Total pages in book: 138
Estimated words: 130924 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 655(@200wpm)___ 524(@250wpm)___ 436(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 130924 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 655(@200wpm)___ 524(@250wpm)___ 436(@300wpm)
It seemed the impossible had happened, though not that impossible, if you look at the breeding of cows, which Brom was quick to tell us about, how often in the bovine world a cow can give birth to twins with each one sired by a different bull. Once a farm boy, always a farm boy.
While we have no proof that this has happened, and we often joke about Baltus being the evil twin and possible anti-Christ (a joke that Brom and Kat rarely laugh at, but I find to be quite funny), I have taken to the notion that Brom is Baltus’ biological father in a miraculous way, and I think Brom feels that way too.
Granted, to the outside world he must still remain their uncle and I don’t think the children will know until they’re older that Brom isn’t their uncle at all, but until then, we must keep up appearances. The boys love Brom to death anyway. He gets to have all their love without laying down any rules.
I reach out and grab Brom by the back of the neck, pulling him in for a kiss. “My apologies, pretty boy,” I say, pressing my mouth against his. “Let’s enjoy this evening.”
The three of us leave the house and step out into the awaiting carriage, the spring evening air fresh enough to dillute the smoke from the factories across the Thames. The driver takes us past the prim, white houses along Baker Street. until we are pulling up to a sprawling mansion at the edge of Grosvenor Square.
“Whose party is this again?” Kat asks as I grab her arm and help her down from the carriage.
“Dorian Gray,” I tell her. “He’s formed a society for mystics.”
“So, he’s a witch?” Brom asks.
“Not quite,” I tell him as we walk up to the door of the mansion. “I’m honestly not sure what he is.”
I ring the doorbell, hearing laughter and piano from inside, and the door swings open, held by a pretty looking maid.
“Are you expected?” she asks sweetly, and I can tell from her aura that she’s a witch.
“Yes,” I say with a nod, taking off my hat. “Ichabod Crane, Katrina Crane, and Brom Bones.”
She raises her brow over Brom’s last name. Legally he’s still Van Brunt, but he long ago decided to shun his familial name as much as possible since it reminds him of his heritage, his ties to the Erusian coven.
“There you are,” Dorian says from the end of the grand hall, striding toward us in his tuxedo.
“He looks like Brom,” Kat whispers to me. “If Brom were to ever shave.”
Dorian does look similar, though he has both a jovial nature and snobbishness that Brom could never possess.
“So glad that you could make it,” Dorian says to us. He shakes Brom’s hand and then takes Kat’s and kisses the back of hers. “Brom Bones and Katrina Crane, I take it. I am Dorian Gray.”
“She prefers to be called Kat,” I tell him, putting my hand on my wife’s lower back in a possessive manner, lest she be charmed by this man. Three’s not a crowd, but four certainly is.
“Of course, Kat,” he says to her, bowing. Then he straightens up and waves us over. “Come along, let me introduce you to the rest of the mystics.”
We follow him into a grand parlor with about a dozen or so people, everyone around the same age as us, if not younger, dressed well in their tuxedos and gowns, waiters walking around with trays of champagne and canapés.
My senses go wild and I know Kat feels it too. There are witches here, and if I’m not mistaken, a vampire or two, which immediately gets my hair standing on end. I have to remember the tryst I had with my vampire in order to recall that they aren’t all bad.
Dorian takes us around to everyone, where we meet Dr. Henry Jekyll, an affable, if not reserved, scientist. Then his scientist friend, the much more buoyant, and potentially drunk, Dr. Victor Frankenstein, and his sister Elizabeth. There are also a few society people, like a beautiful young opera singer from Sweden by the name of Christine Daaé, and chatting in the corner are the two vampires I sensed when I walked in.
They both look up at me, one darkly handsome with a scowl on his face that would rival Brom’s, the other an elegant redhead wearing spectacles, sipping a glass of red wine. I recognize this man. He was with my vampire when I met him in New York.
“Yes, I thought it was you,” the redheaded vampire says, getting to his feet. “Ichabod Crane, isn’t it? We’ve met before. I’m Dr. Abraham Van Helsing.”
“Nice to see you again,” I tell him, staring down at his hand. I wouldn’t normally shake a vampire’s hand, but I know this one means me no harm. I clasp his, expecting him to compel me, but Van Helsing does nothing of the sort.