But it wasn’t like I had a choice, and she wasn’t actually asking me to kill it. I was only the hunter, and I intended to do my damnedest to keep it that way.
"So if Pierre isn’t sensing anything or anyone, how can you be sure this is an actual attack?"
She reached into her purse—which I hadn’t actually noticed until now, and that said a whole lot about the state this woman got me into—and withdrew her phone. She pressed a button, then turned it around for me to see. "This was Pierre Boulanger two weeks ago."
He had dark hair, dark eyes, an imposing nose, and seemed to possess the sort of distant arrogance often found in those of royal blood.
"And this," Hunter continued, "was Boulanger when I saw him not two hours ago."
It didn’t even look the same man. In this photo, he was stooped over and could barely manage to look at the camera. It was as if the weight of his head were too much for his neck. His black hair was shot with gray, and his unlined face was now seamed and littered with age spots. And his eyes were the eyes of a madman.
I met Hunter’s gaze again. Her green eyes were assessing. I wasn’t entirely sure why, because she was the one who’d all but blackmailed me into helping the vampire council hunt down the prey that eluded the Cazadors. If she didn’t think I was up to helping, why even come here? "So you’re dealing with some sort of succubus?"
Hunter shook her head. "I spoke to Pierre when this attack first happened, a week ago. He could not remember sexual dreams."
"And now?"
"He is, as you guessed, lost to madness. He remembers nothing."
"I think the key word here is remember. I don’t know much about succubi, but I imagine that if one decided to target a member of the vampire council, then maybe it’s also decided to cover its tracks."
"A succubus would not have the strength to erase Pierre’s memories; nor do they drive their victims mad. A succubus is not at fault."
"Then what do you think it is?"
"If I knew, the Cazadors would already be on the job." She reached into her pocket and withdrew a business card. "You have an appointment with Catherine Alston at eleven o’clock."
I accepted the business card. It was one of Hunter’s, and on the back she’d scrawled an address. It was a city address—a penthouse apartment in the Green Tower, which was the latest of the government backed eco-building projects, and it had a price tag to match its credentials. But most old vamps also tended to be obscenely rich. I suppose it was one of the benefits of living so long.