Page 40 of I Am the Storm

"No, I don't," I say firmly.

She stares at me a moment, then nods. "I agree with you. This isn't Liam's style. But it is quite damning at the moment. I do hope you find what you're looking for. Wherever that might lead."

"Do you know anything?" I ask her point blank, not that I expect an honest answer. It's been my experience that the older and more powerful a supernatural being is, the more they enjoy speaking in goddamn riddles.

"I know you won't give up until you find the truth," she says. "And I know that tenacity puts you in the line of fire, no pun intended." She pulls away as someone across the room calls to her. "Be cautious," she says. "No one is who you think they are in this world. And nothing is as it seems."

Like I said. Riddles. She walks away with a final wink at me, and I realize I'm wasting precious time that I need in order to figure out how to get an invite into the secret auction later tonight.

I head to the bar in hopes of getting another drink and maybe some helpful information from the bar tender, but as I approach, a hand lands on my back. "Allow me," the tall man at my side says.

He's decked out in the richest velvet and finery, from his ring studded fingers to his tailored clothing, wealth oozing from him like pus from an infection. He looks to be in his 50s or 60s, with flecks of silver along his temples, and he has aristocratic features that give him—at first glance—a debonair style. But it's his eyes that tell me who he is before he does.

His eyes are dead. Soulless. All the charm in the world can't take the place of a soul.

He orders two drinks, both blood red, and hands me one. I eye it suspiciously and wait for him to drink first. When he does, I take a sip, relieved it's not blood or something equally awful.

It's bitter and strong, with a sweet aftertaste.

"Miss Eve Oliver," he says, with a drawl to his voice that belies his ruthlessness. "I am delighted you accepted my invitation. Allow me to introduce myself, I am—"

"Lord Nicholas Vanderbilt," I say, smiling my most charming smile. "It's a pleasure to meet you. Thank you for the invitation. This ball is extraordinary." At least I can be honest about that last part. It truly is exceptional.

I was never a very good actor. I tried out for a play in high school once. I got understudy but never had to actually perform, which is probably a good thing. But now I wish I'd studied it a little more seriously, because tonight will take all the acting skills I don't have to pull off feigning interest in this man who makes my skin crawl. As he cups my elbow and guides me through the crowd, a wave of nausea crashes through me and I set my drink down on a nearby table.

"Was it not to your liking?" he asks, eyeing the nearly full glass that's left.

"It was lovely," I say, smiling. "I'm just pacing myself."

He nods, a glint in his eyes. "A woman of temperance. I appreciate that. It's lacking in most who prefer wild extremes."

"And you?" I ask. "Are you a temperate man or one of extremes?"

I study him, and for all intents he looks human. I wonder at his supernatural race. He must have one, to be here.

"I am a man of cultivated tastes and specific desires," he says enigmatically.

The door to the ballroom opens, distracting us both as we glance over at the newcomer. A tall man with fire red hair that flows down his back walks in. He wears a red cloak that looks to be made of a strange material, and his eyes…his eyes…

The Collector smiles and escorts me to the man, who, as we get closer, I realize isn't a man at all.

"Miss Oliver, you have met Dath'Racul before, yes? I believe in his true form."

The fire dragon looks at me, eyes narrowing, and I smile nervously and hold out a hand, unsure what the proper protocol. "Yes. You were the judge at Dracula's trial," I say.

He studies my hand but does not shake it, and I awkwardly let it drop to my side.

"Indeed. You had quite the last-minute turnabout," he says, his voice as deep as it was in dragon form.

As a man, he is beautiful. His golden dragon eyes study everything around us with keen intelligence, and what I thought was a cape is actually his wings, draped around him. His skin is a deep burnt red and his body is massive for a man. Though I imagine he feels small in this form, compared to being a dragon.

"I am surprised to see you here," Dath'Racul says to me, then glances curiously at the Collector.

"It was a pleasant surprise for us all," Nicholas says. "What a rare jewel to grace our presence."

I stifle a shudder at his strange praise, knowing from rumor how he likes to collect 'rare jewels.'

"I would think Miss Oliver would have better things to do, with the trial against her employer so imminent,” the dragon says with cold arrogance. “Certainly, Mr. Night is hoping for more commitment to the preparation,"