“She has nothing and nowhere else to go,” my mother commented while inspecting her lethally sharp black nails. “She broke her mate bond in front of half of New Orleans after catching the degenerate with his pants around his ankles and fangs buried in some debutante’s inner thigh?—”
“Thank you for that image, Mother,” I muttered, pinching my brow. But secretly, I was impressed.
Few, if any, broke a mate bond. Doing so was dangerous and quite painful from what I’d heard. It also took a great deal of courage to sever such an intimate bond, let alone in front of society. Most wouldn’t risk humiliation. Even when betrayed, they clung to the bond—out of pride, fear, or some misguided sense of destiny. But she’d severed hers, and in front of witnesses, no less. It spoke to her character and sense of self-worth.
Ambrose made a low sound—almost a laugh, though he rarely wasted breath on anything as common as amusement. “The fallout made quite the ripple. The social houses in New Orleans are still talking about it.”
Seraphina nodded, swirling her glass. “And now their precious little exile has landed here. Alone. Disgraced. And, if the whispers are true, determined to rebuild that horrendous business.”
Ambrose took another measured sip, then set his glass down with a quiet click.
“And that,” he said, “we cannot allow to happen.”
I straightened slightly. “You’re worried about a disgraced heiress with a bankrupt surname and a haunted bar?”
“I’m concerned,” he said, voice low and precise, “about the spectacle she brings with her. The scandal. The whispers. The attention. We’ve worked centuries to cultivate our place in this town. One Laurent chasing redemption could undo it all.”
I highly doubted that.
Seraphina nodded. “Our town works because it’s balanced and comfortable. The status quo never changes. The townspeople know what to expect. But this girl?”
“She’ll draw attention,” Ambrose butted in. “And more than that—she’ll draw sympathy. Pity. If she manages to get that bar up and running, people will flock to her. Because she’s a sad case with a moving cause.”
Ah, there it was. The real reason they were bringing this to my attention.
“If people flock to her, she’ll become competition for The Veil,” I finished, mouth curving without humor. “And we can’t have that.”
“No,” Ambrose agreed, his tone final. “We can’t.”
He crossed the room slowly and stopped in front of me. “She has a difficult road to traverse. It isn’t as simple as buying a business and opening the doors, as you’re well aware. She’ll need permits, licensing, renovations. All that requires clearance from the council.” My father sighed. “It will come down to a vote, and when it does, I can assure the St. Germains vote against her.”
“But the Ravenspells?” Seraphina murmured, arching a brow. “They have a fondness for lost causes. They might find her…charming.”
“And the Wolfes would vote in her favor simply to piss us off,” I muttered.
Ambrose gave a single nod. “Exactly. Which means we cannot assume the vote will fall in our favor. If she rallies support, if she plays the underdog well enough, she might win. And if she does?—”
“She opens that bar,” I said, jaw tightening. “And every social climber, misfit, and novelty-seeker goes running to her instead of The Veil.” And I lose my leverage. My power.
Seraphina studied me over the rim of her glass. “Are you prepared to let that happen?”
Never. It’d taken me years to cultivate The Crimson Veil into what it now was. I refused to risk my power base, all because of a disgraced heiress.
I stared into the flames a moment longer, then smiled—slow, sharp, and full of teeth. “Perhaps it’s time I meet this Miss Laurent. And explain to her in great detail why it might be better if she leaves town.”
Chapter
Three
ISADORA
Eternity Falls looked quite different in the daylight—or rather, what passed for daylight here. A thin mist clung to the surrounding hills, draping the town in a soft gray shroud. It was miserable. And cold. But you know what? It suited my mood after the hellish night I’d had.
I’d never before suffered anything quite so bad as that wretched thing. Coiled springs and lumps poked and prodded me all night.
Of course, that hadn’t compared to the ghosts. The freaking ghosts.
They’d been deceptively quiet for the first half of the night, but the second I’d foolishly settled in for the evening, they’d decided to stage a damn midnight opera, complete with footsteps, howling voices, and flickering lights.
