Prey grabs his shirt from the floor and pulls it over his messy dark hair. “We’re all set. We leave tonight for Crimson City.”
My heart freefalls.
“T—tonight? You want me to go with you to Crimson City tonight?”
Vuitton’s attention perks up and he looks away from his post at the window. He seems to check on me fully just by noting the shaking sound of my voice.
“You should rest,” he says with that soul touching rumble in his tone.
“I cant!” I nearly shriek. “I’m not ready! I barely know the names of the council by memory. I have no idea what all of them look like. How am I supposed to address anyone?”
“You shouldn’t.” Prey shrugs flippantly. “Don’t address anyone. Give vague answers. Just do the bare minimum to get by. You do not want to make any friends here. We only need you for a little while. A month at the most.”
“A month!?” My hand trembles, and I have to fist my fingers into my palm to stop myself from lashing out at him. “A month is not a little while.”
“A month is barely a blip of time at all. Someday, when you’re old and failing, you’ll come to understand that.” His cold blue eyes cut into me.
Why is he always like this?
He’s charming and cruel all at the same time. Who turned this beautiful man into something so dead inside?
“Come on,” Vuitton opens my bedroom door for me and I’ve never felt so used in all my life.
I pause and look at the two men I’m trusting with my life. And for what?
To find Kyra’s killer. To look her rapist and murderer dead in his eyes and take his life from him, just like he did to her.
My pulse speeds up. I keep pacing, I have to keep focused. My goal is so similar to theirs, but I don’t want to just investigate.
I want to avenge.
And I will.
An hour seeps away, and still I stare at the flat white ceiling of my bedroom. The sun blazes warm light into my chilly apartment.
I can’t sleep.
Instead I go over my facts:
Zavia. Pavel. Rival. Aston.
Zavia. Pavel. Rival. Aston.
Zavia—
The squeal of hinges slices through my anxious mantra and I sit up beneath my thick blanket to find Vuitton lingering within the partially open door.
“May I come in?” He waits tensely and I can’t help but see how different the polite shifter is in comparison to the asshole vampire who would have just stormed into my room, stolen my blanket and attacked me with my pillow on his way out.
That’s where the myths got it wrong: Vampires clearly don’t give a fanged fuck about any formal invitations.
I nod, and the room holds so much quietness as he comes in, closes the door and slowly makes his way toward me.
He’s carrying something small in his large hand, and he offers it to me when he’s just at the edge of the bed.
I take the little stack of polaroids from his hand, and not only do the pictures seem tiny, everything around me, including myself, suddenly looks minute in the shadow of his massive stature.
The confusion within me fades when I turn the pictures over to find faces and names scribbled across the bottoms of the white sections.
Rival Royale.
The handsome vampire who threatened me in the hall stares up with a brooding look of seriousness. His lips form a hard line across his hard features. The lighting of the flash seems to have smoothed his appearance into a vision of impossible perfection.
But there is one remarkable thing that strikes me.
“So, vampires do show up in photographs.” I smile to myself and wonder what else the legends and stories about these monsters got wrong. “Where did you get these?”
Vuitton shrugs his shoulders like it was no big deal. “I stole them from the Council’s filing cabinet.”
I smile even harder.
As does he.
“You got them for me?” I look up at him from beneath my lashes as he nods slowly. “Thank you.”
I slip Rival’s picture to the back and find a beautiful redhead featured in the next picture. Her green eyes are so piercing and knowing, I realize who she is before I even read her name at the bottom:
Zavia Laurent.
I slide her to the back as well and the most strikingly beautiful man appears in the next photo. The angles of his cheeks and the sharp lines of his jaw are as deadly beautiful as his pure white smile. Bright pink hair rises into a messy mohawk atop his head. Fangs come down to a point that brush against his full lower lip.
Aston Cardence.
My stomach twists hard.
He’s the cruelest man of them all. He’s the one my sister told me was a nightmare come to life. He’s the one who turned her, then raped her, and I’m certain he’s the one who killed her.
I close my eyes slowly, memorizing his face more than any of the others.
I shake away the thoughts and flip his picture to the back.
A woman with a big smile and long black hair as dark as her eyes is in the next one.
Acessa Milane.
My brow lowers as I look at the pretty young woman.
“I thought there were only six crofts.” I remark as I trace the edge of the thick film.
“Seven. She’s the newest. Her space is just to the right of yours.” Vuitton explains.
“Who’s to the left?”
“Aston.”
My lips curl, but I do my best to hide my disgust.
I can’t believe my sister had slept next to her tormentor day in and day out without murdering him herself.
I shake my head as I look at the final picture.
The moment I slip Acessa’s picture away. My hands tremble as the next man—no, monster—stares up at me.
A pair of eyes so hollow they’re depthless black holes beneath heavy pale wrinkles that hang loosely from his forehead is the most dominating trait. His hair is nothing more than a few white strands draping down from his bald head spotted with age. His teeth are
