Page 159 of Vampires of Eden

Mind boggling.

I sweep my hair back and into an especially neat, twisted knot—even using oil, which, I rarely do, to keep the fly aways in place so that it looks clean and intentional.

Alexander said the place is casual, but I still drove into Seze to buy myself a pair of dark chinos, a collarless white button-down with a discreet pattern and a charcoal trench coat because I didn’t have anything suitable in my closet.

I think I look good? Not trendy necessarily, the way Alexander always does. But adequate.

The entire drive to Central, I’m nervous. By the time I pull into the parking lot of the opera, my hands are lightly trembling. I take a deep breath and empty my head. Making myself present because I’m safe.

Everything is fine. I’m just here to look at a musical score. Nothing more.

When I’m calm and no longer shaky, I head inside. The interior is exactly what I would expect of a renowned musical theater set in the center of an old vampire aristocracy. Creamy ornate pillars and moldings lining the painted ceiling. Elegant crystal chandeliers and mahogany doors fixed with golden handles. Velvety and rich reds covering the floor and furniture. It is stunning and sumptuous. Lovingly cared for.

The house manager, Lydia James, is a purebred woman with brown skin and radiant eyes. She greets me in the lobby and I immediately notice that she’s holding a simple black folder in her left hand. She shakes mine with her right.

After we exchange polite niceties, she asks, “Would you rather use the grand piano in the main concert hall for acoustics, or in arehearsal room where it’s more private? We have two within the theater. Your choice.”

This question surprises me, because in my mind, I’m only reading music today. Not necessarily playing anything. “The rehearsal room, please?”

She nods without protest, then quietly guides me through the lobby, down a hallway and into a silent corridor. Soon, we approach a set of double doors. She pushes one side open, enters and flicks on a series of florescent white lights overhead.

The space is basic. A square, soundproofed room with a few rows of chairs and black metal music stands arranged in a messy semi-circle around a conductor’s podium. Some larger instruments are neatly stored along the back walls. Two double basses and a timpani.

On the opposite side of the conductor’s podium sits a grand piano.

“Lord Kendrick said that you are welcome to take this folder home with you,” she says, handing it over. “If you have any questions, I’ll be in the office just inside the front doors to the lobby.” She turns, heading toward the exit.

“Sounds good. Thank you.” I stare at the piano, frozen with disbelief. How am I here right now?

“It isn’t my place to say this, but the prospect of a local first-gen vampire leading a piano concerto at the Royal Opera is wonderful.”

I turn to meet her gaze and she smiles warmly. “I do hope it works out,” she goes on. “I am very much in favor of the diversification of artists that we feature. Having you in this position would be momentous. Historic.”

“No pressure, though, right?” My smile is tight and I feel like my stomach is trying to crawl into my rib cage.

“None whatsoever,” she chides. “Let me know if you need anything?” As I nod, she leaves, softly shutting the door behind her.

“Where have all the mean purebreds gone?” I wonder aloud.Were they all simply residing in the Álvarez Estate? These days, I’m encountering more purebreds who show genuine kindness toward me than hostility. Oliver and Alexander. Now Lord Ansväd and this Lydia vampire.

It’s making me second guess all the hostility and rage I’ve held onto for the past several years. I know that what I experienced in that house was real. But was I living in a vacuum?

It doesn’t matter. Here and now.

I roll my shoulders and slowly approach the piano bench as if it might come to life and bite me. The instrument is beautiful and gleaming underneath the bright lights, like a dark lake reflecting a galaxy of stars.

Gingerly, I sit down on the bench. I stare at the fallboard and I don’t open the folder. In fact, I set it beside me on the bench and just… breathe. Taking this moment in. The muffled silence and the beat of my heart. My fingers nervous and fidgety, itching to touch.

I slide the fallboard into place. With the keys exposed, I inhale deeply, marveling at the smooth, cool ivory. The familiar black-and-white configuration and all the wonderful possibilities therein.

Out of nowhere, a rush of nostalgia pulses through my entire being. Not from my young adulthood and the time I spent playing for Josefina. The sensation is rooted deeper than that. A long-forgotten feeling.

Something warm and almost… giddy?

Without contemplation, my hands lift toward the keys like a vessel being guided by a higher, unknown power. My fingers spread, then press down hard.

Thef sharpsresonate dramatically within the insulated room, like a boom of thunder before a raging storm. Like the beginning of something truly cataclysmic—but somehow sensational. Thrilling.

I lift my hands, then shift to the lowest octave. Playfully, mischievously, my fingers dance atop the notes and Ismile.