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The list is short, but each option seems more unlikely than the last. Maybe someone at the hotel?
It’s a moot point now. I’m here and I need to get myself out of this mess. Grand-Mère didn’t raise me on fairy tales like other kids. I’m under no illusion that a shining white knight will come to save me so we can live happily ever after.
I’m on my own here and that’s okay.
A witch saves herself.
CHAPTER SEVEN
SEBASTIAN
My body is still stiff from the sleeping, and I stretch my limbs while I wait for my drink to arrive. The steady thrum of music pumps like a heartbeat through my chest and the heavy bass covers the consistent underlying hum of moans and gasps of the patrons on Club Sanguine’s top floor.
Even this early, most of the tables and couches are occupied. I take it all in with a sense of satisfaction—the rich velvet walls and the warm lights that cast red-tinted shadows around the intimate room, all of it alive with the scent of sweat and primal desire.
“Your cocktail, Bas,” Misha says.
A gilded goblet slides into my hand. “AB negative?”
“Infused with the Chateau Latour as you specified.”
I thank my head bartender before returning my gaze to the patrons of my club. Bringing the cup to my lips, I savor the decadent taste of blood and wine as it glides over my tongue and down my throat.
Straight from the source is always preferred, but I’m not in the mood for company. If Rune were here, he’d comment about how I woke up on the wrong side of the coffin.
Actually, I’m surprised he isn’t here.
I scan the sea of undulating bodies, but see no sign of him.
Naomi is across the way, perched on the lap of an incubus she’s making a meal of, but there’s no sign of Rune.
The snap of leather to flesh draws my gaze to the dominatrix on stage, whipping her submissive girlfriend. With beautiful, long arcs of a single-tailed whip, she’s laying crisscrossing red welts along her living canvas.
The display catches my attention, and I sip my drink while I come alive for the night.
I inhale deeply, drawing in the scent of freshly drawn blood and savoring it. My nose scrunches up when I get a distinct whiff of wet dog.
Apparently, today’s performers are both werewolves.
Although I’m not a fan of their smell—and less so their company—any wolves other than the Algiers pack are welcome here.
Club Sanguine is more than just a private place for vampires of the city and beyond to feed and be themselves: it is the only true neutral ground in all New Orleans. It is a place where every supernatural creature is welcome—vampire, werewolf, witch, demon, succubus, whatever, whoever.
The top floor, anyway.
“What’s on your mind, Bas?” Misha asks, his thick Russian accent drawing my attention to where he’s drawing a red-headed succubus a beer.
“Anything else I can get you?” he asks her.
“Not unless you want to step out from behind the bar, pretty boy.” The succubus’ voice is low and full of sexual promise. It’s kind of hard to not sound sexual when naked from head to pointed tail.
“If you’re still lonely after my shift, find me,” Misha winks.
The werewolf is very popular at the club.
“What about you, Sebastian?” I turn my gaze the woman’s way and give her a once over. She looks familiar–a regular of Club Sanguine–but I’ve never bothered learning her name.
She’s proposed this before: the two of us. I told her then, and I’ll tell her now. “Not interested.”
