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“But I’m glad I’m a dhampir. Hell, what’s so great about being a vampire? The purebloods can’t go out in the day like we can or have more than one kid. Those spawn that beat on me and my brothers were jealous because they were only children, and we had each other. So what’s so fucking good about being a vampire?”
On the wall, Reaper’s fingers curled into a fist. She shook her head without looking at me. I had to strain to hear her words.
“You don’t understand. I don’t want to be a vampire. I want to be a human. Like my mom.”
11
RIDLEY
I stood with my back to the wall of Philippe Moreau’s public salon. The dimly lit room was crowded with gorgeous people sipping his expensive wine and flirting in multiple languages.
Servers in skimpy red dresses wove their way through the crowd with hors d’oeuvres for the humans and hand-made chocolates infused with blood-wine for the vampires. Across the salon, an up-and-coming band from Senegal played a sexy French dance-club song. A handful of couples swayed to the music.
So this was one of Moreau’s famous parties.
At least I hadn’t been forced to attend as a guest.
No, I was working security, decked out in a trim black uniform with a Paris Syndicate griffin embroidered over my left breast. My job was to steer guests—“Gently,” Aubin had stressed as if he doubted my ability to figure that out on my own—away from the door to my right which opened to a servant’s staircase leading down to Moreau’s private apartment.
A man—a human—stopped a few feet away and lit a hand-rolled cigarette. His dark gaze traveled down my body.
“What’s a woman so bella doing in a uniform? You should be in a beautiful dress. Like her.” He nodded at a server.
I awarded him full points for a lame come-on. And he leaked emotions: lust, greed, anticipation.
I sighed, wishing I could disappear into the black wallpaper along with the griffins and snakes. Instead, I summoned my best death-stare. “I don’t serve.”
He dragged on the cigarette and stared at my breasts. “When’s your break?”
“I don’t get one.” My tone dared him to keep pushing. In my current edgy state, kicking his pretty ass out of the mansion would be a pleasure.
He ran a finger down my arm. “I think you are lying.”
Okay, now he’d pissed me off. I was in uniform, clearly not one of Moreau’s playthings. I let my eyes flash blue and faked a knee to his balls.
His eyes widened and his Adam’s apple worked. He backed up a few steps.
“A pity,” he sneered from a safe distance and disappeared into the crowd.
My shoulders had crawled up to my ears. I rolled them in a circle, cracked my neck.
Two women sauntered up in tight, throat-baring dresses. They glanced at my uniform and dismissed me as unimportant.
“I hear the real action is on the lower levels,” the taller woman said in French to her companion. They exchanged sly smiles and moved toward the door.
“Non.” I stepped in front of them. “That’s private. Interdit.”
The tall woman’s mouth tightened. She kept walking like she was going to mow me down. I rolled my eyes and grabbed her arm, preparing to twist it behind her skinny back.
Her friend gripped her other arm. “You want to get us thrown out? This woman, she’s one of them. Now, come.”
The woman looked back at me. This time she saw me. Her eyes widened. “Pardon.”
I grunted and released her arm. She backed away, and the two made a beeline through the crowd to the opposite side of the room.
I retook my stance next to the door, hands clasped behind my back.
Two days since I’d last been to Zaq’s cell.
