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“Oh?” My uneasiness increased. The high ceilings felt like they were lowering.
I crossed to the buffet to top off my glass, then stopped to study a painting. Over the years, Philippe had amassed an impressive collection of art he’d commissioned from artists ranging from Michelangelo to Warhol, all of which showed vampires with humans.
Vampires hunting humans. Vampires drinking. Vampires making love.
Instead of returning to the couch, I strolled from painting to painting until I was a few feet from the exit. I could almost feel Rafe listening on the other side.
I took another sip of wine, wondering if I dared leave.
Knowing I couldn’t.
I paused in front of a Degas. “I always liked this painting.”
Philippe came across the salon to stand by my side. “Ah, yes. The little dancer is so young and sweet,n’est-ce pas?”
“She is.”
The dancer was all soft and creamy-skinned in her pink tutu. She sat on a stage a little apart from the other dancers, tying the ribbons of her ballet shoes. A shadowy man watched from backstage—a vampire, hunting.
“She was a favorite of mine,” Philippe said. “It’s a shame that they leave us so soon.”
“That’s you?” I looked closer.
“Oui. I commissioned it myself from Degas.”
“It’s beautiful.”
“Mm. Sometimes,” he said, his gaze still on the dancer, “I forget how young you are. You still think in terms of a human lifespan, don’t you?”
I jerked a shoulder. “I suppose.”
“You’re good for us. For me, for your mother.”
“I am?” I turned my head to see if he was serious.
I’d only ever felt inferior around them both. I was too naïve, too unseasoned, too emotional. My sole purpose was as clay to be molded into the perfect successor to Victorine, and to one day produce another spawn to carry on the Tremblay line.
Philippe nodded. “Oh, yes. You remind us of what it is to be young, to feel strongly. But Zoe?” Dark eyes bored into mine. “A vampire isn’t a human. We live a long, long time. Love is for humans or the weak. In the end, power is the only thing worth having. The only thing that lasts.”
The trapped sensation had become almost unbearable.
What had Victorine told him? Did he know I’d left Montreal without her permission?
And why was he talking about love?
I licked my lips. “That’s what my mother says.”
“Ah.”
Atap-tapon the salon door made my nerves jangle. I tightened my fingers on the wineglass, certain it was Victorine.
“Entrez,” said Philippe.
I squared my shoulders and forced myself to face the door, but it was only Aubin.
“The pianist, m’sieur.” He gave her name, and she entered, a petite American in a blue evening gown.
Philippe introduced us and we chatted for a few minutes. The pianist was followed by a thrall in a flirty pink dress, who made a beeline for Philippe. He set a possessive hand on her ass and she smiled up at him.
