respond, but the ethereal turns the brass handle and steps inside, uninvited. “You’re to come with me.” It is not a request. His poncy British accent makes that quite clear.
I sit up. Make a show of swinging my legs to the floor beside my bed, the velvet drapes swaying around me. Then I place my open book beside the single candle on my bedside table and quirk a brow at him.
“Valeria Henri is waiting for you in her shop,” Arjun says, dropping onto an ornate chair positioned in the corner of the room. He lights a cheroot, the blue smoke unwinding above his head. “Nicodemus says it’s time for you to have your fétiche made so that you may move about freely in the sun.”
I rub my left hand across the back of my neck. “Bold of me to walk about in broad daylight after Michael Grimaldi levies such threats. If he did indeed tell the wolves I am no longer mortal, Luca Grimaldi will have my head.”
“Which will happen whether you wander around in the middle of the day or the middle of the night. And it’s all the more reason to give yourself every advantage. You don’t want to be one of those foolish immortals left to die in the sun. It’s too droll, even for you.”
“Do you know what you’re talking about, or did you read about it in a book?”
Arjun snorts. “I heard some stories in the Sylvan Vale.”
“Wishful thinking, perhaps. I’ll bet those in the Vale love to envision creative ways of bringing about a blood drinker’s demise.”
He inclines his head toward the book on my bedside table. “Speaking of wishful thinking, is that more research on the elusive Sunan the Immortal Unmaker?”
Surprise flares through me, though I’m careful not to show it. “The subject merely piqued my interest.”
Laughter rumbles through his chest. He exhales twin plumes of smoke from his nostrils. “You really are a terrible vampire. If you’re going to lie, at least make it believable. We all know what you’re reading. Odette and Madeleine have been keeping watch over any requests you make, including those as mundane as books from the library.”
I swear beneath my breath, the Spanish words rolling from my tongue.
“Don’t be too fussed about it,” Arjun continues. “Mother and Auntie are trying to make sure you’re not drowning in literature about the futility of life. Death is not the only outcome, old chap.”
“As a point of fact, it is.”
More low laughter. “And this Sunan character can help you along your merry way?” He stands. Adjusts the monocle clipped to his jacquard waistcoat. “Stop reading fairy tales and collect your things. Let’s spend a night among the living.”
* * *
I keep my head down as we make our way through the Vieux Carré, my Panama hat pulled low on my brow. My eyes flit from side to side. Ever since we encountered Celine and Michael walking along Royale last week, I’ve become aware of my own recklessness.
At any given time, we could be confronted by a member of the Brotherhood.
If we were, what would I do?
Run like the wind, I suppose. If I were to stay, it would be in defense of someone else. After what happened in the swamps with Cambion, I have no interest in an altercation of any kind. Violence seems to bring out the worst of my inclinations.
“Do you know how to fight?” I ask Arjun as we make the final turn onto Rue Dauphine.
“I boxed at university,” he says. “And I’m fairly proficient with a bagh nakh.”
“Which is what?”
“If it ever comes down to it, you’ll see.”
I glance at his tailored, immaculate ensemble. “You’re carrying a weapon on you now?” My brows rise in disbelief.
“That’s what the ladies say, anyway.”
“Fucking hell,” I mutter as he laughs.
A pair of young women stroll beside us arm in arm. Once they pass, we pause before a nondescript blue door to our right, the sign above it swaying in a soft breeze. Lettered in gold across its surface is the single word PARFUM.
An intoxicating array of scents surrounds the slender building: rose water, oud, peonies, tonka bean, sandalwood, and vanilla. Another layer of fragrance lies deeper beneath it, something headier, spicier. Herbs and burning incense. Melting wax and a trace of blood.
The bell above the blue door rings when Arjun pushes it open.
The shop itself is long and narrow, like many of the small apothecaries in the heart of the French Quarter. Along the wall to our left are