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But instead, the danger had me revved.
I adjusted my mask and jogged up the mist-enshrouded steps into the heart of the Tremblay Coven.
The first floor had been transformed into a vampire’s lush, opulent speakeasy. Candles burned in the foyer’s crystal chandelier. Towering black vases of narrow red tulips rose like blood-tipped spears from the marble floor.
The ballroom’s double doors stood open. More candles flickered on the tables and in wall sconces. Vampires danced cheek-to-cheek with thralls—the males in tuxes, the females in tight, barely-there red dresses. The scent of all that warm human flesh kicked my blood hunger into high gear.
My stomach contracted. My fangs pricked against my gums.
“Your invitation, M’sieur?” A hard-faced Tremblay soldier in a black uniform held out a hand.
I swallowed and retracted my fangs under cover of removing the invitation from my breast pocket. The soldier examined the engraved card, then compared it to the list on his phone as his assistant patted me down for weapons.
“He’s clear,” said the assistant.
The soldier frowned at his phone and glanced again at me.
The seconds ticked by. I waited, outwardly at ease, even a little bored, but ready to run like hell.
If only I had a switchblade… But they would’ve just taken it from me anyway.
The soldier spoke. “Qui n’avance pas…” He stopped, cocked a brow.
Both men looked at me.
My heart thumped. My mouth dried.
It had to be a code. The final test.
I should’ve guessed the invitation alone wouldn’t be enough to get me in. I thought I knew the correct response, but I’d have only one chance to get it right.
“Recule,” I returned calmly, as if I had every right to be there.
“Qui n’avance pas, recule.”It was an old French proverb:Who does not move forward, recedes.
A curt nod. “Entrez.” The soldier waved a hand at the double doors.
I released a slow breath.Thank you, Mom.
By some strange coincidence, my New Orleans born-and-bred mother had loved that particular proverb. Her French grandmother had cross-stitched it on white linen, and my mother had had it framed and hung in our parlor. It meant something like:If you don’t keep trying new things, you’ll go backward instead.
Behind me, the soldier tested a new arrival with a different proverb, one I’d never heard in my life.
I smothered a smirk.Up yours, Victorine. I’m here, and the fun is about to begin.
In the ballroom, my gaze zeroed in on the Tremblay Prima, holding court in a blood-red dress, her hair coiled into a sleek black twist. Diamonds the size of a thumbnail glittered against the smooth white skin of her throat.
The devil in me wanted to saunter closer and do something outrageous, like ask her to dance. If it hadn’t been for Zaq, I might’ve.
Instead, I turned and lost myself in the crowd.
A server in a lacy red mask appeared with a tray of blood-wine. “Something to drink, m’sieur?” she asked in French.
The ruby-colored liquid shimmered darkly in the dim light. I took a glass and gulped it down. The fresh blood mixed into the wine hit my stomach like a contained explosion. Warmth spread through my veins, soaking into my parched cells, feeding my magic.
“More?” the server asked.
I nodded and accepted a second glass. This time, I forced myself to take measured sips as I scanned the crowd from behind my mask. Searching for my prey.
