Page 145 of Eternal Obsession

“Do you need a drink?”

“The suspense . . .”

“I am going to show you a photograph of Orpheus, otherwise known as Daumia Velde. See here.”

Blake viewed the photograph. “Okay, a snapshot of one of our suspects on the opening of his club in Belgravia.”

“And now this.” Ingrid handed Blake the black-and-white newspaper cutting.

Blake leapt up. “No way! Tampered with?”

“The lab tells me it’s authentic.”

“That’s the same man, but he’s dressed in 1930s garb and standing next to⁠—”

“Sir Winston Churchill.”

Blake went pale. “Okay, I definitely need that drink now.”

Chapter Sixty

ORPHEUS

Of what do mortals dream when vampiric blood races through their veins, quickening their souls and magnifying their senses?

I couldn’t wait to find out.

Waiting for her colleague to leave, I had chosen my moment to enter Ingrid’s flat. She slept deeply on her sofa, watched by me. “You’re dreaming again,” I said, waking her.

Ingrid sat up with a jolt. “It’s you!”

“I’m flattered you remember me.”

“Orpheus,” she hissed my name in panic.

She wore PJs, only the material was insubstantial, the fabric clinging as though it had been made to betray her. Whatever innocence it suggested was undone by her expression, sharp, deliberate, and uniquely brave.

She knew what and who I was.

She jumped up from the couch and headed for her bedroom. She banged her door shut.

“Are we safe now?” I whispered from behind.

Ingrid whirled around.

I bore down on her, my gaze threatening. “Déjà vu.”

Ingrid pushed past me, running to the far side of her bedroom. She searched for something, anything that could be used as a weapon.

“Shall I help you look?” I said.

Ingrid tried to gain composure. “What the hell are you doing here? What do you want?”

“I’m here to wish you happy birthday!”

“It’s not my birthday⁠—”

“Oh, but it is.” I approached her, glaring.