Page 64 of Ophelia's Vampire

It’s from an unknown number, with nothing more than a photo of a bench in Boston Common and a succinct message of4pm, but it’s enough for me to understand immediately that I’ve been summoned, and by who.

This isn’t the first time Philippe’s pulled some sort of cloak and dagger stunt when he wants to get my attention. Always with a flair for the dramatic, perhaps it would be easier not to indulge him.

But Ophelia and I haven’t made much more progress on the case in the few days since we tailed Devin across campus, and with a gut instinct that tells me the coven knows more than Marcus was willing to admit, I begrudgingly make my way to the Common and the meeting spot.

It’s a brilliant fall day, the cold snap from earlier this week long since receded. Bright sun spills over the paved paths criss-crossing wide green lawns as I make my way to the bench. It’s easy enough to recognize with the Soldiers and Sailors Monument in the background of the photo Philippe sent, and I settle in to wait.

As the minutes tick by—passing four, then five after, then ten—irritation rises like damp wool against my skin. Prickling, uncomfortable, it’s all I can do to keep myself in my seat and not say the hell with all of this.

It’s just like Philippe, too, to pull these sorts of little power moves. Petty and small, grabbing whatever upper hand he can whenever he can.

It was exhausting centuries ago, and it’s exhausting now.

It’s almost enough to drown out any curiosity over what he might have to say, but just as I’m about to head back to my car, I catch sight of Philippe.

He cuts a striking figure in all his brooding finery as he ambles down one of the paths cutting through the center of the Common. Black hair and an even blacker suit. Skin as pale as mine and crimson eyes the same deep blood red as all our vampire kin.

“Forgive me,” he says in his smooth French accent, not sounding contrite in the slightest as he slides onto the bench next to me. “I was held up on business.”

“Of course,” I respond, just as smoothly. “I confess, I was surprised to receive your message.”

“Were you? After all the trouble you and that human of yours caused the other night for poor Marcus, I can’t imagine why this would come as a surprise.”

“The trouble we caused? I don’t believe Marcus was entirely forthcoming with you about the nature of our chat. I know he was never one for manners, but most would consider dumping guests unceremoniously into an alley to be poor form.”

Philippe chuckles. “Perhaps it was not most elegantly handled, but then you and I both know that Marcus is not the most elegant of creatures.”

“And how would you have handled it?”

I steal a glance over at him and find his brow lowered in a momentary furrow before he catches me looking and smooths it back into pleasant neutrality.

“I would have suggested you never bother wasting your time in the first place.”

“From what Cassandra suggested, it seemed that—”

“She was mistaken in inviting you to the Raven. She should not have done so without speaking to me first.”

The ice in Philippe’s tone could freeze a lesser creature’s heart in their chest. For me, it’s merely a curiosity. I don’t believe I’ve heard him speak with such emotion in over a century. And certainly not about Cassandra, who’s been working as one of his lackeys for the better part of a decade.

“She was being polite,” I say in her quiet defense. I’d hate for Ophelia and me to be the reason she wound up the recipient of Philippe’s ire. “I believe she thought it might be good for the four of us to catch up, considering all that’s been happening in the city as of late.”

A group of humans walks by as I speak, led by a man dressed as some founding father or other, spouting off fact after patriotic fact. They have the look of out-of-towners to them, wide-eyed as they listen to their guide.

A couple of them notice Philippe and I sitting just off the path, though they quickly avert their eyes. Whether it’s because they don’t want to be perceived as rude for staring, or if some part of their deeply ingrained, instinctual psyches mark us as other, as danger, I’m not sure.

“I’m certain I don’t know what you mean.”

Philippe’s affect is flat, bored, and I glance over to find him peering at one of the humans in the group. A woman in her middle years, with short, gray-dusted brown hair and a round, kind face, she flushes deep scarlet and drops her gaze when she finds herself under his scrutiny.

A pulse of unease moves through me at the look in his eyes. It’s something akin to a cat with a mouse. A bored, distracted sort of torment, idle and amused and sharp as a knife, like all of this is some passing amusement.

I suppose to him it would be, as entrenched in our shared past as he still seems to be.

“You know more than you’d like to let on,” I say, and he turns his attention away from the woman, eyes cutting to meet mine. “And if you’d deign to work with us, perhaps some good could come of it.”

From the moment reports of rogue vampires in the city cropped up, Philippe wouldn’t have rested until he knew the truth of it. Whether to rein in his own coven for insubordination or use the information as some kind of weapon against a rival coven, I know enough of his ruthless, obsessive nature to know he wouldn’t have let it go.

That is, if he isn’t involved with it somehow.

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