by Chloe Neill
“No,” I said. “I’m working for Maison Dumas.”
His gaze shot up. “You’re what?”
“Mandatory service year. European vampires give a year of service to their Houses.”
“You aren’t a member of a European House.”
“I’m not. But Dumas housed me while I was in school, so I’m paying it back.”
He watched me for a moment, brows knit. “You’re volunteering for a year? That’s so unlike you, brat.”
I will not let him rile me up. “I told you a long time ago that I wasn’t spoiled.”
“You did,” Connor said with a sly smile. “But this is the first time you’ve had the evidence to back it up.”
“You’re hilarious.”
“That’s what the ladies say.”
I rolled my eyes. “Shifters supposedly have the pulse of the supernatural community. Are there any rumblings about the fairies? Murmurs about something they’re up to?”
“Rising fairy trouble?” he asked. “Aren’t you the one with the sociology degree?”
I was surprised he knew, and was flattered more than I’d have expected. “Have you been following my academic career, puppy?”
“Word filters down, brat,” he said, frowning at some bit of grime he couldn’t reach. “I haven’t heard anything specific, because we have a policy of noninvolvement. But there are some rumblings.”
“Of?”
“Unhappiness.” He unscrewed another part, cleaned that with the towel, screwed it back again. “Fear their magic is fading and they’re powerless to stop it. Fear they’ll end up like they were before—stuck in the tower.”
That matched Yuen’s thoughts. “And what do you think they plan to do about that? Based on what little you know, because of that policy of noninvolvement?”
He smirked at my dry tone. “You aren’t any funnier than you were before you left.”
“Agree to disagree. Answer the question.”
“But you’re just as bossy,” he said. “And I told you—it’s just rumblings. Feelings. I don’t know anything about plans. If we’d known, we’d have told your father before things started.”
“What about Ruadan?”
He looked up. “What about him?”
“He seems . . . intense.”
Connor didn’t answer, just met my gaze evenly, waiting for me to say more.
“He approached me at the reception, after the parade.”
“He approached you? A bloodletter?” This time he wasn’t being sarcastic, but seemed genuinely surprised.
“Yeah.”
Connor rose, put the towel on the counter, then looked back at me. “What did he want?”
“He asked me about how I’d managed to be born. I didn’t get into the details.”
“That’s weird.”
“It was.” I shrugged. “Riley stepped in, and Ruadan scurried off. Which was fine by me.”
Connor snorted a laugh. “Riley can play the badass when he wants to. I don’t know anything about Ruadan other than the fact that he’s Claudia’s consort.”
“Is he aiming for the throne?”
He lifted a shoulder. “Honestly don’t know. That must have been some conversation to get you this curious.”
“It’s not him,” I said. “Or not just.” Feeling suddenly impatient, I rose, walked to the counter, picked up a screwdriver, and tapped it against my palm. “It’s the fit they threw today. They decide there’s this deep conspiracy against them, but we give them a meaningless prize and they’re satisfied? As a strategy it doesn’t make much sense.”
“I’ll grant you it’s odd, but Claudia’s crazy.”
“So I’ve heard.” I put the tool down, leaned back against the counter, and crossed my arms.
Maybe Connor was right and there was nothing to this beyond a fading queen’s desire to matter, to have attention. That meant the talks would continue, the French delegation would be fine, and we might get peace in Paris.
“Maybe I’m just on edge,” I murmured.
“Shocking. You’re usually so calm and relaxed.” Connor tilted his head at me. “Why are you asking me these questions? Why not talk to your parents? Or the Ombudsman?”
“The deal with Cadogan House.”
“The deal with . . . Oh,” he said, realization hitting him. “Cadogan House is supposed to stay out of it.”
“That’s the theory. We talked to Yuen after the event, and he had the same thought you did—that maybe the fading magic has them concerned.” I shook my head. “I don’t know. I’ve been out of the loop for four years. Maybe I’m just trying to adjust to the new sup order.”
“You look different,” he said, and I thought I saw appreciation in his eyes. “Still a vampire, of course, but different.”
“Thanks for the evaluation.”
His thoughtful expression didn’t change. “You look happy.”
The comment—so unsnarky—threw me off a little. “I am.”
“Did you find what you were looking for in Paris?”
Another question that sounded legitimate—like he was actually interested in my feelings.
The answer, of course, was both simple and complicated. I lived, ate, slept. I walked cobblestone streets and tried macarons of every color (all of them equally gross), and no one knew who I was. For the first time in my life, I could figure that out—who I was—without an audience.
“I got to be myself,” I said after a moment.
“And who is that?”
“Elisa Sullivan,” I said, meeting his gaze again. “Not the daughter of someone else. Not the first child. In France, they didn’t care who I was.”
His brows lifted. “And here they cared too much?”
“You know how it was.” I didn’t want to get into that with him, so I changed the subject. “The wine, women, and song seem to have agreed with you.”
He grinned. “Wine, women, and song agree with a lot of people.”
I snorted. “That’s why there’s a trail of brokenhearted shifters behind you.”
“Yours may be vampires,” he said with a crooked grin, “but they’re just as brokenhearted. Are you staying in Chicago?” he asked before I could contradict him.
I shook my head. “Heading back after the talks. I have nine months left of service, and then we’ll see.”
“We’re leaving for Alaska in a few days.”
The North American Central Pack was headquartered in Memphis, where the Keene family was originally from. But Aurora, Alaska, was the spiritual home of all the North American shifter Packs.
“The Pack’s going back to Aurora?”
“Not the entire Pack. Just a group. I’m leading it. We’re doing well financially, but we’re feeling a little bruised after being in Chicago for so long. This city doesn’t recharge us. There’s too much steel, too much concrete, and too many people. The magic is diffuse. In Alaska, the magic is everywhere.”
That must have been what Berna was talking about. I lifted a brow. “Is this about running around naked in the woods?”
“That’s don’t ask, don’t tell. And, no. This is about feeling better, about healing. Our magic is worn down, literally. Scraped raw because we’ve been going, doing, fighting for so long. We aren’t as strong. We don’t heal as fast, even when we shift.”
There was concern in his tone, and I realized he actually looked stressed. Connor had always seemed content to play the prince, having the prestige of the throne without actually having to worry about the job. Maybe he was taking that more seriously, too.
“That sounds serious,” I said.
“It is. The trip’s necessary, so the Pack will ride—and be prepared to fight.”
I imagined a convoy of shifters in leather jackets, long hair streaming in the wind. Then I realized what h
e’d said. “Wait. To fight what? Road rash and sunburn?”
“There are conversations the Pack needs to have with sups outside Chicago’s city limit. Incidents that need to be dealt with in person. Those conversations are necessary, but they aren’t with allies, and some will take place in enemy territory.” He gestured to Thelma. “But there are upsides.”
“Then I’ll let you get back to it. Thanks for the time, and good luck with Thelma.”
“Thanks. Maybe I’ll bring her out tonight. Give your fanged people a thrill.”
I glanced back. “My fanged people?”
“The Cadogan House party. I’m expected to put in an appearance.”
“Ah. Maybe encourage your friends to skip the leather.”
“Shifters will be shifters,” he said with a grin. “And it is a formal occasion.”
As I walked back through the building toward the waiting Auto, I realized it was the probably the longest real conversation I’d ever had with Connor Keene.
* * *
• • •
Back to the hotel, and it would soon be time to get dressed and prepare for the next round of service to Dumas. For the party, and for Cadogan House.
But before that, I needed a break. Too many supernaturals and too much magic had me on edge, was wearing down the edges of my immunity against the monster. My hand had shaken when I’d pushed the button on the elevator, and I’d clenched my fingers into a fist so the humans I’d shared it with didn’t think I was about to attack.
I checked in with Seri to confirm everyone was on schedule, then changed into leggings and a tank and sat down on the floor to stretch.
It had taken me a few years to find nighttime yoga classes that I liked and that gave me what I didn’t know I’d needed: focus. Vinyasa, which focused on breath and flow from one pose to the next, worked for me. The practice made me stronger, more limber, and it helped me keep myself—and the monster—in check.
Still on the floor, draped so my nose touched my knees, I closed my eyes, waited for my limbs to warm, to loosen.
The drumming came suddenly, a warning played out in throbbing magic, and I fought it, sweat glistening over skin as I pushed against the intrusion. I began to move into poses, some in which my body was stretched, some in which my body was compressed. That required fluidity as I shifted from one pose to another, the movements between as precise as the poses themselves, as that was the hallmark of vinyasa.
An hour later, I was sweaty and exhausted. But my mind was quiet, and the drumming had stopped.
For now.
* * *
• • •
The snack and shower that followed had me nearly back at one hundred percent. I dressed, fancying myself up in the way of vampires.
Physically, I was turned out pretty well. My dress, found at a Paris consignment shop, was the color of emeralds, a sheath of bias-cut silk from the narrow halter-style top to the floor-skimming hem. It looked like the dress of a heroine from a 1940s mystery, worn to a fancy party where she’d pull a tiny, pearl-handled gun from her purse.
I paired the dress with strappy sandals in a metal that was halfway between silver and gold, and opted to pin my hair back into a knot, leaving a few waves loose around my face.
I liked feeling the weight of it on my shoulders—familiar, and almost like a cape of my own—but this dress deserved something more.
When I was assembled, my clutch and katana scabbard in hand, I locked up and headed to Seri’s room. The guards at the door checked my identification, nodded, and let me in.
Seri stood in the middle of the room on a flat box while Odette, on her knees with a pin in her mouth, worked at the hem of Seri’s gown.
If my dress was old-school American glamour, Seri’s was French avant-garde. The skirt was long and straight, with a slit in the front that rose to the top of her thighs. There was a navel-baring bodice with mesh sleeves that started below her shoulders, leaving them bare. Her hair was piled up in a complicated braid around a silver diadem, and the same black mesh reached from the bottom of the band to the top edges of her sleeves, enclosing her face in a strange, cocooning veil. Her earrings were drops of diamonds long enough to brush the tops of her shoulders, and her eyes were dark and smoky.
“Lis!” she said, pressing her hands together with excitement. “You look exquisite. What do you think of this?”
“It’s . . . amazing,” I said, and walked closer, then around her. The fabric shimmered with even the slightest movement, so it looked like Seri had been draped in a starlit night.
“I am so glad we decided on the green,” she said, swearing in French when Odette stabbed her with a pin.
“Sois immobile!” Odette said through her teeth, then pulled out the pin. “If you do not move, I do not prick you.”
“She is a thorny rose,” Seri said, sighing with relief when Odette sat back on her heels, surveyed her work.
“It will do,” she said.
“Merci,” Seri said, stepping off the platform and giving the dress a spin. “It is beautiful, no?”
“It really is. Won’t the veil thing get irritating?”
Seri laughed. “The ensemble is worth a bit of irritation.”
“You look very vampiric,” I said. “And very French.”
She smiled. “Perhaps I will find a strong American vampire to teach me a thing or two.”
“I wouldn’t mention that to Marion. Are you ready to go?”
“Finishing touches,” Odette said, adjusting the veil and fit of Seri’s dress across the shoulders. Then she stood back, put her hands on her hips, and surveyed her creation.
“You are ready,” she pronounced. And that was that.
* * *
• • •
Where downtown Chicago had become sleeker, Hyde Park had stayed pretty much the same. But several of the older homes and mansions had been renovated and rejuvenated, because peace brought new cachet to living next to vampires.
Cadogan House looked the same as it had four years ago. A big, stately stone building with an arch over the front door and a widow’s walk crowning the top, in the middle of a gorgeous lawn big enough to be a park. There was a tall fence around the perimeter, a new guard house at the gate.
It had been my home for nineteen years. I loved the building and the park that surrounded it, and I loved my parents and the other House vampires who’d become part of my supernaturally extended family. But I’d been ready to move on when I’d left for Paris, and leaving the fortified House had been part of that. I’d proven to myself that I could make it on my own. And coming home again made the House seem somehow smaller.
Paparazzi waited outside the fence, but there were plenty of guards to keep them away from the gate. They were positioned every few feet, and I guessed they had repeated that precaution all the way around the House. Unlike vampires, the humans opted for guns, and there were matte handguns strapped to their waists.
Our Autos rolled to a stop in front of the gate. A tuxedoed guard with a clipboard approached the first Auto, opened the door, and checked their credentials, then assisted Marion onto the red carpet.
Seri squeezed my hand. “The House is lovely,” she said. “Just as you’d described.” She leaned forward to look out the window, take in the white lanterns that hung like moons over the cocktail tables that dotted the front lawn. The tables were decked with flowers. Servers bore trays of appetizers and crystal flutes of golden champagne in the balmy August air, beneath a brilliant waxing moon. Even in the vehicle, I could hear the hum of music from a jazz band, probably on the other side of the House.
Our Auto pulled up into the spot vacated by Marion’s car, and the guard with the clipboard approached.
“Name?” he asked, giving me a pleasant smile.
“Elisa Sullivan, Seraphine, and guests.”
The guard h
ad been looking down at a clipboard, and his head snapped back up quick enough.
“Yes, I’m their kid,” I said with a smile. “We’re here for the party.”
“Of course,” he said, and stepped aside, offering a hand as I stepped out of the car and onto the sidewalk. The song grew louder, and the scents of wine and food and perfume added notes to the air.
When we were all out of the vehicle—eight vampires in assorted red-carpet wear—he stepped aside and gestured grandly toward the sidewalk. “Have a lovely evening.”
“Thank you.”
Shutters began clicking, screens pointed in our direction as the paparazzi caught the scent of blood, and they focused on Seri. She had an amazing way of seeming to ignore them while presenting exactly the right angle to their cameras, just the right expression of not caring and demanding their attention. She worked the dress, too, using her shoulders and hips and legs to show off its strange angles before sashaying toward the gate, Odette trailing behind her. There was a definite gleam in Seri’s eye when she reached me.
“There is a time for politics,” she said, “and a time for beauty.”
I nodded, ignored the quickening of my heartbeat, the magical anticipation that rode beneath the skin. There was also a time for confrontation. And I had a feeling it would be sooner rather than later.
* * *
• • •
Paris was beautiful, and Maison Dumas was gorgeous. But there was something to be said for Cadogan House in late summer, when the trees were full, the air smelled of smoke and meat, and the lawn glimmered with torches. The House’s lawn was enormous, big as a park with walking trails, copses of trees, and benches placed just so to take advantage of the views. Vampires from more than a dozen countries were enjoying the balmy air, walking across the soft grass with champagne flutes in hand as jazz filled the air, accompanied by the heady scent of August flowers.
“First,” Seri said, “a drink.” She glanced around the lawn. “Ah!” she said, and pointed toward a waiter with a silver tray. But when she began to walk in his direction, and I obediently moved to follow her, she stopped and held up a hand.
