Page 19 of Blood & Bedlam

Bile rushes up, hard and fast, and in seconds I’m staining the porcelain with what little I had in my stomach, shaking and sweating through the fabric of this designer dress. My muscles contract, heaving around nothing as I fumble for the tap. Cold water rushes out, mixing with the stomach acid and bits of undigested food in the sink, but it’s cool and comforting on my skin as I scoop the water into my hand and swish it around. Gulp, rinse, repeat. I work on autopilot until my heart rate calms to a steadier rate, and I can fully inflate my lungs.

My reflection shows eyes rimmed red, hollowed cheeks, and tear tracks down my face, so I take a few moments to splash water over my flushed skin, counting my breaths. My body is locked in a state of fear, but I fight through it, focusing on sensations I can feel and see and touch, calling on my anger at what happened to Makenna, wincing as the memory of her body hitting the floor at our feet in that stretched limo crashes into me again at the slightest provocation. In my life, I’ve seen violence, endured it at the hands of alcoholic men and fellow foster kids. I survived everything that I ever went through, and I sure as fuck am going to survive this.

Maybe.

It takes so much time to calm myself that I barely make it down in time for dinner service. My hair is as smooth as I could manage, and I forwent the small bag of makeup left for me because I can’t trust myself not to cry or freak out at whatever fresh hell is about to go down. It seemed silly to add looking like a drunk raccoon to the list of embarrassing things I’m likely to do tonight. But the dress fits me perfectly, hugging my hips in a wide flare, cinching in at my waist. It’s expensive, and seems custom, but how would any of them have known my size?

My mind flashes to this morning, with a set of strong hands tracing over my body, but I shake that thought before I can even let it grow legs and run away. There’s no way he figured out my size from those touches alone …

“This way, Miss Montague.” A man with incredibly pale skin and sharp, elegant features ushers me into the dining room, his outfit pressed and proper as though we are at some sort of fine dining restaurant. The gentle humming of small talk ceases immediately once the doors open, and I’m met with what I can only assume is all of Vladimir’s family, seated at their dinner table. I swallow as the man guides me to one of two empty chairs, this one at the opposite end of the wide table. My hands trace over the golden back with French filigree, and just as with everything else in this house, it screams wealth, money far older than the likes of me has ever encountered.

Too many eyes watch me thank the man, but I sit anyway on the plush velvet cushions. I keep my gaze fixed on the porcelain plates in front of my place setting, and I wish Juliette were sitting next to me instead of near the middle of the table, sandwiched between a stunning man and woman, who seem awfully cuddled up to her to be just friends.

No one speaks, and Vladimir is noticeably absent. Heat creeps up my spine, but because I have no decorum and in any tense situation, I’m going to resort to humor, I involuntarily crack what may be the most poorly timed joke in the history of New Orleanian lore.

“Who’s a girl gotta kill to get a drink around here?” I mumble, then slap my hand over my mouth in horror. Intrusive thoughts have a way of worming their way out of my mouth without a filter. They exchange glances and raised eyebrows.

All except the giant of a man sitting next to the redhead, who lets out a snort so loud it startles me. His massive shoulders shake, and he shrugs as he grabs for his own glass. It’s a deep amber color, possibly a Manhattan, if the cherry on top is any indication, but the color is slightly off. The stunning redhead next to him, who I assume is one of the daughters I haven’t met, nudges him hard in the side. Her eyes are wide, but he simply takes a sip of his drink as the waiter from earlier returns with a glass of wine that he sets down in front of me. It’s a beautiful red, but I eye it suspiciously, because I don’t know what the fuck is in it.

“No blood, just fermented grapes,” Juliette offers with a smile, and I blow out a trapped breath in relief. I don’t have time to think about how rude this is before my fingers are gripping that stem for dear life and I’ve lifted it to my lips. The wine is tart, with a small hint of sweet, notes of oak and cherry that I would have fucking savored if I weren’t chugging it like a frat boy on spring break. In no time, the glass is drained, and I shake out my head as the alcohol hits my nervous system, reminding it that I’m not currently being hunted for sport, and it can calm the hell down.

Probably.

The same man from before is back in a flash with the bottle in his hand, refilling my empty glass. He hesitates when it gets to be about four fingers deep, but I’m way past proper at this point.

“You know what, Jeeves, just leave the bottle,” I say, and again, the big guy down the way chuckles into his own drink. Another shove from what I assume is his partner has him draining his glass.

“You know what, I think we all could be a little tipsy for this,” announces the woman sitting next to the daughter in a suit with a severe haircut. The silence breaks as more staff enters, topping up drinks with one wheeling in an antique liquor cart that would have me salivating to check out under any other circumstances.

“We should wait for Papa,” says the blonde at the left-hand side of the empty chair. She gives a disapproving glare to who I think is her sister-in-law.

“Yes, and I’ll jump his ass when he gets here about being late to dinner, but for now, we need some alcohol.” Juliette’s words float back to me on the wine.

Definitely Kendra.

The vampire woman is striking in her blue cocktail dress, with a corset made of cowrie shells that just make her look stunning. Her brown skin is vibrant, not a bit of paleness to her, and she’s breathtakingly beautiful. The platinum blonde sucks her tongue behind her teeth, but I notice she allows them to fill up her cup just the same. Small mumbles of conversation break out around the table, but as I search the door for Vladimir, I overhear the big guy whispering to his girl.

“Well, I like her.” He shrugs, swirling the ice in his own drink, and I do my level best to chug down this entire bottle of eight-decades-old Bordeaux.

Vladimir

CHAPTER 9

Nearly eight hundred years old, and I’m hiding in my study because the alternative means blowing up the smallest comfort of seeing Mina’s face again. Dinner started half an hour ago, and I haven’t been able to make myself go down. Kendra is going to have my ass. I hear them all, talking, drinking through the awkwardness I thrust them into, but I can’t tear my eyes away from the sketchbook Cami and Tully retrieved from Reine’s home. Can’t unhear the report they delivered with solemn faces while that little spark of hope I’d been harboring snuffed out.

I stare down at the pages, charcoals and markers and pens sprawled across each page, illustrations of things she couldn’t know. Yet here they are, evidence against her. The book is large, well-worn with fraying edges, but of the three hundred pages of thick paper, I adorn more than half. My eyes, arms, the sculpt of my back—those sit on countless pages, tiny pieces of myself from a time long past. I recognize the style of my hair, the difference in clothing in some of them.

Everything Cami warned me about laid out in ink on the page.

Cami wanted to interrogate Reine immediately, but with dinner so close, I made her promise to let me think on the best course of action before sharing her findings even with her sisters. It’s pathetic, how desperate I am for any other explanation than the obvious. That this cruel trick, a spy placed in my care to harm my family wearing the face of the woman I loved so deeply, isn’t real. To challenge a rule that I don’t even want but must maintain to protect my family.

A family who is presently laughing and drinking, deep as they can go into their cups with an infiltrator.

She knows me.

She knows my face, the curve of my bare hip, the angle I slept in the time when I did sleep—yet Reine claimed to be ignorant to all things Otherworld. I should feel rage, or anger, but all I can feel is sadness and a deep, endless pit of despair.

I wanted so badly to believe Mina had returned to me, some cosmic gift of the Fates for good behavior, maybe. A reward for my penance, a second chance to do right by her. My eyes wander to the European Council’s summons, gut twisting. It reminds me what’s at stake and my heart hardens. My daughters are in peril because of whatever game she’s playing. Cami will have to fight to the death because of what I have done in Mina’s honor.