Really?” “Hush, Cher, this was not my idea.” They approached the crypt cautiously. The council allowed one and only one bodyguard at a clandestine meeting. Magda would have preferred a battalion of her kind, warriors all, skilled with blades. “You did come prepared, am I right, Beb?” Damien seldom called her ‘Beb’ anymore, taunting her instead with the hated ‘Mags’. But tonight he was nervous, out-of-sorts. She could get down with that. The aristocrats had a way about them, an ancient way. Powerful influence-mongers. Purveyors and dispensers of perversions and pleasures. And endless pain. Some of their Havens were organized like co-ops, with enlightened leadership and a very brotherly love vibe. Damien’s stake in New Orleans was definitely not one of those. Up until then he’d been a golden boy, a veritable cash cow. But something changed and he, they, were on their way to the proverbial woodshed. The Council only summoned. They did not make personal visits. Ever. Damien cocked an eyebrow, still awaiting confirmation that she was indeed prepared.
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