Juliette’s portrait hung next to mine, at her utmost request. It made sense, seeing as she idolized me. Before my mother had commissioned my sweet baby sister’s portrait, she would sit and study them for hours at a time, noting every imperfection, pointing out flaws with a smirk that only the youngest sibling could wear. Hers and mine were nearly identical in composition—same tilt of the jaw, same disdainful glint in the eyes. She’d always claimed it was the family resemblance, though I suspected she’d requested the painter mimic mine, just to irritate me.
Mine, of course, hung next to our father’s. A symbol of legacy and expectation. Personally, I loathed my image. My aristocratic nose and sharp jawline looked…fake. Juliette disagreed. She claimed I looked just as pompous in oil as I did in person.
Lovely little vampiress, my sister. It was her hobby to irk people.
I stepped inside the salon and immediately spotted my mother. Seraphina sat in a high-backed armchair, one she’d recently upholstered in blood-red velvet. She wore her typical affair—a smoke gray gown streaked with white high heels, and more jewelry than most people owned. Her golden-blonde hair was impeccable and her makeup flawless.
Appearances matter, Lucien, she would say to me when I was a child. It was her favorite mantra, and one she never let me forget.
“Ah, Lucien,” she said. “Finally.”
“Don’t sound so thrilled, Mother,” I said drolly. “People might think you missed me.”
Her ice-blue eyes flicked over me, assessing. Always assessing. “You look tired. Have you been feeding and sleeping properly?”
I sighed. “If I had a thorn for every time you’ve asked me that?—”
“You’d have a crown by now,” she cut in, finishing my father’s favorite sentence. “Which you should, by the way. You’re the face of the St. Germain legacy. Try to look the part, dear.”
“I don’t need to look the part. I am the part,” I said, slipping my hands into my pockets.
“Appearances—”
“Matter,” I said, finishing her sentence. “Yes, I know.” Time to change the topic. “The Veil is thriving, in case you were wondering.”
She hummed appreciatively. “Yes, that lounge of yours has become quite the proving ground. I hope you aren’t letting just anyone in, dear. We mustn’t mingle with commoners.”
“I’ve carefully cultivated my customer base,” I assured her. “My lounge sees more business deals than the council chambers these days. The witches send their daughters to be seen. Even the wolves have demanded entrance. I’ve allowed in a few, to show that I am a benevolent owner. But I’m careful about who I permit past my doors.”
“I trained you well,” my mother said, pride warming her voice. She swirled the bloodwine in her glass, then took another sip, careful not to spill so much as a drop. “But you need to tread carefully, too. The Veil is power, yes. But power attracts attention. Jealousy. Envy. Rivals.”
Yes, I remembered my childhood sermons well.
I grinned, flashing my fangs. “I welcome competition, if only so I can crush it. Gives me something to do.”
Seraphina chuckled. “You’ve certainly inherited your father’s ruthlessness.”
“And speaking of ruthlessness…” The voice drifted in from the doorway—cool, composed, and unmistakably my father’s.
Ambrose St. Germain strode into the room at his own pace, the way only men with absolute authority ever could. He wore a simple, unembellished black suit. Understated. Perfectly tailored. No lapel pin or cufflinks that sparkled. The stark opposite of my mother who tried to outshine herself every day.
Seraphina didn’t rise. She didn’t have to. Instead, she reached out a hand and simply waited for her husband to take it, which he did. He gave her fingers a squeeze, then continued to the sideboard across the room and poured himself a measure of bloodwine.
Glass in hand, he turned and faced me. “We have a new arrival in town.”
I quirked a brow. A new arrival? Seemed the clock tower was glowing purple for good reason.
“A Laurent,” my mother said, her expectant gaze landing on me.
Laurent… Why did I know that name? I scanned my memory, sifting through all the lineages my mother had made me memorize during my studies. Finally, awareness dawned. “As in the New Orleans Laurents?”
Seraphina’s smile sharpened. “Mmm. The very same. And not just any Laurent—Isadora. The daughter.”
“Didn’t she just—” I paused, the rest of the gossip slotting into place. “Ah. That Laurent.”
Ambrose sipped his bloodwine. “Word is she arrived alone. Bought that rotting bar off Hank Corvus.”
“She bought that place?” I laughed, short and sharp. “She won’t last long there.”
