I dabbed the corners of my eyes, trying to stop my tears before they fell. There was no way I was going to face Sabine Rousseaux with mascara running down my cheeks. I might have made a mistake coming here, but I didn’t for one second believe what she thought about me. I slipped my velvet opera gloves back on. Not being a vampire or a familiar, I didn’t need to wear them, but tonight I wanted to make something clear.
I had every right to be there.
Julian had chosen me, and I wouldn’t cower to Sabine or any other vampire that tried to intimidate me.
“Mademoiselle,” Philippe said from the front seat. “We’ve arrived.”
Peering out the window, I tried to get my bearings, but it was difficult because night had fallen. A limestone wall with a large iron gate blocked me from seeing where the driver was taking me. I didn’t honestly know what to expect. Jacqueline had given me more details about this evening while we picked my gown, but I hadn’t really heard a word she’d said. I’d been too preoccupied with the question she asked over tea.
Philippe opened my door and hovered nearby. Clearly, he didn’t want to risk Julian’s blood-rage by giving me his hand. I passed my Chanel clutch to him so I wouldn’t lose my balance as I stood. The shoes Jacqueline advised me to wear were dangerous. On the plus side, I could probably use one of the stilettos to stake a vampire if I needed to.
He passed my evening bag back to me when I was on my feet. “I will be nearby waiting.”
“You don’t have to do that,” I said with a frown. “I have no idea how long I’ll be.”
“Orders,” he explained.
Of course my overbearing boyfriend would demand he wait.
“I insist,” I said.
“Monsieur Rousseaux made things quite clear,” he said meaningfully.
He’d compelled him. Why didn’t that surprise me?
“At least eat something,” I muttered. Another car arrived and a few women spilled out from the back seat, dressed in red. Jacqueline told me I was expected to wear red this evening. I tried to convince her to let me pick another color, just to annoy Sabine, but she was firm on the matter.
The group made their way to the iron gate, and I followed at a close distance. In the end I’d asked Jacqueline not to come with me. I wanted to do this on my own. But I realized now I’d been too distracted to pay enough attention to her directions, I listened as one of the women spoke to an attendant waiting past the gate.
Unfortunately, she spoke in French.
Tonight was already off to a great start. I hurried behind them when the gate opened, but before I made it past, the attendant stopped me.
He asked me something in French, and I shook my head.
“Sorry,” I said apologetically. He narrowed his eyes.
“Family name?” he said in a thick accent.
I swallowed. “Melbourne.”
He studied his list. “I don’t have a Melbourne.”
“I’m a guest of Julian Rousseaux.”
His eyes flashed up. “I will need to check.”
“Sabine invited me,” I added.
“I see.” He flipped through his pages and paused to read something scrolled across the bottom in flawless calligraphy. “There you are.”
Something about the way he said it told me that whatever was written on that paper was far from pleasant.
“Please enjoy your evening,” he continued, his eyes scouring me like he was taking notes. “They will announce you at the entrance. You may wish to give the Rousseaux name.”
Because I was a nobody–by their standards.
I strolled through the brick courtyard. Part of me didn’t want to go in. The rest of me was learning how freaking hard it was to walk in heels on uneven ground. By the time I reached the front door, I knew what I had to do.
Another attendant dressed in a simple black gown greeted me. She was friendlier than the man at the gate, but probably only because I’d made it past the gate in the first place. “Name?”
I took a deep breath. “Thea Melbourne.”
“And you are a familiar?” she asked gently. “Is that your family name?”
“Yes, it is my family name, but no. I’m not a familiar. I’m a guest.”
She waited as if expecting me to say who my hostess was, but I simply smiled. She turned and called to the attendees visiting in the lounge. “Mademoiselle Thea Melbourne.”
Heads turned in my direction, but I kept my own high, looking over the tops of them. I didn’t need to know if they were gossiping or leering. Julian thought I was a queen? Acting like one couldn’t hurt. Not amongst this crowd.
“Thanks,” I said quietly, taking a step inside.
“Good luck,” she whispered.
When I made it past the entrance, I looked around. Nearly everyone had returned to their own conversations. Half of the women present wore red, and the other half wore white. The massive hall opened on either side into larger rooms. As my heels clicked against the black marble floor, I realized there were dozens of people present–if not hundreds. Crimson peonies were artfully arranged in silver vases and urns everywhere I looked. Their petals spilled open in lush, exotic blossoms that filled the air with their sweet fragrance.
“Thea!” A friendly voice called, and I turned, almost tripping over my own feet, to find Quinn Porter, the kind familiar from the night of the Blood Orgy, approaching me. Like me she was dressed in red, but she’d opted for a fitted pantsuit. Its jacket was buttoned at her waist. She wore nothing underneath. The effect was breathtaking.
