Page 86 of Nocturne

“Ms. Tatiana,” he murmurs. “Your sister has been expecting you.”

“Is our other guest comfortable?” Tatiana asks.

“Quite,” the man replies with a thin smile. “She and Ms. Katya are upstairs.”

Tatiana leads me through a grand foyer into what appears to be a party in full swing. Elegant men and women in evening wear mingle around a sprawling living area that opens onto a massive backyard. Beyond tall glass doors, a swimming pool gleams turquoise, surrounded by lounging figures.

But something’s off about the guests. They move with too much precision, their laughter too calculated. And their eyes—they follow me with an intensity that makes my skin crawl. Hungry eyes.

Vampires?

“Drink?” Tatiana offers, plucking a crystal glass from a passing server.

I take it automatically, sipping the amber liquid without thought. It burns pleasantly going down, leaves a metallic aftertaste.

“Good, isn’t it?” she purrs. “A special blend. Family recipe.”

As we move through the crowd, I notice things I shouldn’t be able to see in the dim lighting—the pulse at a woman’s throat, the dilation of a man’s pupils as he stares at a passing waitress, the nearly imperceptible movement of insects and creatures lurking in the garden’s shadows.

And other things—couples entwined in dark corners, on divans partially hidden by potted palms. Some wear ornate masks that conceal half their faces, their motions clearly sexual beneath silk and satin clothing.

It’s like stepping into some strange, decadent dream.

“My sister’s guests appreciate…physical pleasures,” she explains, following my gaze to where a masked, topless woman straddles a man on a chaise, fucking him with abandon, her head thrown back in ecstasy. “Being immortal can lead to certain…appetites.”

Immortal. The word echoes in my addled brain.

So they are vampires.

This can’t be good.

And yet I can’t seem to do anything about it.

She steers me toward a grand staircase, her hand at the small of my back like a brand. “Dmitri wanted to meet you of course, but he has…plans for tonight. You’ll have to forgive his absence.”

We ascend the stairs, passing more couples in various states of undress, their faces contorted in pleasure or something darker. A man glances up as we pass, blood visible on his lips, the woman beneath him smiling dreamily despite a thin red line dripping from her neck.

“Here we are,” Tatiana says, stopping before a set of double doors at the end of a long hallway. She pushes them open without knocking.

The bedroom beyond is spacious, dominated by a massive four-poster bed draped in crimson silk. The lighting is dim, candles flickering in ornate holders, casting long shadows across Persian rugs and antique furniture.

Across the room, near a set of French doors leading to a balcony, a blonde woman in a silver evening gown bends over a velvet chaise lounge. She’s kissing someone, her platinum hair cascading over her shoulders, obscuring my view.

“Oh, Katya,” Tatiana calls. “Look who I’ve brought.”

The blonde straightens, turning with liquid grace. Her smile is dazzling, predatory. “Victor Callahan. We’ve been waiting for you.”

As she moves aside, I see who lies on the chaise behind her, and my blood turns to ice.

Lena.

She’s stretched out on the deep blue velvet, her red hair spilling like fire across the cushions. She’s wearing only a silk slip, her legs bare, her skin gleaming pale in the candlelight. Her eyes are half-closed, unfocused, her lips parted as if in dream.

“What have you done to her?” The question escapes before I can stop it, my first clear thought since meeting the brunette outside the station.

“Nothing she didn’t invite,” Katya says, trailing a finger down Lena’s cheek. “Nothing she doesn’t want. Don’t you know anything about her? About her appetites? Her nature? She’s simply…willing. As you are.”

Lena’s dark eyes drift toward me, recognition dawning slowly. “Victor?” Her voice is slurred, distant. “You’re here.”

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