There was a kitchen door somewhere, but he couldn’t remember exactly. He sure as hell was not about to enter Rodrigo’s house through a window. He barked with laughter at the thought of how fast he’d be caught and punished.Assuming Rodrigo was still alive and well, unlike Paris’s vampiros. Every esfera in town, the territories whose possession was the subject of so much dueling and spite by vampiros, but which had always been hidden from prosaicos—all of them were gone, destroyed by the Parisian mob. After the common people had captured the Bastille, the fortress which symbolized royal tyranny, they’d lost themselves in an orgy of drunken slaughter that had extended across much of the Parisian slums. Anyone caught unaware, especially during daylight, was dead meat—and the vampiros had been the most hapless prey of all, either sound asleep when their former victims turned on them or collapsing into dust under the first rays of sunlight. Their vaunted mental and physical powers hadn’t saved them from the hordes coming against them, happy to find someone, anyone, to slake their bloodlust on.Nom de dieu, how the hot summer days and nights had echoed with screams, reverberating through the city’s stone walls and along the cobblestone streets…Only vampiros like Rodrigo and Sara, who lived far from the slums and with a strong comitiva’s protection, had survived.
