Blood Games (Chicagoland Vampires 10)

But it was neither. The card was handwritten, the ink a deep scarlet, the script small, neat, and slanted.

I have missed you, mon ami. So many centuries and continents between us. I look forward to our reunion.

—B

My hand shook, and breath escaped me. I didn’t know I’d dropped the card, or that Ethan had moved closer, until he’d bent to pick it up from the floor.

I looked up at him, hoping against hope that my fear was baseless, that the “B” who’d signed the note wasn’t the monster who’d made him, who’d put such fear into his heart, who’d come between us once even after centuries in the ground.

But Balthasar was dead.

I couldn’t form words to speak, but I begged him in silence to say we’d been pranked, to rail against the vampire who’d made a very poor joke at the end of a very long night.

But all the color had drained from Ethan’s face. My heart pounded in sympathy—and fear.

Ethan? I silently managed.

Wordlessly, he crumpled the note in his hand, walked to the fireplace, and tossed it in.

“We can’t pretend we didn’t see that,” I quietly said. “If he’s alive . . .”

“We aren’t going to pretend,” he said, looking back at me with eyes of quicksilver. “And he isn’t alive. Someone is playing a very dangerous game, and we’re going to win it.”