The waiter inclined his translucent head. “And you, madam?”
“I’ll have the Midnight Meringue,” Thorne said, without missing a note or looking up from her napkin.
The ghost met my gaze, winked, then floated off, humming something that sounded suspiciously like a waltz.
“Dare I ask how this ghost ended up running the café?”
“Who, Frederick?” Thorne did glance up this time, her eyes tracking the retreating ghost.
“His name is Frederick?”
“Well, Freddie. But yeah.” She resumed her doodling. “He died during the town’s first ball, oh some three centuries ago. Rumor is, he served a duke a stale pastry. Never recovered.”
“Tragic,” I murmured.
“Unforgivable,” Thorne agreed.
We both laughed, and it was the kind that made me feel good deep down inside. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d laughed like that.
Thorne was nothing like my so-called friends back in New Orleans. They were the sort who would compliment your necklace while calculating its resale value. And when the Laurent name imploded—courtesy of Trystan’s wandering fangs and financial idiocy—they’d dropped me faster than last season’s shoes. Scandal, after all, was contagious. And none of them wanted society to see them caught in the same orbit as a ruined heiress.
But Thorne? She didn’t run from my name or tiptoe around the broken pieces of my life. She just shoved a blood pastry into my hands and dragged me into her world with a smile on her face.
Freddie returned quickly with our orders, offering another bow before retreating inside. I took a sip and hummed my approval. I hadn’t had anything substantial to eat since arriving in Eternity Falls—and while vampires could last a few days between feedings, all the stress and anxiety had depleted my resources. But this tasted wonderful. And relief spread through my entire body.
Relief that only lasted for five seconds—because then came the approaching click of stilettos.
Stilettos, in my experience, were never good news.
I glanced up, and my brain immediately filed what I saw under “Trouble.”
Two women entered the café. One of them—in a razor-sharp blazer and heels sharp enough to perform minor surgery—walked in like the place belonged to her. The other followed a step behind, wearing combat boots with couture and a leather jacket that looked like it had seen battle.
Thorne froze mid-sketch.
“Oh no,” she muttered.
That didn’t bode well.
“Friends of yours?” I asked under my breath.
“Not even close,” she said. “Those are St. Germains. Lucien’s little sisters. The one in the blazer is Juliette, and the one who looks like she’s part of a biker gang is Evangeline.”
Aha.
Juliette inspected the patio until her gaze landed squarely on me. Then her lips curved, and it wasn’t into what I would call a kind smile.
Evangeline, who was stunning in a slightly feral sort of way, glanced at Thorne and cracked her knuckles.
Oh boy.
Juliette approached first, pausing beside our table with a practiced composure I recognized far too well. Her gaze raked me over—not with disdain, exactly, but more like curiosity. Almost like she was appraising a new piece of art and deciding how much it was worth.
Now this was the type of socialite behavior I grew up with.
“You must be Isadora Laurent,” she said.
I arched a brow. “Must I be?”
