Burning for You (Blackwater) (12 page)

“The mysterious Legend,” I say
sarcastically.  I haven’t brought up the Legend since my mother told me about
my father’s duty to protect it, but the Legend doesn’t hold a very warm place
in my heart knowing that it’s the reason my father is no longer in our lives. 
“So is Lisette Lavanne still married to…Gerard?”

My mother shakes her head.  “No, he
killed himself a few years after Ash was born,” she says.  “There are no more
Lavanne brothers for Lisette to marry, and if she remarried she would no longer
be a Lavanne, so she never has.”

“Why is it so important for her to
be a Lavanne?” I ask. 

My mother smiles.  “Wait until
you’re at Normandy before you ask that question.  Like I said, I was in awe of
Lisette Lavanne.  She has everything.  She’s also a very powerful water
elemental.”

“Like you,” I say.  My mother
shrugs. 

“Some people would agree, but I
think Lisette’s abilities trump mine,” she tells me.  She stands up and looks
at the masks and then picks up one and puts it in my hands.  “Take this one over
to Ruby street.  There’s a dress shop called Bella Haute that will be able to
make you a costume to match.  Put it on my account.”

“Really?” I ask.  “Are you sure?” 
She nods and I open the case and look at the mask she has chosen for me.  The mask
is gold with a swirl of peridots and topaz on one side that appear to look like
half of a butterfly.  A cut peacock feather rests behind the jeweled wings. 
“This is too beautiful to leave the house with,” I tell her. 

“I feel like I have to make something
up to you,” my mother says softly.  “I still think you should get out of
Blackwater, but I feel like now that you’ve met Ash Lavanne, I can’t keep you
from what you know is your path.”  She smiles and looks sad.  “If anyone had
tried to keep me from Jared I would have died.” 

“You are apart from him,” I say
softly, but suddenly I understand.  My mother has been apart from her catalyst
for almost fifteen years.  She turns and walks out of her room, leaving me
alone with nine empty masks that have seen grander days.

*

At eight o’clock on Saturday, I am
stepping into a black Rolls Royce limousine wearing the costume that Francine,
the owner of Bella Haute, helped me choose.  The 1920’s flapper costume is
chartreuse green, with cap sleeves and matching fringe with gold beads on the end
of each piece of fringe.  Francine even found gold fishnet thigh-high stockings
with a matching chartreuse garter belt.  A strand of black pearls that I
borrowed from my mother hangs down between my breasts and to my waist, which I
have knotted in 1920’s fashion.  My mother has a matching clutch to go with
every single mask she owns and I’ve slipped my phone, some money and my inhaler
inside of the gold one she lent me.  I also have a chartreuse sequined headband
to match my dress, and gold heels.  The only thing that isn’t very Charleston
about me is my auburn hair, which I have left long and loose tonight.  If I
knew how to do finger waves, I would have, but I’m not exactly skilled when it
comes to hair styles.  The last piece is the green and gold mask, which my
mother helps me secure in place on each side into my hair with a bobby pin. 
She fixes it in place expertly until I am confident it won’t fall off. 

The limo driver is a middle aged
man with a paunch and a brown mustache named Eddie.  He tips his actual
driver’s cap when I approach him and holds the door open for me as I
ungracefully lumber inside the limo in an unsuccessful attempt not to show my
garters.  The dress looks great as long as I’m standing, but climbing into a
car is not really what it was intended for.  Eddie tells me there’s a freshly
opened bottle of champagne in the ice bucket and I can help myself.  Since I
haven’t eaten all day, one glass goes straight to my head in five minutes.  I
rest my head against the seat and watch as we drive down Center street, beyond
the town limits of Blackwater.  “Eddie,” I ask.  “Do the Lavannes not live in
Blackwater?”

“Just outside, actually,” he
replies.  “The vineyard takes up a lot of acreage, so they technically live in
Blackwater, but it’s out in the country.  Same county, though.”

“Vineyard?” I repeat.  Then I
recall that Isabel had mentioned the Lavannes own a vineyard.

“Yes ma’am,” Eddie says.  “The
Lavannes have operated Normandy Vineyard for generations.  You’re drinking
their champagne.”

I inspect the bottle, and sure
enough, there are words on the label that say “grapes grown and bottled in
Blackwater, MI”.  “It’s very good,” I say.

“I think so too, ma’am,” Eddie
says.  He doesn’t offer anything else to say during the drive, which takes
about twenty five minutes until we stop at a set of giant wrought iron gates. 
Eddie opens his window and punches in a code and the gates slowly creep open. 
The driveway extends forever, and we pass what look to be the vineyards on my
left and a vast expanse of dark lawn on my right.  Tall trees line the drive
sporadically, giving Normandy a menacing appearance.  “The house, ma’am,” Eddie
says, interrupting my thoughts.  “On your left.”  I swivel my eyes to the left
window as we curve right and have to suppress a gasp.  Normandy is a quaint
name for a house, but entirely misleading.  The grey stone monstrosity that
keeps growing larger and more terrifying fills my vision overwhelmingly.  Tons
of cars are parked out front, including about ten motorcycles, several sports
cars in obnoxious colors and a few larger vehicles.  I breathe a sigh of relief
to spot Ash’s black SUV as one of the more modest cars.  Two lions sit on pillars
on each side of the entrance to the house.  Eddie slows to a stop and shuts the
car off.  He gets out and opens my door.  I ungracefully climb out with my
mouth hanging open.  It’s eerily quiet outside, and I can hear every click of
my heels on the cobblestones as I make my way over to the entrance.  I hesitate
at the door, taking in the huge circle knockers each held in the mouth of a
lion, possibly offspring of the larger ones on the pillars outside.  There is a
small light indicating a doorbell, though, and I choose to ring that instead of
attempting the arm strength to lift one of those crazy door knockers.

My push of the doorbell is
immediately answered.  A tall, thin man with no hair opens the door.  “Welcome
Miss Holt,” he says, making me wonder how the hell he knows who I am.  Loud
music pours through the house behind him.  “Please come in.  My name is James,
and I am the butler at Normandy.  May I take your wrap?” 

Is this for real?  “Hi James,” I
say.  I am wearing my mother’s mink wrap which is warm and wonderful, and
reluctantly hand it to James.  The house is warm, thankfully, but I could sleep
naked on that wrap and never leave my bed.  Anyone who ever said fur is murder
obviously never was able to afford a mink anything.  “Should I just walk back?”

“If you wish,” James replies, my
mink wrap over his arm.  “You’ll find that although Normandy appears very
formal, parties here are very…informal.  You may go where you wish.”

“I see,” I reply, though I haven’t
the slightest clue what he means, but I plan to find out.

“If you want to join the main section
of the party,” James says, “the ballroom is to the right of the stairs.”  He
indicates the sweeping staircase behind him that divides itself into two
separate directions about one flight up, leading away to two separate
hallways.  The chandelier above our heads is an ancient iron affair, with
actual dripping candles tiered up about six levels.  The dome from which it
hangs is a stained glass replica of what looks like a very famous painting.  If
I knew anything about art, I might be able to say which painting.  The walls
are peppered with portraits of what could be dead relatives, or even living
ones, all done in oils and encased in ornate gold frames.  James walks away to
the opposite direction with my mink and I head to where he indicates I should
go.  The music grows louder, and it’s definitely a live band, playing music
that sounds almost like the era that I’m dressed for.  I feel like I’m in some
sort of time warp.  Everything seems unreal.  The floors are marble and covered
in rugs similarly to my own home, though the rugs appear impeccably maintained
and vivid, as though they’re new. 

The entrance to the ballroom is
open, revealing the source of the music.  Sixty or more people are gathered,
all masked, chatting, dancing, laughing, eating and drinking.  The band is
indeed a jazz band, with a drummer, a trombone player, a clarinet player, a
pianist, and a bass player.  Waiters are peppered around the scene with trays
of hors d'oeuvres, champagne and wine.  Tables are set to the side with more
food, including decadent chocolate covered strawberry trees, petit fours, trays
of caviar and toast pointes, and various other finger foods.  I immediately
grab a glass of red wine and follow it with some puff pastry thing that appears
to be filled with crab and heroin, considering how badly I want another.  I
need to eat more to sober up, but the alcohol makes me bold.  I find myself
immersed in the crowd, moving to the music and looking for Ash.  I recognize no
one.  The costumes are so ostentatious that I feel understated, which isn’t necessarily
a bad thing.  I’d hate to be the one to stand out considering the company.  My
one peacock feather in my mask couldn’t possibly rival the woman dressed in a
peacock costume, covered in feathers from head to toe.  I find myself turning
in circles and taking in everything, sipping on my wine and entranced by outrageousness
of the scene.  I get a sense of what James meant when he said that parties at
Normandy are informal.  Across the room I spot a woman and a man in a passionate
embrace.  The man’s hand covers the woman’s breast which is out and accessible
from the low neckline of her Playboy bunny corset.  Next to them, a girl who
couldn’t be more than sixteen is dancing enthusiastically to the jazz music,
arms waving in the air, her butterfly wings of her costume flailing with her
arms.  There’s much more debauchery and craziness and it’s all wonderful and
anonymous, making me question how many people will go home angry or go home at
all when it’s over.

I turn around, thinking I will
explore more of the house and I bump right into a woman dressed as though she
just came off of a production of Swan Lake.  She wears a white feathered skin-tight
corset.  Her slim legs are encased in white feathered boots that go all the way
up to her hips.  She has a mask and cap decorated in white feathers, and she
wears a choker with what is probably the largest diamond I’ve ever seen
sparkling at the base of her throat.  The only part of her not decked out in
white are her lips, painted in a red so dark and deep, they look black.  “I’m
so sorry!” I exclaim, thankful I didn’t spill any red wine on her beautiful
costume. 

“You’re Leah Holt,” she says
without hesitation.  She is close to my height and I can see directly into her
eyes, which are so blue, they’re practically colorless.  They’re like taking a clear
glass of ocean water and holding it up to the sunlight.  “You’re looking for
Ash.”

“I am,” I agree, startled by her
forwardness and accuracy.  “Who are you, if you don’t mind my asking?”

“Olivia,” she replies.  “Ash’s
older sister.  Though not very much older,” she adds jokingly.  I laugh. 

“Nice to meet you,” I tell her. 
“Your costume is beautiful.”  I notice her cap doesn’t cover her whole head as
I originally thought.  Her hair is so white, it looks like part of the cap. 
Small curls have escaped and frame her face angelically.

“Thank you,” she replies, curling
her black lips into a small smile.  “I love yours.  It goes well with the
band.”

“I thought the same thing!” I laugh. 
A waiter comes by with more wine and we both take a glass and I give him my
empty one.  Thankfully it’s white wine this time.  “How did you know who I
was?”

She shrugs.  “I just know
everything.” 

“Everything?” I repeat.  Then it
hits me that she’s not bragging.  “Oh, you’re a water elemental, aren’t you?” 
She nods.  “Figures.”

She smiles.  “Your mother is one
too, right?  So is mine.”  She sips her wine, managing to look bored in the
midst of the craziest party I’ve ever seen.  “You’re not, though.”

“No,” I agree, smiling.  “I’m
not.”  I smile, thinking of Ash.  Suddenly, I feel the need to be with him, at
this weird and wonderful party, affirming my ache for him.  “I’m going to continue
in my search for Ash.  Have you seen him anywhere?”

“Oh, he’s around,” she tells me. 
She leans over to whisper in my ear.  “Prince Charming isn’t very far at all.”

“Prince Charm-?” Olivia slips away
before I can ask her to clarify.  I see her stroll over to a handsome looking
man with dark skin and a pirate costume, grazing her hand across his chest
possessively and seductively.  She even gives me a chill to watch as she sizes
him up, looking catlike and ready to pounce.  I tear my gaze from her and turn
to walk in the other direction.  Then, as if we were magnetic opposites, I bump
directly into the chest of a masked Prince Charming.  “Ash?”

“M’Lady,” he says, bowing.

The best part about Halloween is
not being yourself, but whomever you choose to be for the evening.  But you
only get one night to do it, so whatever you decide to do, you must do without
regret.

That is how I find myself pulling
Ash away from the throng of people packed in the ballroom at Normandy, away
from the music and any other eyes that might be on us.  I have a feeling we’re
being watched.  “Where are you taking me?” he asks behind me.

“Away,” I tell him, tightening my
hold on his hand and snaking through the crowd.  We come out of the ballroom
and we’re in a narrow hallway, with about three feet of space between the
walls.  I push him up against one wall and stretch up to press my lips against
his throat.  He responds quickly by pulling my face up to his to kiss me, twisting
his hand in my hair.  His other hand wraps around my waist, pulling my body
against his.  The pressure of his lips on mine and his tongue exploring my
mouth cause the feeling inside of me to stir deep in my belly, making my legs
shake.  I rely on Ash to support me, knowing if he were to let go, I would
collapse from the pleasure.  His tongue probes deeper into my mouth, tasting me. 
I receive him with a moan, and I feel his body throbbing against my own.  I
push away from him, then, just as suddenly as I instigated the kiss, leaning
against the opposite wall to catch my breath.