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We took the Metro north to Montmartre. The white domes of Sacré-Coeur Basilica perched above us, its wide steps crammed with tourists enjoying the view of Paris and the informal, never-ending party: a fire-eater swallowing a blazing torch, hawkers selling statuettes of the Eiffel Tower. A busker played a mournful blues on a shiny saxophone.
According to Zoe, Le Sang Bleu was a seedy club for unaffiliated vampires in nearby Pigalle, tolerated by the Paris Syndicate but not under their protection. We had similar clubs in Kral territory for vampires who weren’t affiliated with a syndicate. My father couldn’t allow them to roam the streets, feeding off nonconsenting humans, but he didn’t allow just anyone into our private speakeasies, either.
Zoe’s phone buzzed, Philippe responding to her text. She showed me the message, telling her to come by any time after two a.m. “We still have time to feed,” she said. “It’s not even midnight.”
We were in. My pulse sped up.
“I’m going with you.”
Her sooty black brows snapped down. “You can’t.”
I thought uneasily of Tomas’s directive not to do anything before hearing from my dad. But Father had raised us to think for ourselves, and this might be my only chance to spring Zaq.
“Not as myself,” I said. “But you’ve seen my glamours. Philippe will never know it’s me.”
“He won’t let me bring in a stranger.”
“Then I’ll go as someone from your syndicate.”
“He’ll know it’s you the minute you open your mouth.” She shook her head. “I’m sorry, but you’ll have to let me do this alone.”
“Mm,” I said, my mind working overtime. Zoe was right…unless I changed my appearance to someone Philippe wouldn’t expect to speak.
“Mm?” She slanted me a suspicious look. “What does that mean?”
I gave her a lopsided smile. “It means I’m thinking. I’ll let you know what I come up with.”
“You’re not coming in,” she said in that cool, you-must-obey-me voice.
But I wasn’t one of her underlings, and frankly, that tone just made me hot.
I curved a hand around her nape and pulled her close for a slow, tongue-tangling kiss. “We’ll see.”
Her eyes were dark and beautifully hazy from the kiss, but she still managed to roll them. “Are you always this obstinate?”
I grinned. “Yeah.”
* * *
Pigalle was a hipper, seedier version of Montmartre, with strip clubs and smoky bars squeezed into cramped buildings next to small, family-owned taverns.
As we turned up a narrow, winding street, a skinny female in a short skirt latched onto my bicep. “Lap dances for twenty euros.” She urged me in the direction of a sketchy-looking club. “Very good. Professional.”
“No, thanks.” I shook her off and kept going.
She came at me again, this time clamping onto my arm with both hands. “You are so handsome, m’sieur. It will be a pleasure.”
I expelled a breath. That’s what I got for using a glamour—the humans thought I was one of them.
Beside me, Zoe had her lips pressed together, trying not to laugh.
“No,” I said firmly.
“You will like. Very much.” The would-be lap dancer tried to pull me through the club’s door.
“Enough.” I dropped my glamour long enough to bare my fangs. “I saidno.”
“Pardon. Pardon.” She scurried back into the safety of the bar.
