23

Ophelia

Stepping back into the Raven without Cas at my side makes me feel uncomfortable and exposed in a way I didn't expect and don't particularly care for.

Head high, shoulders back, I toss the bouncer a grateful smile as he lets me inside.

Through a set of double doors and into the main part of the club, I try to convince myself it's only in my head that so many eyes in the crowd seem to be turned my way.

There's no reason for it, nothing that would make me garner any more attention tonight than the last time I was here. Even if, also like last time, I made sure I'm dressed to impress.

Another bodycon dress, this one in a deep ruby red, with a short skirt and long sleeves.

Never let it be said that I don't know my best silhouettes.

Not that I'm by any means the flashiest dressed person in the place, but as I hover around the edge of the room and search the crowd for Marcus, for Cassandra, for anyone who looks familiar, I can't shake the feeling of all those eyes.

Or maybe it's just that I've been out of this kind of scene for way too long. Maybe it was always like this, the typical appraisal of hot, available people looking for their next conquest.

The idea loosens my posture a little, and I indulge in some scoping out of my own, eyes landing on a few of my fellow patrons. A tall, handsome gargoyle nursing a drink at the bar. A naga woman with a hypnotically beautiful aquamarine tail holding court over a small flock of admirers in the far corner of the room. A shifter of some sort—probably wolf or bear, based on how hairy he is even in his human form—dancing chest to chest with a demi-fae male with lilac hair and delicately pointed ears.

All that scoping, however, brings another problem back to the forefront of my mind.

I have no idea what Philippe looks like.

A fruitless twenty minutes spent flipping through search engines and social media platforms and criminal records on the train ride here left me with nothing. There doesn't seem to be any record of him—photographic, written, or otherwise—so my best bet seems to be posting up at the bar and hoping he finds me.

"Ophelia."

The soft voice from beside me a minute after I sit down isn't the rich, French-accented tone I expect.

But it is familiar.

Cassandra sinks onto the barstool next to mine. It only takes her a brief moment of eye contact with the vampire bartender for him to nod and get to work making whatever her regular order is.

"I saw you come in," she says, keeping her voice low. "And I wanted to talk to you."

"About Marcus? The other night, we—"

"Ugh." Cassandra gives her head a disgusted little shake. "No. Not about Marcus."

I'm not sure exactly what to make of that answer, but by the look on her face and the derision in her tone, it doesn't seem like there's a whole lot of love left there.

"You're meeting with Philippe."

It's not a question, but I nod.

"I'd tell you not to speak to him, but I don't think you'd listen to me." The bartender reappears with Cassandra's drink, and she takes a long swallow before setting the glass back on the bar. "It's not the coven. All this shit that's been happening with these rogues, the coven's not behind it."

I raise one eyebrow, not na?ve enough to trust her at her word. Her loyalties are clear, and so are mine, and neither one of us has any illusions about that.

She lets out a soft sigh. "But you can figure that out for yourself, I suppose."

"I suppose I can." My stomach twists, still entirely uncertain if I'm doing the right thing by being here.

Another long swallow, and she drains the rest of the drink. The empty glass is whisked away almost immediately by the same bartender who brought it, but Cassandra gives her head a slight shake, and he doesn't bring her another.

"Well then, I guess I shouldn't waste my breath."

"I mean, if Philippe's got some plan to whack me and leave me sleeping with the fishes, I'd appreciate a heads up."

That earns me a small, sardonic smile. "No, I don't think that's likely."

"Good to know." The likely in that answer is doing a whole lot of heavy lifting, but I decide not to press her on it. "I need answers. We need answers. Me and Cas. The Bureau. And even if you claim they've got nothing to do with the rogues, they know more than they're letting on."

"I get that. And I hope you get the answers you're looking for." She moves to get up from her barstool.

"Andie," I say, and she halts midway through standing, then sinks back into her seat. "Are you happy here?"

"What do you mean?"

"In this world. Working for them. Are you happy?"

I half-expect for her to snap back that it's none of my business, that it's an overly personal question to ask, given our nonexistent friendship. And while all of that might be true, her expression softens.

"I'm fine, Phee. Really. It's… I've gotten used to it, you know?"

I nod slowly. "You graduated with an accounting major, right?"

A twitch at the corner of her lip. "Right. And even ancient vampire covens need someone to keep the books in order."

"Lots of other places do, too," I point out, and that smile gets a little wider.

"Yeah, but lots of other places are a lot more boring."

"Fair enough."

We sit in silence for a couple of seconds before she rises again, sliding off her barstool and smoothing out the black sheath dress she's wearing.

"Be careful," she says. "Philippe is… well, just be careful."

"I will," I say, and she gives me one last nod before she starts to walk away. "And if you ever get tired of it, or if you're ever looking to go west or find something a little more boring, let me know. The Bureau's always hiring and I could put in a good word."

She glances back over her shoulder. "I'll keep that in mind."

Alone again, I settle into my chair and resume my perusal of the crowd, replaying the conversation in my mind, trying not to jump to any conclusions or give in to the temptation to say the hell with this and leave.

But it turns out I don't have too much longer to think about it.

"Miss Rossi?" My name comes from a vampire standing next to the bar, looking at me expectantly.

"Philippe?"

He shakes his head. "No. My name is Vincent. If you'll come with me, though, I can take you to him. He's expecting you."

I debate the wisdom of going anywhere with him for a split second before nodding.

Like the last time I was here, I've got a knife tucked into the top of my boot, and while I've always been more of a runner than a fighter, I know a decent bit of self-defense.

Not that I'm going to need it.

This is going to be fine.

Philippe and I are just going to talk. I'm going to get some answers, and he'll be just as calm and collected and cordial as he was on the phone.

I follow Vincent into the same hallway Marcus led me and Cas down the last time we were here, but instead of another one-way ticket to the alley, he leads me to a set of double doors further down the hall.

Behind them, an elevator.

A seven-year-old memory springs up at the sight of it, but it dissipates when I realize it's not the same one Cas and I stepped into that night he took me to the roof.

This one must be for staff, because the inside is a mismatch to the rest of the building's opulence. Beige floor tiles, gray walls, eye-twitching fluorescents casting the space in sickly light.

Vincent steps in, but I pause on the threshold for a moment.

He gestures me forward. "He instructed me to bring you straight up to his office."

With a curt nod, I step in after him, and Vincent scans a badge over the electronic pad near the panel of numbered buttons.

The elevator climbs smoothly skyward, and I have to stop myself from getting too far in the weeds with other memories that come creeping back in.

What had Cas said that night?

Something about knowing the building's owner? Something about how he was certain it was alright for us to be up on the roof?

And then Marcus had shown up and called Cas… brother.

I stop the thoughts right there.

They've got a history, sure, but Marcus was just as much of an ass the other night to Cas as he was to me. And that night on the roof seven years ago, the two of them hadn't exactly seemed cozy.

Whatever's gone on between them in their long lives, I have to trust that Cas has been honest with me. He's loyal to Blair, to the Bureau, and he's just as intent on getting answers from the coven as I am.

The alternative would mean he's been playing me for a fool.

Drawing me in and wasting my time, maybe taking my attention away from some other facet of this investigation that might have actually gotten me somewhere.

No.

I refuse to entertain that thought for a single second.

Blair trusts him. I trust him.

Don't I?

The elevator stops and lets out into another service hall, but Vincent doesn't move from where he stands.

"Philippe's office is just through there," he says, gesturing to a set of double doors at the end of the hallway.

"You're not coming?"

Something tightens in his expression, but he gives me a small, polite smile. "He wishes to speak to you alone."

I step out of the elevator, and the doors slide shut behind me. Alone in the hall, I walk slowly forward, straining my ears for any sound, any threat, any clue what I'm walking into.

I hear nothing.

And when I ease open one of the doors at the end of the hall, it lets out into a large, well-appointed waiting area.

Or at least that's what I assume it is.

There's another set of double doors on the other side of this room—much fancier than the service doors and made of dark wood. There's a desk that looks like where a receptionist might sit, and chairs set up at the side of the room looking out the floor-to-ceiling windows.

We must be on the top floor, or at least somewhere very near it, because the view is as spectacular as I remember. The entire city spreads out below, gleaming just as brightly tonight as it was all those years ago, but I make myself turn away.

I'm not here to admire, and by the warm light shining out from beneath those fancy doors, it would seem I'm about to meet the mysterious Philippe.

Drawing myself up to my full height and taking a deep breath to steady my nerves as best I can, I cross the room and raise my hand to rap gently on the wood.

"You may enter."

The voice from within is low and masculine, muffled behind the door, but accented in unmistakable French. Hand on the sleek metal handle, I ease it open to face the vampire it belongs to.

My eyes dart from one side of the room to the other before I find him, catching briefly on what must be the most luxe, expensive-looking office I've ever been in. It's saying a lot, considering some of the upper-crust clientèle I've served over the years, but the rich furnishings and artwork on the walls, the sheer size and grandeur of the place momentarily distract me.

At least until I spot Philippe.

Nearly as tall as Cas, though a bit slimmer, he's dressed to impress in an all-black suit with a black shirt beneath and no tie. He has raven black hair, elegantly styled and smoothed back from a sharply handsome face that's almost gaunt in its dramatic angles. His red eyes rake over me before his lips turn up in what I assume is meant to be a welcoming smile, flashing a bit of fang.

It doesn't ease my nerves in the slightest.

"Ophelia," he says in that same smooth tone he used on the phone. "Please, come inside."

There should be warmth in his debonair French accent, or charm, but whether it's the mismatch that rich alto has with his eyes—something cool and calculating about them, even in all their brilliant crimson—or some deeply ingrained instinct that won't let me see him as anything other than danger , all I hear is a threat.

Pushing the instinct to flee aside, I step deeper into his office.

He crosses the room in a few slow strides and offers me his hand, though not to shake. Palm up, fingers extended, I'm not exactly sure what I'm supposed to do, but when I extend my own he catches it, bends into a half-bow, and draws the backs of my fingers to his lips.

I try to convince myself I'm imagining the soft inhale of breath just before he presses a kiss to my fingers, the sinking suspicion that he's scented me, for some godforsaken reason.

"Thank you for coming. Please, be seated." He gestures to a pair of chairs set in front of another wide wall of windows.

This side of the building has more incredible views, with sight lines into the harbor—dark now except for the occasional light from a couple of passing ships or ferries.

"I trust Vincent showed you better hospitality than what you received the last time you were here?"

"He did," I say, letting myself settle back in my chair, loosen my posture, and match the teasing edge in Philippe's tone.

If he wants to act like this is just a friendly chat, I can play along. Especially considering what Cas said before about getting him talking.

"Though I have to say, I was surprised to get your call," I tell him with my own coy smile.

"Were you? I would have thought you'd be waiting on it, considering how determinedly you've been trying to pry into my affairs these last few weeks."

His tone has barely changed, and his face is an alabaster mask, but the warning in the words is unmistakable.

"I don't know what you mean."

"Please, Ophelia. Playing dumb certainly doesn't suit you. You've been here, in my city, poking around the coven with no regard to consequences for such behavior."

I barely bite back a snort. His city? The absolute arrogance is a little comical.

Instead, I paste a bland, innocent expression onto my face. "I've been investigating rogue vampires preying on the city. I didn't realize that had anything to do with the coven."

"You spoke with Cassandra," he snaps, brushing the insinuation aside.

"An old friend. I thought she might be able to help me out."

"An old friend," Philippe murmurs. "As is Casimir, I suppose?"

"Right." The word sticks in my throat. "Just like Casimir."

He hums contemplatively. "What was it? Five years ago? The last time you showed your face here at the Raven."

"Seven."

"And, if I recall correctly," he continues like I haven't spoken, "you had some kind of tryst with Marcus, before moving on with Casimir? Sowing such discord between my two brothers."

The corners of his lips turn up with something that might almost be amusement. It's not, though, not with the way his eyes stay hard, flinty, sizing me up like I'm a puzzle to solve.

I shrug, swallowing again over the heaviness in the back of my throat. "It was a long time ago. I'm sure everyone involved has no problem letting bygones be bygones."

"Well, it would certainly seem that Casimir has. But he did always have the most… temperate personality. Of the three of us."

Philippe's eyes drop to trace along the slope of my neck, pausing to study the fading mark there for a few long moments.

"Why didn't you invite him to join us for this meeting?"

Philippe's smile returns, something calculated and knowing in his expression. "I spoke to Casimir earlier today, so he's well aware of my thoughts on the matter. And besides, I am much more interested in speaking to you, Ophelia. After so many centuries, conversations between my brother and I tend to start running themselves in circles. But you are a novelty, and I do so crave novelty wherever I can find it."

His eyes are brighter now, almost eager, and a trickle of unease curdles in the bottom of my stomach.

He spoke to Cas? And Cas didn't tell me?

Maybe it's not a big deal. Cas and I haven't seen each other today, so there's been no opportunity for him to mention it. But… he could have called, or sent a text, done something to let me know he'd spoken to Philippe.

I did my damndest to get a hold of Cas before this meeting, and he kept his conversation with the vampire we've been hoping to speak with for weeks a secret.

What else has Cas hid from me?

More conversations with his brothers , more centuries of twisted games and history between them?

Or , I make myself remember, it could be Philippe lying, manipulating, playing his own games that have nothing to do with Cas.

I stand slowly from my seat and take a step closer to the windows. I hope it appears as idle curiosity to Philippe, the need to stretch my legs or a simple desire to take in the view. I hope he can't hear the thundering of my heart or scent the dread that's growing heavier and heavier by the second, the shaky energy coursing through me making it impossible to stay still.

In the reflection on the glass, I watch as Philippe rises and takes a slow step forward to stand behind me. He lifts a hand, and the ghost of his touch at my back makes my skin crawl.

I want to get the fuck out of here.

I don't want to be a pawn in Philippe's game, or Cas's, or whoever the fuck wants to play with me.

The case is still important, though, and I also want to know what he knows. Despite it all, I came here for a reason.

Indecision roils inside of me, stealing my breath and cramping in my stomach.

I turn to face Philippe. "What do you know about Haverstad and the attacks?"

"So blunt," he says with a humorless chuckle. "Cutting right to the chase? Eager to be done with our conversation?"

"I just don't have much interest in rehashing the past. The present is so much more exciting, isn't it?"

"Indeed." Philippe thinks for a moment. "Clever girl, connecting the mayor to the attacks. Very well done, Ophelia."

Jaw clenched, I make myself hold my tongue at the condescension in his tone.

"And, if my sources are correct, you've also been looking into one of the victims. A boy. Dylan, was it? He—"

"Devin," I correct, ignoring the flash of irritation on his face at being interrupted.

"Devin. Of course. I suppose, then, you've already discovered how the other two victims connect back to Haverstad and his campaign?"

I could lie.

Audra hasn't uncovered any information about the other two, and neither have Cas or I.

Would it be better to pretend like we have? Maybe if I bluff, he'll go on one of those monologues Cas said he's so prone to.

"Ah," Philippe says before I can decide, pouncing on the split-second hesitation. "You haven't. Such a shame. One could be a coincidence, could it not? But three victims with ties to the campaign? I believe that reeks of conspiracy."

He's right. If we can prove it, then leak it into the press through Audra, case fucking closed. Haverstad would be exposed for the corrupt trash he is and our work here would be done.

"What have you found out?"

Philippe's eyes sparkle with merciless amusement. "You think I'd give that information up so easily? For so little incentive as that charming demand?"

Grinding my teeth, I wrack my brain for anything I could offer. I doubt it's money he's after, and I don't wield any kind of influence or power that might appeal to him.

Again, I really, really wish Cas was here for this. At the very least, he'd probably have some idea how to sweeten the deal.

Before I can come up with an answer, Philippe speaks again. His voice is lower this time, more intimate as he leans toward me.

"But I am nothing if not generous, so I could tell you… for a taste."

A… taste? As in… him biting me?

That seems to be the case as Philippe's eyes drop to my throat, narrowing a little as he considers Cas's bite there. He takes a half-step closer and raises a hand, brushing his thumb lightly over the mark. I swallow back a wave of nausea at how utterly wrong it feels.

"You've been bitten here more than once," he muses. "So unlike my brother, to be precious about where he feeds, and from whom."

He rests his other hand on my waist, and the cold of his touch seeps through the fabric to brush icily against my skin.

Panic and danger and the urge to flee clamor in my mind, a violent cacophony I can barely think around.

But I have to. I can't let it drag me down. Not now.

"One taste," I say, immediately regretting the words. "And then you tell me everything you know about Haverstad and the attacks and anything else that might be relevant to the case."

Philippe chuckles, running his thumb over my mark again. "A hard bargain. You think your blood rich enough to make it fair?"

"That's up to you."

"Indeed," he murmurs, then falls silent as he considers.

In the few moments of weighted quiet, panic rears its ugly head again.

Cas would hate this. He would fucking hate this. He will fucking hate this.

Not that it should matter what he thinks. We're not anything to each other. We don't owe each other anything.

It shouldn't factor into my calculations at all what I would or wouldn't do to solve this case based on whether or not it would piss him off.

He certainly hasn't been entirely forthcoming in all of this, so this decision should be totally up to me.

Philippe leans in close, twining a hand into my hair to angle my head back and brushing the tip of his nose against the column of my throat.

I fight the urge to retch all over him, and as the scrape of his fangs follows the path his nose just made, my resolve breaks.

I'm not doing this.

I can't do this.

No part of me can stomach the idea of him feeding from me, even if it means getting some miraculous bit of information that's going to blow the case wide open.

I'm not strong enough. Not this time. At least not enough to give that little piece of myself and my dignity away.

I open my mouth to call this all off, raise my hands to his chest to push him away, but Philippe speaks before I can.

"I don't think it would be in my best interest to take this bargain. Not when it almost certainly means Casimir will take it upon himself to make some kind of attempt on my life. And not when we're about to have the pleasure of his company."

He pulls back an inch, and several things happen all at once.

First, a wave of bone-melting relief washes over me as the first part of what he said registers, and I realize I'm not about to be bitten by someone who isn't Cas. Second, that realization quickly morphs into confusion when the rest of it sinks in.

And third, the door to Philippe's office slams open with a crack that rattles the frame. I spin around to look, and my heart leaps into my throat.

There, with fury and violence written all over his face, is Cas.