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We landed safely, and half the passengers applauded the pilot, which I always found weird. The flight crew had done exactly what they’d been hired to do—get us safely across the ocean. Would we have heckled the pilot if the plane had gone down?
I unbuckled my seat belt and stood, then picked up my bag and katana. The scabbard was the marbled green of malachite, the handle corded with silk of the same color. The blade was pristine, the edge so thin and sharp that even Muramasa himself, one of the masters of Japanese sword making, would have approved. It had been a gift from my mother for my eighteenth birthday, the first sharpened sword I’d been allowed to wield. And I had learned to wield it—to unsheathe it, to defend with it, to attack with it.
I was well trained, and I’d been in skirmishes before. But I’d never killed with it. I hadn’t seen violent death at all until the Eiffel Tower incident. Before then, I hadn’t seen empty and staring eyes—the visible proof of how quickly and ruthlessly life could be stolen. And I had a very bad feeling those memories wouldn’t fade as quickly.
The vampire seated in front of us rose and stretched, startling me from the memory.
He glanced around the plane, smiled in our direction. He was tall and lean, with taut, pale skin. His hair was silvery gray, his eyes pale blue and deep-set, topped by darker brows.
“Ladies,” he said in accented English. “Did you enjoy your flight? It is better than flying across the Atlantic on the wings of the bat, no?” His smile was halfway between smarmy and silly.
His name was Victor, and he was of the high-ranking vampires from Maison Chevalier, another House in Paris. Unlike Marion, who liked to think and consider, Victor was a politician all the way through. Strategic, as all vampires were, and skilled at getting his way. But he was honest about it, and seemed to always be smiling, so it was hard not to like him.
“Our arms would be so tired,” I said with as much smile as I could muster.
He grinned, pointed at me.“Exactement!”He pulled from a suit jacket a small box and flipped up the lid. A half dozen tinyand violently crimson macarons sat inside. “Would you care for a bite before we disembark?”
Seri shook her head. “No,merci.”
Blood-flavored macarons were all the rage among French vampires. I could deal with the flavor; I was a vampire, after all. But I didn’t like macarons even in the best of times. They were too indecisive. Were they candies? Cookies? I had no idea, and I didn’t like snacks that couldn’t commit.
“No, thank you,” I said with a smile.
“You may proceed,” the flight attendant said, allowing us to move toward the door. “Have a wonderful evening.”
Victor gave a little salute. “Ladies,au revoir. I will see you at the party.”
“Au revoir,”Seri said, and lifted a hand to him. “You really shouldn’t encourage him,” she murmured when Victor disappeared ahead of us.
“He’s charming in his way,” I said, following her into the aisle.
“You should not have laughed at the bat joke. He will believe he is a great comedian, and we will never be done with his attempts at humor. I don’t know if I can stand an immortality of it.”
“We will persist,” I said gravely. But his offer had me thinking—and worrying. “I didn’t bring any souvenirs for my parents. Maybe I should have bought macarons at the airport.”
“It is a rule,” Seri said, “that one should not buy gifts at an airport.”
“Okay, but which is more important? Buying gifts for your family at an airport, or showing up without gifts at all?”
She pursed her lips as she considered. “You should have bought macarons at the airport. But Chicago will be glad to have you home, macarons or not. You are the prodigal daughter returning!”
“I guess we’ll see about that,” I murmured, descended the steps, and breathed in the humid air of a Midwestern August.
• • •
I didn’t recognize the cluster of humans who waited on the tarmac at the bottom of the stairs, but they introduced themselves as members of the mayor’s staff. With apologetic and politic smiles, they explained delegates were arriving from all over the world, so the mayor simply couldn’t greet every sup personally.
Given she was human, I didn’t expect her to be literally in more than one place at a time.
A line of vehicles waited to take passengers and luggage to their respective hotels. Most were boxy and gleaming Autos that didn’t need drivers, and would have been preprogrammed to send us to our destination.
In front of them stood my parents.
My father, Ethan Sullivan, was tall and pale, with golden blond hair down to his shoulders that matched my own. As on most nights, he wore a black suit and a cool expression. That was the result of four hundred years of playing vamp politics and having to learn early on to ignore the details to focus on the primary goal: the survival of his House and the vamps who lived there.
My mother, Caroline Merit—just Merit to most—stood beside him in slim-fitting black pants and a simple pale blue top, her hair dark and straight, her face framed by bangs. Her eyes were pale blue, her nose straight, her mouth wide, and she was pretty in an elegant way.
My dad called her Duchess, which fit until you heard her curse like a sailor or do battle against nachos. There was nothing aristocratic about that or her fighting skills. Give a trained dancer a katana, and she’ll show you something spectacular. She now stood Sentinel for the House, a guardian for the organization and its Master.
