, so I can curtsy with the best of them. I thought I’d forgotten most of that early training, but something about Louis-César made it come flooding back. He missed the no doubt amusing sight of me trying to live up to nanny’s standards in blood-spattered four-inch go-go boots and a micro-mini because he was looking at the Consul again. I was so focused on the scene at the high table that I completely failed to notice the second attempt on my life that night. My first clue was when a wave of power hit me like a sandstorm had blown up out of nowhere. Hot, stinging flecks scoured my cheeks for a second, before Tomas shoved Rafe aside and tackled me, hard enough to knock the breath out of my lungs when we slammed into the floor. I was faceup, which allowed me to see two of the chamber guards standing immobile in the middle of the room, their flesh slowly evaporating from their bones like it was being eaten off by invisible insects. A second later, the bare skeletons crashed to the floor, hearts and brains having disappeared along with the rest of their soft tissue. I barely saw what happened next because none of it was at normal human speed, and Pritkin was in my way. He was beside me in a crouch with a wicked-looking knife in one hand and a gun in the other. Another knife and a couple of small vials hovered in the air beside his head, as if held by invisible strings. For a second, I thought he’d decided to take me out with the whole Senate watching, but he wasn’t looking at me. The statue I’d seen by the door earlier was suddenly beside us. Despite the fact that it had only vague indentations for eyes, it seemed to be looking at Pritkin as if awaiting orders. I recognized what it was now that I saw it move, although I’d never seen one before. Golems had been feared by the wizards Tony employed only slightly less than the war mages. They were clay figures brought to life by ancient Hebrew Kabbalah magic. Originally, they ran errands for rabbis strong enough to create them. Maybe some still did, but these days most served the knights, as the war mages were properly called. away from the creature, which was creeping me out more than the assassins, to see Jack rounding off against one of the remaining guards. The guard was growling, low in his throat like an animal, but Jack looked like a kid on Christmas morning, all flushed cheeks and bright eyes. He waved Pritkin off with an impatient gesture that clearly said, This one’s mine . The other guard was out of the picture, clawing at his chest where blood was welling up around the rapier that had been thrust completely through him, as if his heavy chain mail wasn’t even there. Its blade stuck almost a foot out of his back, glinting a dull red in the flickering light of the chandeliers. I’d always thought rapiers were dainty, almost effeminate things when I’d seen them in the movies, but apparently I’d been wrong. This one had a wicked blade, as if a double-edged dagger had been stretched out to an inch wide and three feet long. As I fought to get a breath, Louis-César pulled it out of the vamp’s chest and, in the same, flowing motion, decapitated him. It was done with a liquid speed that fooled my eyes for a moment into believing he’d missed. Then the head fell off the neck and bounced across the floor. The vamp’s eyelids were fluttering and his fangs were bared when his head rolled to a halt not a foot away from me, its helmet miraculously still on. I swear the mouth moved, snapping on empty air as if trying to reach my neck, even as his life’s blood spread around him in a widening stain. I must have been making some type of strangled noise, or else the golem perceived the head as a threat, because it quickly kicked it away. That would have been nice, except that it overestimated the weight and sent it sailing across the Senate table to thud wetly against the wall behind the belle’s careful coiffure. A trail of blood marred the shining tabletop in front of her and a spray of droplets descended on her hair, where they sparkled like tiny rubies. She fished the head out from under the table and politely offered it to her companion, who equally politely declined. He was busy cleaning up the table by holding his hand over the spilled blood. Droplets flew up to meet his palm like they were iron and he was a magnet. As with Tomas earlier, they ruined neck of her prize. I had to close my eyes for a moment and fight to keep my stomach in place, but at least I wasn’t screaming. First, it wouldn’t have looked strong in front of the Senate, and that would be bad. Second, my throat was still raw from almost getting strangled earlier. Third, I couldn’t get enough air, thanks to Tomas’ weight. I tried to shift him to one side, but it was like trying to move a marble statue. He only pressed down harder until I cried out in pain; then his body softened, melting against me like a warm satin comforter. It might have been soothing except that I couldn’t breathe deeply or move, and Jack and the other guard had danced dangerously close. I didn’t understand why no one had killed the guard, especially since he had drawn his huge battle-axe and was looking at me with the single-minded concentration most guys reserve for the Playboy channel. If the Senate wanted me dead, wouldn’t it have been easier to let Tony do it for them? And if they didn’t, why wasn’t Louis-César doing an encore of his previous performance instead of simply standing there? Maybe he figured the guard would never get past Pritkin, Rafe and Tomas, but I wasn’t so sure. The axe blade looked awfully sharp to me, and I knew how fast vamps could move. All the guard needed was a split second and I would be the main course for Miss Georgia 1860 whenever she finished her appetizer. But no one did anything except for Tomas, and he merely crawled higher up my body, to the point that he would have been able to give a detailed report on the lace pattern in my bra if he’d been asked. He looked calm, but I could feel his heart jumping against my skin. It wasn’t comforting to know that he was worried, too. I looked past his dark head to where flames from the candles were dancing along the axe’s huge blade, which was all of about four yards away. As I stared, the guard lunged towards me, gnashing his teeth like a cornered tiger, and it was all over as suddenly as it had started. Jack was a streak of ugly, dark green fabric and a flash of pale hands. I blinked, and the guard was on the ground, his limbs pinned down by four large knives buried through his flesh in the underlying stone. Two of them were a gesture once Jack was in control of the captive. They tore out of the vamp with an audible ripping sound and flew to him, one settling into the wrist sheath and the other disappearing down his boot. He hadn’t even bothered to use the ones at his waist. He and the golem moved off to allow Tomas to haul me to my feet. Although he’d just helped save my life, his eyes were cold when he looked at me, like chips of green ice. The Consul appeared unruffled by the disturbance, but a tiny frown marred her otherwise perfect face. “Be careful, Jack. I want answers, not a corpse.” Jack smiled beatifically up at her. “You’ll have both,” he promised and bent towards the body. I quickly looked away but heard the sounds of ripping flesh and popping bones. I guessed that he’d retrieved his knives, breaking the limbs of his victim in the process. I swallowed hard several times. I’d forgotten how interesting court life could be. “As I was saying, madame, la mademoiselle is obviously unwell. Perhaps we could explain things to her after she has had a chance to rest?” Louis-César spoke as casually as if the events of the last few minutes had never happened. Meanwhile Jack had taken a set of gleaming surgical tools from a case he’d pulled out of a pocket. He lined them up slowly by the side of his struggling victim, giving a soft, hissing laugh as he did so. Great; at least someone was having fun. “We do not have the time to waste, Louis-César, as you know.” “ Ma chère madame , we have all the time in the world … now.” They exchanged a look, but I couldn’t interpret it. “If I may suggest, I could explain to Mademoiselle Palmer our dilemma and report back before dawn. That would give you time to complete the … interrogation.” He gave me a glance, and my panic at the thought of being alone with a guy who’d just shish-kebabed a powerful vamp must have shown. He quickly added, “Raphael may accompany us, of course.” I didn’t like the fact that he could read me so easily, but knowing I’d have a friend along did make me feel better. At least until I saw Jack start to pull a long, gleaming cord of intestines out of the vamp’s now open gut, draping them like a string of between my shoulders crawled like it would like to creep off somewhere else. I decided I wasn’t going to enjoy this conversation no matter who was involved.
So much happens here. We get to meet the senates, the governing body for vampires. We meet Pritkin, the odd war mage from the silver circle who will become one of the major characters. We meet Mircea and
Louis-César
. And we have missing senate members and some way that Cassie is going to help. Cassie may have been raised in an out of the way vampire court but she knows enough to know that she’s in trouble. The Senate is being too nice. And this first section of the book shows us how it is going to be. We are going to keep on seeing things from Cassie’s perspective and there is going to be a lot of action with little down time
