THE GALA
1902—New York
Jack Grew stood in the corner of his uncle’s ballroom and surveyed all that he had created. Around him, candles glowed and crystal clinked. The low murmur of anticipation wrapped around him like a mantle, fortifying him for what was to come. Everyone who was anyone in New York society was there, including all the members of the Order and a handpicked selection of the press who were most likely to cover the event in the best possible light. In one corner, Sam Watson was chatting with the younger Vanderbilt. Across the room, his aunt was preening over the state of the ballroom. Everyone was happy, content. Including Jack.
He was close. So very, very close.
Watson had noticed him and was approaching from across the room, but Jack pretended not to see. Instead, he ducked behind the nearest curtain that separated the guests from the area behind the temporary stages that circled one side of the ballroom. The mood there wasn’t the relaxed, champagne-tinged atmosphere of the crowd. Backstage, the nervous energy of the performers made the air feel almost electric. Anticipation flooding through him, Jack took the vial from his jacket and crunched two more of the morphine cubes. Then he slipped the vial back into his vest, next to the warmth of the Book, and made his way through the preoccupied performers to find Evelyn.
By the time he reached her, she was already wearing the gossamer gown that had been commissioned for her tableau. All the tableaux had been selected for specific reasons, but mostly to portray the strength of science and alchemy over the dangerous feral magic that had once nearly destroyed civilization. The Nightmare was to be the final tableau, the finale of sorts. In the painting, a fair-haired woman lay unconscious, draped over a low couch, with her head and hand hanging toward the floor. The way Fuseli depicted her, the sleeping woman might well be dead except for the faint blush of pink across her lips, and on her chest sat a gargoyle-like figure, a succubus that represented the idea of the nightmare, pressing down upon her, holding her in the deathly sleep.
Evelyn had already powdered herself even paler than usual for the tableau. Her skin was so white it practically glowed and was barely different from the ivory gown she wore. She touched up the pale pink paint on her lips in a small mirror, the gown hiding very little. It might as well have been transparent from the way it clung to her curves, and because it was so close to her powdered skin, at first glance it almost did seem transparent. That was all part of the fun, of course. Tableaux vivants were known for being titillating and risqué and for skirting the very edges of propriety.
But tableaux got away with being so provocative because of their subject matter—classical art. The gown Evelyn wore might have been enough to have her jailed on the streets, but for the tableau it was perfect. When she was reclining on the divan, the gown would look very much like the one in the painting, giving the impression of both a nightgown and a burial shroud, to heighten the similarities between the depths of sleep and death itself.
Of course, if Jack’s plans came to fruition, those similarities would be one and the same tonight.
On her finger, the ring glinted in the low light. Soon, he promised himself as her eyes found him in the mirror and she turned to greet him. Very soon.
“Jack, darling,” Evelyn purred. “How do I look?” She twirled, allowing the gown to spin.
By now the warm desire she elicited had become familiar to Jack, and with the ritual he’d performed earlier from the pages of the book, it was little more than an annoyance. But Evelyn wasn’t the only actor that night. He put on a good show of softening his gaze and stepping toward her as though he wanted to kiss her, rather than wring her neck.
“Ravishing, as always,” he said, counting the seconds until the satisfaction on her face turned to fear. “Did you find the wig I sent over?” Fuseli’s sleeper was a pale blonde, and Evelyn’s violently red hair would disturb the reality of the scene.
“I did,” she told him. “I was just about to put it on.” She peeked at him from under her lashes. “I also saw the nightmare. You’ve outdone yourself, Jack. He’s marvelous.”
“Isn’t he?” Near the platform where Evelyn would eventually prostrate herself stood the misshapen figure that would be perched on her chest.
Evelyn walked over to it and ran her hand seductively over the top of the creature’s head. “The expression on his face, it’s so vital and alive. You can almost imagine him haunting your dreams, can’t you?” she asked with a sly, seditious smile he’d come to recognize as her trying to manipulate him.
“I can more than imagine it,” he said, examining the creature he’d created with his own hands. It had taken more than a few errors to get it just right, light enough to sit on her chest and with enough heft that it would hold up when the time came.
“The audience will be thrilled,” she purred.
“Yes. Yes, they most definitely will be,” he told her, biting back his anticipation. “Well, if you’ll excuse me, I have to check on some other preparations. It’s nearly time to begin.”