Page 48

“Really?” Helen’s voice has gone from cool to icy. “You choose now to do this? Be careful, Tristan, or you may find yourself alone and drowning.”

“Is that a threat?”

“You may take it as one if you wish to do so.”

The sound that comes from Tristan’s throat can only be described as a growl, and my heartbeat picks up speed. This can’t be happening. Anna didn’t give me any instructions on what to do if a fucking vampire fight broke out. Should I text her? Am I still supposed to stick to Tristan’s side if he’s in the middle of a punch-on?

Do vampires even punch each other, or do they just try to rip each other apart with their teeth? There are still so many gaps in my knowledge of vampire society.

After a long, very tense moment in which all conversation in the room stops, Helen looks away.

“I believe we’ll circulate,” Tristan says, sounding like the almost-fight never happened. “Adam should meet people.”

I paste on a smile that I’m pretty sure is fooling nobody and meet Adrian’s gaze. He gives me a tiny nod, which I find reassuring for reasons I don’t understand, and then I let Tristan draw me on to the next group.

An hour later, I’ve met a dozen vampires, some of whom creeped me the fuck out, and about half that many feeders. Some of them were my type of people, and we exchanged numbers. A few were friendly enough, but we either didn’t have much in common or I got the impression that my surname put them off, and one had a stick jammed so far up her arse, I almost called her Tristan by mistake. The one question I really want to ask is why some vampires brought their feeders and others didn’t. Is it just a matter of preference? Do some get along better than others? Are some of the vampires here tonight expecting this party to turn into a fight—which it already nearly did—and didn’t want to risk their feeders being hurt?

I’m talking to a feeder called Amanda when the vibe in the room changes. Amanda glances over my shoulder and sucks in a breath, then glances around to see where her vampire is. Not a good sign. I check that Tristan is still within arm’s reach of me and turn to see what’s got everyone’s attention.

Misha.

The tall blond man is standing dead centre under the chandelier that dominates the huge entrance hall, a smirk on his too-handsome face. The light gleams gold in his hair, and he’d look like a Renaissance angel if not for that smirk. It sends a cold chill down my spine, and I find myself inching a bit closer to Tristan. Why is he here? Paul said Geoffrey might be coming, but nobody mentioned Misha. Why is he even in Sydney—is this a sign that he’s involved in the recent attacks? I can definitely believe he’s behind the burnt bodies.

He starts in our direction, and as though it’s a signal, the little group of vampires around Tristan draws back. I note with half my attention that only the one who didn’t bring his feeder stays; the rest take their vulnerable humans and scatter. Too bad I can’t go with them.

Instead, I stay at Tristan’s side. He hasn’t turned to face Misha yet, hasn’t even looked in his direction, and if he can pretend Misha’s inconsequential, then so can I.

Or at least, I could if my heartbeat would slow the fuck down. Every vampire in the room can probably tell that I’m not chill right now.

“Don’t you look fine, little bird.”

If I thought the room was quiet before, I’ve learned better now. Aside from the instrumental background music, there isn’t a sound to be heard—just a lot of shocked faces on display. My breath is frozen in my chest. Even I know that it’s unacceptable for a vampire to address a feeder without some indication from their vampire that it’s okay, and never before acknowledging their vampire first. Misha just fired the first salvo in a battle I’m not prepared for.

Tristan pushes me behind him as he squares up to the blond, fangs out on full display. “Back. Away.”

Misha grins and doesn’t take his eyes off me. “Cat got your tongue? I don’t recall you being shy last time we met.” Somehow, he makes it sound dirty—or maybe it’s the way his gaze skims over my body. I’m suddenly very grateful for this suit that covers more of me than my preferred T-shirt and trackies.

A hushed murmur runs around the room, and I send out a silent apology to the generations of Barales who worked so hard to establish our family’s reputation. I didn’t even do anything wrong, and still I’ve managed to smear mud on it.

“Do not speak to him.” Tristan’s hiss cuts the air, and finally Misha looks at him… and tsks.

“So protective, Tristan. Almost as though you’re afraid you can’t keep him.”

I don’t even see Tristan move. In the space between heartbeats, Misha’s on the floor with Tristan crouched over him, one foot on his chest, hand at his throat. “Give me a reason,” he growls, and I try not to piss myself. Am I about to witness a murder?

Does it count as murder if the victim is already dead?

Can Misha really be called a victim, given all the shit he’s done?

Am I really debating morality and nomenclature right now?

“What the hell? So much for Tristan being a pillar of law and order.”

There’s a rustle as people turn toward the door, but I’m too scared to move. Only my eyes flicker in that direction.

Geoffrey, flanked on either side by vampires wearing sneers to match his.

Is this a fucking joke?