of a flickering flame. Then she stood straight, her elegant bonnet tipping up to the sky as if she were offering a prayer to God in heaven.
The silliness of mortals, Odette thought. Your God will not help you now.
It wasn’t that she found the notion of God silly. She counted Christ among her closest confidants. Besides that, hope was a powerful force.
Just not as powerful as Odette Valmont. Not for this woman. Not in this moment.
She waited until the woman continued walking. Then Odette moved into position behind her. Many vampires would prolong the hunt until the last possible second to allow the terror to mount in their victim. To make them wait until they were panting, tripping over their feet, begging for reprieve. Boone enjoyed doing this. But Boone was a hunter by trade. And Odette had never been that kind of immortal.
Instead she took a final glance around to make sure they were alone. Before the woman could blink, Odette blurred forward and grabbed her from behind, covering the woman’s lips with one hand and yanking her into a narrow alleyway with the other.
Odette tilted the woman’s chin back so she could meet her gaze. “Don’t be afraid,” she whispered, allowing the dark gift to weave through her words and imbue them with soothing magic. The woman’s panicked eyes softened at the edges. “I promise you won’t remember a thing,” Odette crooned, steadying her in an embrace.
“Who—who are you?” the woman breathed.
“Who are you?”
The woman’s eyelashes fluttered as if she were on the cusp of falling asleep. “Francine,” she said. “Francine Hofstadter.”
“Bonsoir, Madame Hofstadter.” Odette shifted her hand from beside Francine’s mouth so she might cup her jaw. She paused to study her warm brown eyes. “You remind me of my mother, beautiful Francine.”
“What is her name?”
A thin smile twisted Odette’s lips. “Louise d’Armagnac.”
“Such a lovely name,” Francine drawled. “So lovely . . . just like you.”
“She was a duchess.”
“Are you a duchess?”
“Perhaps I might have been.” Odette stroked an index finger along Francine’s chin. “But my mother likely would have objected. She would never have relinquished the title, not without a fight. You might say she . . . lost her head for it.”
“I’m—sorry,” Francine said, her body going lax in Odette’s arms. “It sounds like she didn’t love you as a mother should.”
“Oh, she did. Of that I am quite certain.” Amusement rounded Odette’s tones. “She just loved herself more. For that, I have no objections. My mother is a hero to me. Until the bitter end, she remained true.”
“But how could she love herself more, when she has a daughter like you? That’s not right.” Francine mirrored Odette’s gesture, bringing her right hand to frame Odette’s face. “I wish I had a daughter. I could have loved her. I could have loved you.” She marveled, her eyes twinkling like pools of water. “Perhaps . . . I do love you.”
“Who doesn’t, ma chérie?” Odette wove Francine’s fingers through hers. Brought their joined palms toward her lips. “I love you, too,” she whispered into Francine’s warm, vanilla-scented skin.
Before Francine could blink, Odette sank her teeth into the delicate flesh along Francine’s wrist. A gasp punctured the night air, but Francine did not struggle. Her limbs went languorous. Dangerously soft. Odette breathed through her nose as she took in another hot draft of blood. Her eyes flashed closed. Images wavered through her mind. Francine’s memories. Her entire life story, colored by countless remembrances, which—Odette knew—could be unreliable, even among the most earnest of mortals.
People tended to recall things not as they were but as they wished them to be.
A memory of a birthday celebration when Francine had been a young girl, praline icing smeared across her lips. The death of a beloved grandmother, Francine following the funeral carriage down a wide lane in the Garden District, a lace parasol filtering the hot light of the sun. A wedding to a boy she’d believed to be her one true love. Years later, another man who’d dashed that belief to smithereens.
Between these vignettes, Odette saw glimpses of a possible future. Of a son who visited each year at Christmas, along with his wife who wished to be anywhere else. Of a distant husband who died clutching his chest, and of twilight years spent in regret.
It broke what remained of Odette’s heart. This life that once held such promise.
No matter. This woman’s fate was not her concern.
Through it all, Francine remained the heroine of her own story. It was as