Page 7 of Bitten By Desire

That piqued my interest. “What sort of lead?”

“The general sent Tittwell and a new guy named Orson to investigate a high-profile murder right here in Paris. We think it’s related to a board member because of the urgency.”

“Is that why we came to France?” I turned to Julian. I thought he’d been trying to stir something between us because our first lives had been here. Though it was so many hundreds of years ago, I was sure it looked entirely different.

“Indeed,” he said with a dangerous smile. “I have procured invitations to a private memorial event for the victim.”

I furrowed my brow. “What kind of event? That sounds strange.”

“It’s a big fundraiser in honor of his personal cause,” Zoe said. “Julian donated a hefty amount through a dummy corporation so he wouldn’t be recognized by name. You’ll be attending as Mr. and Mrs. Mercer this evening. Wealthy socialites from Los Angeles. There are two chameleon charms in the bag so you can snoop away right in front of that gross little imp, Tittwell.”

My pulse raced as I thought about it. I may actually be able to find answers. We may have finally found a lead that brings us to my mother’s killer and helps us find Em.

About time, Pythia said from the back of my mind. The voice that always seemed to know what needed to happen had been silent since the night my mother died. I blamed that on myself as well, since I’d forced her to show herself and answer my questions, draining her of energy so she was helpless to let me know.

Not true.

So you purposely didn’t warn me? Shock and betrayal swelled as my throat grew thick. Why?

Sometimes all I can do is guide you toward the least awful consequences.

It might have been the longest sentence she’d ever uttered. I swallowed. Would others have ended up dying, too, if I’d interfered?

She catches on. Now stop blocking me and get to work.

“I’d better get ready,” I said out loud and carried the bag of goodies to the bedroom with shaking hands.

* * *

The memorial felt more like a party with trays of hors d’oeuvres and glasses of champagne being passed by servants in black. Whoever the dead man was, he must’ve had some serious power and money behind him to get them to open a wing of the Louvre for his widow. Julian snagged a pair of drinks off a tray and handed me one with a debonaire smile. Due to the chameleon charm, his face had changed shape, his eyes now brown—a huge contrast to his usual indigo. And his dark curls had turned sandy and sunk close to his head as a matching beard had grown. Still, his magnetism persisted, along with the expressions that remained entirely Julian.

I, on the other hand, had lost a couple of inches despite my already petite stature, and my now strawberry blonde hair had arranged itself into a pixie cut close to my scalp. My eyes had brightened to forest green, and my nose had shrunk, leaving me with what felt like a tiny dot instead.

The outfit Zoe had thrown in for me was a low-cut navy dress with a full princess-length skirt that worked well with my black belt that held an infinite number of tools in its secret compartment. I wore black gloves and an onyx necklace at my clavicle with a spell that helped protect. I doubted I’d need it with my own personal vampire, but one never knew.

Hooking my arm through Julian’s, I sipped the champagne as we strolled through the hall, smiling at people and searching for anything out of the ordinary. I kept my eyes slightly squinted so I could watch the auras around me.

When we reached the center, Julian paused so we could view the large portrait of a strikingly handsome man surrounded by wreaths of red roses. His dark eyes seemed to stare right at me as I took a good long look at his face. A nameplate along the bottom read Gerard Montague.

“General Fontaine sends his sincerest condolences,” a familiar voice said from around the other side of the portrait.

Exchanging a glance with Julian, we made our way to where a small line had formed before a gorgeous woman in a long black evening gown. Her large brown eyes were rimmed with red from crying as she appeared to force a smile for the imp standing in front of her. Her dim aura was mostly gray, though I supposed if this was the widow, that would make sense.

Tittwell, the general’s right-hand creature lowered a kiss to her knuckles, and the strain on her face said she was barely able to remain polite. Next to him stood a tall, muscular man with a pulsing red aura and face like someone had punched it long ago and it had never popped back out again.

Shifter, I said through our connection.

Dragon, if I had to guess, Julian answered. Look at his brow.

Sure enough, the man was sweating big time. Either he was nervous, which didn’t match his aura, or he was running super hot.

“Thank you for coming,” the woman sniffed and pulled her hand back. “Please send the general my thanks as well.”

“Of course. Tittwell and Lieutenant Orson will do everything they can to bring your husband’s killer to justice,” Tittwell whispered loud enough for everyone to hear.

The poor woman glanced around at the others in the line and forced her smile wider. “That’s good to hear. But for right now, I’d just like to grieve.”

The SHADE operatives moved on, and the line took a collective step forward.

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