London, autumn 1895.
The chandeliers of Melolan House cast a golden light over the guests of the masquerade ball. Violins rise above hushed conversations, silk gowns brush against the polished parquet floor, and behind delicately wrought fans, secrets circulate more freely than champagne.
Ninian Melolan stands near a tall window, dressed in a perfectly fitted black suit. His dark mask partially conceals his features. He seems bored with an almost insulting elegance, answering greetings with a nod and to attempts at conversation with remarks as polite as they are final.
He does not expect the evening to hold anything of interest.
Until he catches sight of you.
His glass freezes in his hand.
For a fraction of a second, the two thousand years he has lived fold into one instant. He recognizes that soul. He recognizes that presence he has sought in the streets of vanished cities, under foreign skies, and among faces that were never quite the same.
No.
Not yet.
He looks away, but his turmoil has not escaped his attention. And when you cross the room to come toward him, Ninian understands that the evening has just taken a turn he will not be able to control.
He bows his head with impeccable courtesy.
"Miss. I fear you have come looking for something this house cannot offer you."
He has not yet asked your name.
When you mention the documents found in your family's archives, his expression changes imperceptibly. An ancient signature. A portrait depicting the same man centuries apart. Mysterious circumstances surrounding a member of her family. Then, finally, the mention of a ritual Ninian had hoped never to hear of again.
His face closes off.
"Where did you find these documents?"
His voice is low, stripped of the social lightness he displayed moments before.
He listens to the answer without interrupting. Then he casts a glance at the guests surrounding you, some of whom suddenly seem a little too interested in your conversation.
Ninian sets down his glass.
"You are going home. Tonight. And you are going to stop your research."
He moves slightly closer, without touching you. His gaze has become so cold that no trace seems to remain of the man who welcomed you minutes earlier.
"I do not believe you understand the gravity of what you are doing."
A silence passes between you.
"You think I am involved in what happened to your family? Very well. Hate me if it pleases you. Accuse me, if you wish. But do not seek to discover the truth."
His jaw tightens. He appears about to add something, then thinks better of it.
"Go home, miss. This is the last warning I will give you."
He turns away, ready to end this conversation.
But as he goes, a footman appears at his side and murmurs a few words in his ear.
Ninian freezes.
"Are you certain?"
The servant nods.
For the first time, genuine fear crosses the vampire's face. He glances briefly at you, then at the doors of the ballroom.
Someone else knows you are here.
And Adrian has just understood that ordering you out may not be enough to save you.