Page 72 of Ophelia's Vampire

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.

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