“May I help you?” he said, his voice low and cultured.
“I’m Risa Jones. I have an appointment to see Catherine Als
ton.”
He nodded, but his gaze was on Azriel. “He may not enter.”
“He’s my partner.”
“He is death,” the thrall said. “And death shall go no farther than this foyer.”
“Azriel is not here to collect your mistress,” I said impatiently, at the same time wondering what the hell the thrall thought he could do to stop Azriel. “He’s here to help.”
The brown gaze met mine. “You’ll swear your life on this?”
“Yes.”
“Be aware that I will shoot you the minute I suspect ill intent from either of you.”
Oh, fucking great. A trigger-happy thrall was just what we needed right now. “As I said, we are here by request. Neither of us means your mistress any harm.”
He stepped to one side. “Proceed, then. It is the third door on the right.”
The hallway was wide but far from airy. Darkness lingered, and the air so thick with the scent of roses that it made my stomach twist.
Each door was lit solely by a small tea light. I wondered if Catherine had a thing against electrical lighting, or whether it was done for effect. After all, most vamps weren’t beyond the occasional attempt to terrify their guests.
“I am not trying to terrify you, young woman.” The voice was rich, cultured, and almost plummy—the sort of voice that sounded as if it came from royal stock.
“That is because I am of royal stock,” she said, then added, almost impatiently, “Come inside where I can see you.”
I walked through the doorway. This room, like the hallway, had only a couple of candles providing light. But at least the overly sweet air stirred here, meaning either that there was an open window nearby or the air-conditioning was on.
Catherine Alston rose from her chaise lounge as we entered. She was a tall, thin woman with a regal nose, sharp brows, and black eyes, and she reminded me of a crow. It was an impression somewhat enhanced by her sweeping black dress with its long, almost wing-like sleeves.
“You are not what I expected, Risa Jones.” She held out her hand, forcing me to reciprocate. Her skin felt like old parchment. “From our would-be dictator’s description, I was waiting for someone far more … homely.”
Not being homely wouldn’t usually be considered an insult but, somehow, this woman made it so. “Two barbs in one sentence. That’s pretty impressive.”
Her grin was fierce and toothy. “And not afraid to voice an opinion. I like that. Why do you bring death into my presence?”
“He’s my insurance policy.”
“Ah. You do not trust me?”
“Not you, and certainly not Hunter.”
She laughed, but it held an edge that was not altogether sane. Concern flicked through me. If the attack had sent Pierre Boulanger mad, then it more than likely would affect Catherine Alston the same way. And the last thing I needed was an insane vampire—even if I had Azriel watching my back.
“I am not about to attack you,” Catherine snapped. She sat back on her chaise lounge again and crossed her legs elegantly. “It took a week for Pierre to be fully affected. I have six days left, and Hunter assures me you will have tracked this thing down by then.”
Her tone implied it was already too late for Pierre. Did that mean he was now dead? I very much suspected it. Neither council was likely to let a madman survive very long. “So tell me what happened.”
“If I knew that, you wouldn’t be here.”
I bit back a rush of irritation and wondered what the hell I’d done to deserve being surrounded by so many question-phobic people. “When did you realize you were also being attacked?”
“Yesterday evening, and I rang that dark-haired bitch straightaway. It took you long enough to get here.”