I shine the light at the glass. No airy, joyful pastels here. Only deep rich colors, opaque, permitting no light. Many of the panes appear pure black.
I can’t make out the entire scene, but a castle sits by a river. The river is unnatural, not signified by blue or green or white.
I move closer, hold my flashlight near the glass.
The river is red. Deep, rich red, the color of?—
My hand shakes, and I drop the phone. It lands flashlight down. The chamber turns black, my phone a white rectangle on the floor.
Plunged into sudden darkness, I squat and grab my phone, shining the light to every corner.
No one is here. No rising spirits, no earthly creatures, no angry Marteau descendants.
And no vampires.
As my trembling subsides, I lower my gaze to the main attraction. A standalone tomb beneath the window.
I light up the name. GRÉGOIRE LÉON MARTEAU.
And below, a symbol etched in stone. The familiar V with the snake forming an S.
The letters must stand for a motto, some catchphrase that held great value for this man. The mysterious Grégoire Léon Marteau.
The name makes a spot between my shoulder blades tingle, a cold stab of awareness. Like an omen or premonition.
If I believed in such things.
I say his name and my voice wavers. So I say it again. Like a child playing Bloody Mary in the night. Taunting, daring, forcing myself to face the fear.
Suddenly, the atmosphere feels charged. I’m not a child. I don’t believe in the undead. But that doesn’t keep dread from seeping down my back. Thick and cold as oil.
Thunder rumbles outside, close enough to rattle the walls of the tomb.
In a matter of seconds, I’m out the door, through the metal gate, and back on the path, my steps clipping along at a hurried pace.
Above me, the sky churns, still threatens to rain. But my worry stays behind in the great stone tomb, my mind still stuck on symbols and puzzles.
Fixed on whispers of vampires.
And rivers of blood.
24
I’m on the east end of the park when the drops start to fall. Holding the garment bag close, I spot the peaks of the mansion spearing through the trees. I’m almost home. With barely enough time to beat the rain.
To save time, I head for the front gates of Maison Marteau, no time to cut around back through the gardens. Not unless I want to get soaked.
With my head tucked down, I don’t see the figure until they leap from the bushes.
“Brooke!”
I stop short, jolted by the ambush. “Alice, what . . .” I look past her to the mansion, to the empty courtyard. “What are you doing here?”
“I messaged you last night and again today. Why haven’t you answered?” Her tone is severe, her arms tense.
“I’ve been busy. I don’t have anything else to tell you. Not yet.”
She frowns at the garment bag. “Yet you had time for shopping.”
