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CHAPTER TWO

Paris, 1785

THE PERILOUS JOURNEY THROUGH knee-high snow ended when a rider galloped alongside Viviane. He literally swept her into his arms to sit before him on the horse’s withers.

The warmth emanating from his thighs and chest told her that he was mortal. The desire to bite him did not rise. All that mattered was getting warm and shaking the feeling into her left foot. A hasty “merci” spilled from her lips.

“The sun will beat us if we do not hurry,” he said.

How could he know the sun would prove her bane? “Who are you?”

“They call me the Highwayman. I know you are not human.”

“But you are.”

“Not like most humans, though.”

They made Paris as the sun traced the horizon, and he left her at her patron’s home.

As she entered the warmth of the marble-tiled foyer, Viviane tumbled into Henri Chevalier’s arms. Shivering and sniffing tears, she took a moment to glance outside. The Highwayman had heeled his mount down the cobblestones toward the pink sunrise, his leather greatcoat flapping out like wings.

She dropped the pistol in her pocket and listened to it clatter to the floor.

“Viviane, what has happened? Where is the carriage?”

“Uh …” Pulled into Henri’s welcoming hug, she melded against her patron’s body. Henri was all muscle and hard lines and smelled like cedar and lavender. “The Highwayman found me.”

“I’ve heard the legend. He is a good man.”

“Like us?”

“No, but immortal. He’s no grouse against vampires— but rather demons—fortunately for you. We didn’t expect you until tomorrow evening.”

“Henri? Oh, dear.” Henri’s wife, Blanche, touched Viviane’s shoulder where wolf blood stained the fabric.

Two years earlier while in Paris on an annual visit to her patron, Viviane had met Blanche and decided to like her. The petite blonde stood like a bird next to Henri’s towering build. She gave to Henri the one thing he had never asked of Viviane—intimacy.

“Have the maid boil water and fill the bath,” Henri directed his wife. “And draw the curtains in the guest room. Quickly!”

It felt decadently blissful to nuzzle against Henri’s chest and cling to the heavy brocade robe that hung upon his broad shoulders. He must have been preparing for sleep. He always did greet the dawn in his dark bedchambers. Vampires required a quarter as much sleep as a mortal did.

“The carriage tending me here … broke a wheel three leagues out,” Viviane whispered. Exhausted and starving, she could but speak in gasps. “A wolf … killed the coachman.”

“And you managed to escape?”

“I … broke the animal’s neck.”

Henri’s chuckle rumbled against her cheek. “I should not doubt it.”

“It was a werewolf.”

“Ah?”

She knew well he held no resentment toward werewolves, unlike most vampires. Henri did not take sides, nor did he hate—unless given reason.

He toed the pistol. “Not yours.”

“Belonged to the driver, who is dead. Sacre bleu, Henri, I did not wish to harm the beast, but I prefer life over mauling.”

“Pity the man—or beast—who forces Viviane LaMourette to do anything. You are fortunate the Highwayman happened along.”

He kissed her cheek and carried her up the curving marble stairs to the guest room. Half a dozen candles glowed upon a writing desk. Two mortal maids—enthralled by their master—bustled about, pouring boiling water into the copper tub. White linen lined the tub; a frill of lace dancing along the hem dusted the floor.

Before Henri could set her on the bed, Viviane clutched his robe. “I’m unsure if I can wait until you rise later.”

He nodded and instead of setting her down, carried her into his bedchamber. Blanche, with but a nod from her husband, whispered, “Bonjour” and took her leave, closing the door behind her.

“I shouldn’t wish to impose upon her,” Viviane said, as Henri set her on the bed. Leaning back onto her elbows, she spread out her hands, crushing the decadent silk bed linens between her fingers.

“It is not an imposition. Blanche will sleep in her private chambers this morning.”

Shrugging off the robe, Henri then tugged the gauzy night rail over his head and dropped it onto the bed to stand in but chamois underbreeches. Built like a Roman gladiator, the man’s broad shoulders never did align straight across. He’d broken his collarbone decades earlier after falling from a cliff in Greece and it had never healed properly. It gave him little worry, but he did wince when raising his left arm over his head.

He stretched out on the black-and-gold-striped chaise longue positioned before the hearth fire.

Viviane found her place and nestled beside him, chest to chest, kissing his cheek.

“I’ve missed you,” she admitted. It had been five or six months. “Have you gained another line near your eyes? You are such a handsome man, Henri. So kind to me. I can never thank you for the freedom you have given me.”

“Then do not speak,” he said. “Take what you need.”

Candle glow licked teasingly upon Henri’s neck. Viviane tongued his flesh, then pierced skin and the thick, pulsing vein to slake the thirst she could only satisfy with Henri, her patron, a friend and mentor, but never her lover.

He was, quite literally, her lifeline. Without him she would be lost.

Two weeks later …

VIVIANE LANGUISHED IN THE SPA. Henri called the room a tepidarium after the Roman baths he’d once enjoyed in Greece. The stone floor was always warm due to an underground pipe system. Istrian tiles lined the walls and glossy crimson squares glinted amongst the pearly white squares. A constellation of crystals set in a white iron candelabrum reigned over the round pool, which was as wide as Viviane’s length should she float across it.

She visited Henri twice yearly, and did like to spoil herself amidst the luxuries of his home.

A map room appealed to her desire for knowledge, though she could not read the words, only trace the snaking rivers and marvel over the shapes of so many countries. The spa and music room strummed her sensual ribbons. Viviane devoured all things sensory and erotic. She was a woman, after all, and would not be kept wanting. Men overwhelmingly agreed, and when she desired pleasure, she took it.

Seven bedchambers, a ballroom and a twelve-stall stable told the world Henri Chevalier could afford anything he desired. Yet he would never be so conceited as to state it himself. Flaunting one’s riches was considered lewd.

Blanche generously shared her wardrobe, and kept an entire room devoted to shoes. By delicious coincidence, Viviane wore the same gown and shoe size as her patron’s wife.

Viviane’s home in Venice was as richly decorated, but it was old. Most furnishings had been acquired in the sixteenth century, and were in desperate need of reconditioning. The plaster walls were cracked and water seeped in the north entry hugging the canal.

Alas, those repairs would never be made. Viviane kept her current financial condition close to heart. It was not dire, but could become so if she did not invest properly, and soon. Pity, the last notaire who had invested well for her had died of sudden blood loss.

Sometimes she simply could not control her hunger, especially when sated by a handsome young man.

Ah, but she had survived alone two centuries; she would beg no man for help now.

And no Casanova vampire lord would entice her to change those principles of independence with the suggestion of marriage. It mattered little that Henri had last evening suggested his approval for the union, if and when Lord de Salignac put forth the offer.

Viviane had attended the Salon Noir twice since arriving in Paris. The Salon Noir mirrored Marie Antoinette’s court with lavish clothing, jewels, courtly titles and decadence, save the attendees were vampires, werewolves, demons and other Dark Ones. Faeries from the Sidhe nation, and a familiar or two, attended in fewer numbers. The Light—the witches—kept away due mainly to their differences with the vampires. The vampires did not mind at all since witch’s blood was poisonous to them.

If you were dressed well, and not human, it was a given you’d been invited to the Salon Noir.

During her second visit to the salon, Constantine had been preoccupied with his patroned kin until she had sashayed past him. She had heard the thud of a woman’s backside hit the marble floor as Constantine pushed her from his lap and sauntered after Viviane.

When Constantine de Salignac walked through a room, all eyes followed his regal lift of chin, those steely gray eyes that saw things before everyone else, that compressed mouth, which could utter a biting jest, or indeed, bite.

Being a tribe leader, Lord de Salignac was expected to populate his tribe with bloodborn vampires. That was possible when a child was born to two vampires. So he blooded mortal women recently transformed to vampire in hopes they would be able to carry his child. It was a long process that could take years before the new kin could even conceive.

Viviane did not care to be another woman feathering his elaborate damask-and-gold nest.

As well, vampire lovers were risky. Most insisted on sharing the bite, which was a means of bonding to one another through the blood. Taking another vampire’s blood was something she had reserved, as most did, for one exquisite relationship that would bond them both in body and blood. It was not to be considered lightly.

Dragging her fingertips over the opalescent bathwater, Viviane sighed and dismissed the dread thoughts. The bath was two parts water, one part milk. Wine and mulled spices had been stirred into the exotic witch’s brew.

Portia, Blanche’s maid, popped her head inside the circular tepidarium. “What is your opinion, mademoiselle? Is the scent not divine?”

“Devastatingly indulgent,” Viviane drawled. “You were quite right regarding my pleasures, Portia. How is it you know so much about what will please a woman when you’ve led a subservient life?”

“Fantasies, my lady.” Portia winked, and dismissed herself.

Viviane wondered if Blanche would allow her to abscond with Portia when finally she returned to Venice. The attentive maid was a prize to hoard.

Viviane had skipped the Versailles soiree Blanche had pleaded she attend. Seeking the king’s eye, and Queen Marie Antoinette’s favor, interested her little. The gossip Blanche would report upon their return would suffice.

Stretching her arms about the curved marble pool, she closed her eyes. Tilting her hips, she let her legs float to the surface. Her toes popped up in the milky sheen, a string of pebble islands.

An acrid taste suddenly stung her throat. She pressed a hand to her chest and coughed.

That was odd. She wasn’t ill. Vampires rarely contracted a human malady. Must be the intense scent of the spices.

A convulsion in her gut forced up a hacking cough. A bead of crimson expanded on the white surface before her.

“What …?”

She touched her lip. Blood painted her fingers. Now she tasted it in her mouth, metallic and hot.

A spike of feverous heat clenched her heart. Sucking in a breath, she slapped her palms on the water. More blood eddied up her throat. She tried to call for Portia but, wrenched forward by the sudden sharp pain in her chest, her head plunged under the milky surface.

Viviane swallowed the odious blend. Surfacing, she choked up another throat-burning spasm. Blood swirled into the white.

She felt a stabbing pain at her breast.

“Portia!”

Thrusting her naked body aside, she landed on the ceramic-tiled floor. Heaving blood, she cried out as the pain ceased.

Three leagues west of Paris, en route to Versailles

THE STAKE BURST HIS HEART. Henri stumbled, groping at the thick wooden dowel. His attacker growled and slashed talons across his throat. Blood choked into his mouth and blurred his vision as he collapsed before the carriage. In eyesight lay Blanche, her head severed from her neck. Crimson spattered her blond ringlets.

The werewolf who had charged the carriage, leaping to grab the coachman from his post, stomped his paw on Henri’s head, crushing it into the soft mud.

NO FUNERAL WAS HELD FOR EITHER Henri Chevalier or Blanche. A team of four vampires had been dispatched to clean the scene of assault before dawn and collect the vampire ash. The carriage was burned. The ash was thrown into the Seine.

According to rumor, a werewolf had murdered the couple.

Viviane did not attend the Salon Noir for weeks. But though her heart ached for her patron she was not a woman to dwell in sadness.

Now, more than ever, she must be vigilant for her own future.

CHAPTER THREE

THE HôTEL DE SALIGNAC SAT at the west end of the Tuileries on the rue Saint-Honoré. Tonight the four-story town palace’s cobbled fore-courtyard boasted carriages parked tail to head. A blazing touchier, brandished by an iron Aphrodite, held reign center courtyard to welcome the Dark Ones.

It was rumored Lord de Salignac privately entertained the queen and her ladies on occasion. Marie Antoinette was said to be particularly fond of Salignac’s aviary, ill contained as it was. The birds had the run—or rather flight—of the palace.

Moving through the ballroom, Rhys Hawkes took in the faces. Among the crowd, the vampires were easy to spot. Pale flesh was not the most obvious giveaway—for mortals used cosmetic powder to achieve the same effect—but rather the imperious lift of nose as they practiced their ill-gotten aristocratic airs.

Rhys was thankful he’d not developed the snobbish mannerism innate to Parisian vampires, though at times like this he realized it best he at least adopt an air so he did not draw the sort of attention he abhorred—disdain.

He did not sense any wolves in attendance, besides his companion Orlando, and that put Rhys ill at ease. The Salon Noir was a sort of safe ground for all breeds of Dark Ones to gather, but Rhys knew well vampires had an irritating manner of labeling werewolves animals and claiming themselves the civilized breed of Dark Ones. As well, find a werewolf eager to embrace a vampire and you’d find an omega wolf ostracized from the pack.

He would stay so long as required to sniff out any suspicious sorts.

Two vampires had been murdered a fortnight earlier east of Versailles.

Rhys had been recruited by the Council, which had representatives from all the paranormal nations, to discover the culprit and the reason behind the heinous act. He would be accepted as a seated Council member after he’d solved the mystery. Field investigation was a lowly assignment, but he didn’t mind. A man should have to prove his worth if he wished to claim merit.

The black-and-white harlequin ballroom floor buzzed with an assorted enclave, ranging from the dourly macabre to the flighty giddiness of the Sidhe. A few pairings of four danced an intricate quadrille flowing from three violins and a boxy harpsichord.

Low, black wrought-iron candelabras flickered a circus ring of amber flames. Rococo frieze lined the upper walls with what appeared to be cupids vomiting roses and birds. Rhys noted bird guano smeared the black-and-silver-striped English paper on the wall to his left.

The ballroom was a bustle of animated expressions, studied smiles and practiced gestures. Men dodged powdered and beribboned wigs. Women tapped damask shoulders and the occasional cheek with a communicative flip of their lace fans.

Rhys understood the women could send messages with a flick of their fans. The intricate code bemused him, though he had never bothered to learn it.

The thought to make a connection with a sumptuous lovely hung in his mind. When in Paris, indulgence could not be ignored.

A minuet twinkled from the harpsichord and the dancers rearranged and re-paired. Rhys noticed Orlando paired with a blushing mortal who wore her blue satin bodice low enough to reveal the rosy aureoles staining her breasts. The young wolf was hungry for a ripe female. The boy’s pleasures were not wicked or dark, so he was safe.

Rhys on the other hand, possessed a dark secret, which made him cautious as to whom he chose to engage in a lusty liaison.

An interesting scatter of red roses nestled against fathomless black hair caught his attention. Red, so red. Like that first drop of blood. The vampire within him stirred. Tucked within the center buds of those roses were tiny … skulls? Curious.

Rhys followed the woman’s gliding procession across the ballroom. Her hair was unfettered by powder or wig. Dressed in bold red, she was attired to captivate.

“Regarde moi,” he whispered. Look at me.

She turned. Rhys straightened, lifting his chin. His persuasion never worked on paranormals. She couldn’t have heard him. Blue eyes sought his. Unnaturally blue, but not Sidhe, for faery eyes held a violet tint.

The corner of her mouth turned up, a morsel of tease. What sensual delights did that tiny curve of flesh promise? Did her mouth curl so preciously when she cried out in ecstasy?

Sweet mercy, Rhys had not felt his body react so instinctively to a woman in years. His heart pounded and blood rushed to his groin. His werewolf growled lowly, pining for an illicit coupling.

Fortunately, he was vampire now. It was easier to contain the werewolf’s lusty desires when in this form. And much safer.

The rose-embellished beauty swept behind a couple who nuzzled nose against neck. The man’s gray powdered wig tilted askew as his fangs grazed alabaster skin. The bite. A wicked tease between two vampires that could be construed as a promise to one another, but only if mutually consented.

When had he last taken blood for sustenance? Rhys couldn’t recall. Weeks surely. And that was the aggravation of it. When in vampire form, he had to remember to take blood; it was not instinctual. Though he assumed vampire form most often, his werewolf mind ruled when in this shape—and the werewolf did not desire blood.

He’d ask about the murders, and find a pretty thing to bring home tonight. Or at the least, find one to wander through the Tuileries with him, the taste of her trickling down his throat after he abandoned her in a swoon beside a lush crop of roses.

Perhaps the rosy beauty with the bright eyes?

Following the pull of desire, Rhys shuffled through the crush of powder-dusted shoulders and silk-stockinged legs. Passing a faery, he accidentally brushed her forearm with his fingers, and whispered an apology. The result of contact sparkled on his flesh. He rubbed his fingers on his coat to wipe it off.

Again she appeared in view. Closer. She received a kiss on both cheeks from another woman Rhys knew was vampire for the fangs her smile revealed. But the blue-eyed beauty, while pale, was vibrant, too much life sparkled in her eyes to be vampire.

He favored mortals. Much less drama. And easier to abandon after the bite with a touch of persuasion. Perhaps that was why she’d turned to him—she was mortal.

Again her gaze fixed to his. Her eyes widened with promise, a touch without tactile sensation, yet it sped Rhys’s pulse and warmed his neck.

He nodded and offered a smile, remembering Orlando’s coaching: When at court one must never smile to show their teeth, but the smile mustn’t be so weak as to be construed false. So many rules and ridiculous pandering. It was enough to make a man’s head spin.

It took a lot to spin Rhys’s head. And this exquisite beauty did so.

The woman touched her bottom lip with a fingertip, her flirtatious eyes holding his. Just below her left eye a black heart patch beckoned.

Rhys offered her his most charming smile.

She let out a peal of laughter and spun away, an elusive wraith becrowned in skulls and roses.

“What the hell?” Rhys muttered to himself. Had his sensual prowess fallen amiss? He could not let her slip away without a few words.

The investigation could wait.

VIVIANE STRODE THE MARBLE floor in one of many galleries of paintings. She’d needed a moment away from the stuffy ballroom and leering gazes. It seemed all the male vampires were hungry for her. Not because she was attractive or interesting, but because she was bloodborn.

“Bother.”

Drawing in the air, she thought of Henri. He had never made her feel like an object.

The clatter of approaching shoes tugged her from the wistful moment.

A man strolled toward her. His swaggering stride made him move like a prowling feline, yet his broad shoulders and stocky build put into Viviane’s mind that of a provincial worker, one who lived off the land.

Certainly not an aristocrat, and most definitely not vampire. That put her to ease.

His eyes fell upon her high breasts, tethered behind the cinched bodice. Very well, so he was like the other men.

Licking his lips, he smiled, revealing the whitest teeth and an easy charm that Viviane could not disregard. Hair dark as her own had been tamed into a queue at the back of his neck and tied with a plain black ribbon. But there, on the left side of his head, a gray streak amidst the black gleamed under the candlelight.

Desire stirred. Momentarily, Viviane imagined his hair sweeping across her breasts, gasps huffing from his lips, and she clinging to those wide shoulders. No other at the Salon Noir had been capable of summoning such a visceral reaction, and this man had not yet spoken a word.

She angled so her path would pass him on the left.

He adjusted his trajectory to a direct line before her.

Presumptuous of him. She shuffled sideways. The man matched her feint.

“Pardon me,” she said, and her skirts swished across his buckled shoes.

At the last moment, he stepped aside to grant her berth, but not too far, and her skirts crushed against his thighs.

“You are hardly deserving of a pardon, mademoiselle. Such beauty should never be forgiven, but rather indulged.”

Viviane stopped walking and swung a look over her shoulder. Romantic blather never impressed her, even when issued in a deep, sure tone. His delving eyes were brown, as was his frockcoat. So common.

Strangely, though, her heart beat faster, anticipating more than she expected he could give her. Men always disappointed.

One of her dark brows curved sharply. “Who are you?”

“Rhys Hawkes.” He strolled around behind her. “An admirer.”

Viviane drew a careful study from his hands, along the snug cut of his sleeves and down the front of his frockcoat. Minimal decorative embroidery on his coat, and only a bit on his blue waistcoat. A sorry lack of lace, which further alluded to his provincial origins. Yet she could not know what he was without touching him, or tasting his blood.

Mortal or other?

“Are you like me?” she asked abruptly.

“A vampire?”

“You cannot be.” He could not be vampire for his ill fashion sense and less than discreet approach. At the very least, he was not a Nava tribe member.

“I am,” he confirmed.

“Hmph. You are—” nostrils flaring, she winced “—not right.”

The man pressed a palm to his chest and bowed his head. Offended? What had she said? And then she did not care; not if he was here on pretense.

“How did you get in?” she asked tersely. “The Salon Noir is invitation only, and I know Salignac would not dream of admitting an unfamiliar.”

He stepped closer. Yet as annoyed as he made her, Viviane’s feelings vacillated from cool dislike to lunatic desire.

Could she press her tongue through his smirking lips? Might the man answer her longings, fulfill her desires and entertain her passions?

Possibly, but there was no reward in succumbing too easily.

“I suppose those glances across the ballroom meant nothing?” he said.

“You must be mistaken, monsieur, if you believe I was looking at you. I dare not waste a moment on one so—”

“Not right?”

“Who are you?”

“I’ve told you, I am an admirer.” He performed a curt half bow, and came up, gliding his face close to hers. He smelled earthy, like a forest. So different. “There lives a daring challenge in the curve of your smile, mademoiselle.”

A flicker of her lashes could not be stopped. Yet until she learned exactly what he was, she daren’t appear interested. If he really were vampire avoidance was key.

Viviane took a step to the side.

He matched her with a quick side step.

“Remove yourself from my path, monsieur, or I will scream.”

“You won’t do that. It’s hardly fitting of your character. And I’ll press my mouth to yours to capture that scream before you can vocalize it.”

The tip of her tongue dashed out to trace her lower lip. Yes, please?

“You are correct,” she offered calmly. “A scream is vulgar.”

In a sinuous move, she snapped her fan out from where it had been tucked up her sleeve, and slashed it before him. Blood purled from cut skin and sweetened the air.

The man touched his cheek and turned his forefinger toward her. “Does not my blood attract you?”

Her nostrils flared as she scented him. Wrong move, Viviane. You are always hungry of late.

“It repulses me,” she forced out. “You are not vampire.”

“I … am.” Why the reluctance in his tone? “But I do not intend to wear out my voice convincing you of what should be obvious.”

He brushed his fingers across her cheek. Before she could close her eyes and dip her head into the delicious connection, Viviane flinched away. “The shimmer,” she said on a gasp.

She did not speak of faery dust, but the innate sensation two vampires felt when touching. So he was vampire. Yet why did she still wonder at what made him so different?

Rhys stepped aside, offering her ease of escape. “Forgive me, mademoiselle. My passion knows little in the way of boundaries.”

“Passion? We’ve only just met, Monsieur Hawkes. You do not even know my name.”

She wanted to tell it, but again, that would be too forward. If he discovered it on his own that would prove his interest.

“Indeed. And I also sense my desire offends you.”

“Desire never offends me. Speaking with a man who is not what he claims to be does.”

Rhys nodded. “I release you from this uncomfortable tête-à-tête with hopes you will spend fitful moments anguishing over the loss of my presence.”

He bowed, spun sharply, and marched away, shoes clacking loudly.

A roll of her eyes could not be prevented. Anguishing over the loss of his presence? Why did they always attempt to win through words and platitudes?

Viviane desired action, a bold approach and a forceful insinuation of passion. Or rather, it was a fantasy she thought of often, but had never the pleasure of experiencing. Rare did she meet a man to match her bold mien.

Pausing at the doorway, the man touched the cut on his cheek. She had marked him.

“But have you the daring to mark me?”

“THIS WAS A DELICIOUS IDEA,” Orlando muttered as he joined Rhys.

Orlando tugged at the frockcoat the tailor had insisted be taken in at the arms. The green velvet transformed the pup into one of those Greek forest deities with powerful muscles and the face of an angel, or so the effeminate tailor had commented, much to Orlando’s discomfort.

“My ideas are never delicious,” Rhys grumbled. “Reckless perhaps, but never bordering delicious.”

“Most certainly not wearing such plain attire.”

Orlando had taken on airs since stepping inside the Hôtel de Salignac. Rhys would allow the boy his vanity.

He had brought along Orlando, who was much like a son to him, because the two of them named a common friend in William Montfalcon, a werewolf who lived tucked on the left bank’s boulevard Saint Germain. It was where they were currently staying, despite Montfalcon’s strange absence.

Rhys smoothed a palm down his new coat, brushing at the clinging faery dust. Plain? The brown embroidered silk suited him. The tailor had insisted he call the color by its proper name la chocolat, after the queen’s favorite drink. Though the ivory buttons were extravagant and over the top, the enthusiastic tailor had insisted they would draw attention in the wake of Rhys’s regrettable decision to forego lace engageantes on his sleeves. The sky-blue waistcoat lent to what little vanity Rhys could muster.

And while he was a boot man always, the hose and buckled shoes did not feel uncomfortable, only not quite masculine. Heaven forbid, he engage in swordplay on rain-slippery cobblestones.

At least he’d the principle to forego a powdered bag-wig.

Rhys decided he would make no advances worrying about his attire. It was his carriage and attitude that would win him entrance into the secrets hoarded within the salon.

He leaned close to Orlando and said, “The rumor is that a werewolf murdered the vampires. Have you heard any interesting discussion?”

“Not yet, but I did spy Salignac. Over there.”

Following Orlando’s nod, Rhys scanned the crowd of wigs dribbled with candle wax and bird droppings and saw, splayed across a red velvet chaise longue, the vampire lord and leader of tribe Nava, Constantine de Salignac.

Blood heated Rhys’s neck and he clenched his fists.

Over the years, he and Salignac had traded the role of tormentor against the other. Whenever Salignac found opportunity, he went for Rhys’s jugular. They got into rousing duels and malicious dupes. Constantine had even gone so far as causing the death of Rhys’s only loved one.

Rhys did not believe in an eye for an eye. Senseless violence proved nothing. Yet the seeds of such violence were always cracked open whenever in Salignac’s presence.

He took morbid delight in the idea of walking up to Salignac tonight. It had been a decade since they’d last spoken.

“Here’s something you’ll find of interest,” Orlando said. “Salignac is smitten.”