distract himself with sandwiches and champagne, society gossip and women, until it was far too late?
"And, Stefan?" Samuel asked, staring down his aquiline nose to peer at me. "What did you think of the party? I imagine it's a change from . . .
wherever you came from," he said, barely concealing a snicker.
"Yes, we enjoyed the party. Violet was especial y taken by it," I said, forcing a smile.
"And are you taken by the young Violet?" Samuel asked curiously, setting his empty crystal glass on one of the white tables. Almost instantly, the empty one was whisked away by a white-suited butler. It could be easy to get used to this lifestyle. But I knew from experience that this type of existence always came with a price.
"Violet's taken by the stage," I explained. "I have no interest in her, other than as a friend. I only want to make sure she's safe."
"You only want to make sure she's safe," Samuel repeated. Was there a slight trace of mockery in his tone or was I imagining it? "That's very noble of you."
"Ever since I've known him, Stefan can't resist playing the hero to a damsel in distress," Damon said languorously. I shot him a look, but he only smiled back at me. I shifted from one foot to the other and eyed him suspiciously. Here in London, it seemed everyone, and Damon especial y, never said exactly what they meant.
"Wel , you'l find that there's no shortage of distressed damsels in our city," Samuel said wryly. "I assume you've heard about our murderer?"
"The murderer?" I asked. I hoped it didn't sound too eager. At the horrific word, several couples turned to stare at me.
"They think he attacked again, last night. The Ripper is what al the papers cal him. They think he might be a butcher, the way he cuts the bodies up." Charlotte wrinkled her nose as she strode over to us from a wil ow tree, where she'd been holding court in the center of a group of women. The group shuddered. Just the name - the Ripper - had the effect of a storm cloud over the idyl ic summer day. It felt like the temperature had dropped twenty degrees.
The Ripper. I tried to catch Damon's eye, but he avoided my gaze. He was at the party last night. Unless . . . my thoughts were whirling.
Charlotte possessively slipped her arm around Damon's waist. "I'm glad I have someone to protect me. It's so awful." I glanced over at Violet. She was listening, rapt, the vervain charm stil gleaming around her neck. Good.
"Who was the victim?" I asked.
"Another prostitute. No one, real y." A broad-shouldered girl sniffed, as if the entire affair was far too torrid to discuss.
Samuel pul ed a newspaper out of his waistcoat pocket and made a big show of opening it. "Jane's only upset because the murderer is pushing her off the page. Suddenly, al the society news has been cut for murder coverage," Samuel said, smiling sarcastical y at the woman.
"What was her name?" Violet asked tremulously.
"The name of the victim? Why should that matter?" Jane shrugged derisively.
"Annie something," Samuel said, flicking through the story in the paper.
Violet's shoulders sagged in relief, and I closed my eyes in thanks. Cora was stil alive. For now.
"Whatever her name is, it's quite awful, isn't it?" Lord Ainsley shuddered, joining our conversation. "Thank God he's at least picking off the East End. Once he gets to our kind, then we'l worry," he said with a loud guffaw. I shot a look at Violet, who'd sidled up to Charlotte. Her dress and mannerisms were almost indistinguishable from Charlotte's, and no one would dream that she was not one of their kind. Stil , Lord Ainsley's casual flippancy about the lower class - Violet's class - made my stomach turn.
"He wrote a letter to the Courier," Samuel said. "Let me find it." Samuel sat down on one of the white chairs and, crossing his legs at the knee, cleared his throat and began to read.
"The return address reads 'From hel ' . . ." he intoned.
The words thudded in my ears and I staggered to find a seat. I couldn't breathe. From hell. Maybe it was some sort of terrible prank, but I couldn't help but wonder if there was some truth to it. Was it Klaus - or someone even worse? I held on to the edge of the table for support, and I could sense Violet turn to stare at me.
"'From hel ' . . . but is that a worse address than 'Whitechapel'?" Samuel snorted.
"I've never been there," a pretty, redheaded girl said as she took a large swig of champagne. "Is it as awful as everyone says?"
"Worse!" Samuel said, amid laughter. He glanced back at the paper. "Scotland Yard and the London police force have been working round the clock, but clues to the grisly murders are few and far between . . ."
I stopped listening and took a few steps away from the group. From here, the unfolding scene looked idyl ic: just a group of wealthy and carefree young friends enjoying their privileges. What would they do if they knew there was a monster in their midst? And not the one they were currently laughing about?
From hell. With every clue, I was more sure that Klaus was in London. The big question was: Why didn't Damon care?
Klaus was indeed from hel - it was his legacy. The majority of us vampires had been turned at the hand of another vampire. Lexi had been turned by a lover, Damon and I had been turned by Katherine, and there were mil ions of other stories, just like ours, within the vampire world. But then, there were the Originals, from hel itself. They'd never experienced any years as a human. They had no humanity to temper their instincts and, as such, they were brutal and dangerous.
I shivered, even though the air was stil , with no breeze rustling the elm trees above us.