Page 70 of Ophelia's Vampire

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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 itisfamiliar.

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 naïve 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.”

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