Lola’s eyebrows snapped together over her cute, narrow nose. “They have a bear?”
Rafe shook his head. “I must behave.”
Lola groaned and splashed more alcohol in Rafe’s glass, but she picked it up for herself. “Please do. It’s not just your life on the line.”
Rafe tossed her a dark, warning look, but Lola was unmoved as she stared at him. Yes, she had a point, and she wasn’t just referring to the lives of his brothers and shiny new brother-in-law.
No, Rafe had his own little collection of…well, he wasn’t quite sure what to call them. Vampires didn’t have friends exactly. They had clanmates, but the Variks weren’t a clan in the strictest sense of the word, though they might use the word to get through the thick skulls of other vampires.
Over the years, Rafe had picked up other vampires who stuck close to him. Lola wasn’t the only one who moved with him when the time came. There was also Ryder, who worked as a bouncer every night without complaint. Ryder was practically a mute, speaking no more than a dozen words each year, and those usually had to be pulled out of him. And most recently, there was Gideon. Wounded, battered little Gideon.
Two decades ago, Rafe had slaughtered Gideon’s maker to save him, not that he’d admit such a thing to his brothers. But Gideon had needed saving. A safe place to heal. Now he danced in a cage each night, hung above the writhing crowds. Gideon’s lithe, exquisite body moved like no other, and there was a lightness that shone from him, so long as no hands could touch him.
Yes. Rafe couldn’t afford to fuck up this meeting with the Asenaults. His family of blood and his secret family were all depending on him.
Rafe hated The Gallery.
Each major city had a secret meeting place for vampires. A neutral territory where they could meet, talk, and generally try not to kill each other. Some places were much better than others. The Bank in his last town had been acceptable—its nightclub first floor for dancing, feeding, and shadowy fucks had been quite nice. The second floor had been more to Marcus’s and Bel’s tastes with its wood-paneled walls, thick carpets, and white-tablecloth meals. The old-school gentlemen’s clubs that Rafe had suffered through during his human years.
The Gallery wasn’t much different from those old clubs. Quiet and boring as fuck, the white marble floor and white walls were only broken up by the pieces of art hanging on the walls, but whoever was the owner and caretaker of The Gallery had shown zero originality. All the pieces were from so-called safe artists and periods of time. Renaissance and Impressionist pieces dotted the walls. Boring. Predictable. Safe.
What about the bold splashes of colors from the Modernists and Post-Modernists?
Of course not.
The Gallery put him in a bad mood before Rafe could even find this Philippe Arsenault, the leader of the clan. He didn’t quite know what to expect. The only thing Winter had been able to confirm was that Philippe was older than Rafe. No surprise there.
Within the vampire world, Rafe’s one hundred and seventy-six years were adorable. Still the freshness and impetuousness of youth. But then, Rafe was the same age as all his brothers, which likely put other clans ill at ease since they’d taken down the very powerful Black Wolf clan.
His hard-soled shoes clicked sharply across the marble floor as he strode through The Gallery. He gave a tug at the cuffs of his blood-red shirt, settling it under the sleeves of his black Prada suit jacket. There was an echoing click as Lola followed a step behind him. His violent, bloodthirsty little shadow.
The Gallery wasn’t overly crowded at three in the morning. Sunrise was still four hours away, but most would be drifting toward the safety of home, possibly after grabbing an evening bite. Vampires milled around in clusters of two or three. They stood in front of paintings, barely registering the art in front of them while whispering to their companions. The only humans were men and women dressed in white suits, carrying around blood-infused beverages on silver platters.
A quick scan of the room revealed that Philippe was not present. He wasn’t sure what this vampire looked like, but Philippe had told him to meet him at the Monet exhibit.
Sigh. Boring.
Rafe continued on through the rooms, his eyes skimming over the framed paintings, searching for water lilies or blurry pastel flower gardens. It wasn’t that he hated Monet or the other Impressionists. It was simply that Rafe wasn’t interested in anything that was safe. He didn’t want safe art, safe relationships, or safe adventures in life. He wanted to spend every moment immersed in something big and bold.
Toward the back of the building, Rafe finally located a small room that had close to a dozen paintings on the walls in overly ornate frames. As if all that gilt and flourish could make up for the watery images on the canvas. There were three from Monet’s waterlily series, a sunrise that looked familiar, and a few others. All originals. The fakes were in the museums. Even if he hadn’t recognized the paintings, there was also a small gold plaque just outside the room with MONET written in all caps.