Midnight Marked (Chicagoland Vampires 12)

The butler nodded, walked to a brass cart, poured liquid from a cut-crystal decanter. He brought it back to Ethan and then began checking with the other sups.

Do you recognize anyone? Ethan asked.

I trailed my fingers up and down his leg. I don’t. I count several vampires and shifters, but no sorcerers.

Caleb Franklin’s killer?

I looked them over. None had a beard, although that could have been removed easily enough. But the killer had also been tall and well muscled, and none of the vampires here seemed to have the right proportions, Ethan excluded.

I don’t see him, I said.

Me, neither.

But there’d been other doors in the hallway. There are other rooms? Themes?

Yes. All varied in the degree of their explicitness.

Do any of them have black lace and candles?

Goth, Sentinel? Really?

Someday, I was going to wander into a lair of Underworld look-alikes and my prejudice would be rewarded. Until then, Is there any way we can get to them? Inspect them?

Likely not without a fight.

I have no objection to a good fight. Especially since I’d come out on the losing end of my last one.

The butler carried a drink to a female vamp with pale skin and long, dark curls. She wore a scarlet bustier and a fluid skirt in a matching fabric, her lithe form draped across a chaise longue. A male vampire, naked but for his spill of long, dark hair and snug, hip-hugging leather pants, stood like a statue behind her. He stared at nothing in particular, seemingly waiting for her command.

There were bruises across his face, across his collarbone.

The butler spoke quietly to the woman, but she shook her head, waved him away.

Across the room, a slender man in a three-piece suit, a fedora pulled low over his head and a slim leather book in hand, lifted his hand to signal for service. The butler moved to him, bent slightly at the man’s words, then nodded, disappeared from the room.

Neither of them had looked at us, so it didn’t seem likely that had been a signal about us. But one could never be too careful.

Fedora, two o’clock, I told Ethan, nipping lightly at the fingers he brushed against my cheek.

I’m watching, Ethan said.

I turned my attention to the rest of the room, searching for magic, a forgotten alchemical symbol, some hint of that metallic magic. But there was nothing. Just the prickly air of excitement, of sensual anticipation. Considering the number of vampires in the room, I presumed there would be blood.

I looked up at Ethan, working my features into an expression of total adoration. If this is the appetizer, what’s the main course?

Ethan sipped at his cognac, kept a hand on my hair, stroking, his eyes on the room. The hallway door opened, and the butler escorted a young man inside. He was tall and leanly built, with dark skin and hair in short braids. He wore black slacks and a white button-down shirt, and his eyes glimmered with excitement.

I believe he would be the entrée, Ethan said.

Two female vampires with tan skin, high cheekbones, and straight hair pulled into high knots rose together from a sofa with an ornate back. They wore black silk dresses that snugged their bodies to midcalf, where the fabric pooled around their bare feet as they walked toward the young man. They were beautiful, and the man stared at them with obvious desire.

They took his hands, guided him toward a round, tufted ottoman in the middle of the room. They unfastened the buttons on his shirt, let it fall to the floor.

His neck and arms were dotted with scars, which the women caressed and flicked with eager tongues. It wasn’t hard to guess the scars’ origins; he’d given blood before, many times.

As the women lowered the donor to the ottoman, the butler appeared at our side. “If you’d come with me?”

Ethan kept his eyes on the ottoman. “And why would I want to do that?”