We reached the stairs and Reed stopped at the top, gestured Sorcha to his side. He signaled a waiter, who brought over a tray of champagne, stood at attention while Reed turned to his guests.
“Ladies and gentleman,” Reed said, his resonant voice carrying across the space.
A hush fell over the room. Guests turned toward Reed, moved toward the stairs to watch him.
“I’d like to thank you all for coming to our small soiree tonight. I hope you’ll enjoy the beverages, the food. You’ve all been generous, and I hope you’ll consider being generous one more time. You’ll see men and women with baskets in the crowd. Please consider making a donation.”
The plague doctor danced through the crowd with two other masked friends, all of them carrying reed baskets, pausing occasionally as guests dropped money inside them.
The entire event had been theatrical, so when two men in harlequin masks jumped suddenly from the balcony and landed in the middle of the marble stairway, I thought it was part of the act.
But when they pulled gleaming katanas from black scabbards and the subtle vibration of vampire magic filled the air, it was obvious this wasn’t part of the show.
It was an attack.
Chapter Seven
DRESSING DOWN
Ethan, I said silently, and he nodded, his body tense and ready to spring forward.
“We come for Sanford King,” said the vampire on the right, katana pointed at the crowd. The humans talked and gestured nervously, looking around for the man who’d been called out. Unfortunately for him, Sanford wasn’t difficult to spot, being nearly a head taller than everyone else.
“I believe you’re at the wrong house,” Reed said, voice booming and quieting the crowd again—except for the shuffle of cell phones as cameras snapped, messages were sent, and calls were placed.
This would need diplomacy, I thought, pulling my phone surreptitiously from my bag and sending Brody and my grandfather a message: VAMPS W/ SWORDS AT REED HOUSE TO HARM SANFORD KING. CPD DISPATCH PROBABLE.
“We’re at precisely the right house,” said the vampire on the left.
They moved down the stairs, one tread at a time, their swords extended and blades gleaming silver. With each step, the crowd moved backward, away from danger.
shifted his gaze to Ethan, and I caught a moment of surprise, then irritation. My guess? His foundation of knowledge and control had been shaken because he hadn’t known we were coming.
I glanced at my father, and the question on my face should have been obvious: Why was Adrien Reed surprised we were here? Wasn’t his wanting to meet us the entire point? Or were we my father’s hospitality gifts, to be handed over to the man like a bottle of good wine?
Regardless of his initial surprise, Reed was practiced. He moved forward, offered Ethan a hand. “Welcome to our home.”
“It’s a pleasure to meet you,” Ethan said, then put a hand at my back. “My Sentinel and paramour, Merit.”
It was childish that he’d used my father’s word, but still satisfying to see my father’s wince of impropriety.
Reed’s nod was brisk, efficient.
“You have a beautiful home,” I said. “The gallery is very impressive.”
“I find, as I age, that I prefer intense to dull,” Reed said. “More to less. There are only so many hours in the day, and much to be accomplished.” He glanced at Ethan. “Immortality, of course, presents the opposite problem.”
“There are more hours to fill, certainly, but more consequence,” was Ethan’s measured response. “One becomes eternally tied to one’s choices.”
Reed nodded in acknowledgment.
A door on the other side of the room opened, and a breeze from an outdoor terrace wafted in, along with the bright scent of fruity perfume.
“My wife,” Reed said, gesturing to the statuesque woman who’d walked inside. She wore a long, sleeveless dress the color of new grass, a gleaming brass belt around her tiny waist. Her eyes were as luminously green as the fabric, her skin sun-kissed gold. Thick blond hair waved across her bare shoulders, one side pulled back by a barrette that matched the belt. She looked like she’d stepped from a 1970s fashion ad, or maybe the set of Charlie’s Angels. Since she couldn’t have been more than twenty-three or twenty-four, she probably wouldn’t have gotten the reference.
“Sorcha,” Reed said, holding out his hand.
She walked forward, offered him her free hand, the other holding a flute of champagne.