Chapter 1 — The Woman Who Was Already Dead

The vampire holding my invitation knew I had stolen a dead woman's name.

I could tell by the way he stopped smiling.

Behind him, a hundred guests raised crystal glasses beneath the chandeliers of Rook House. Most contained blood. Mine held wine I couldn't afford to drink.

"Mrs. Vale," he said. "A remarkable recovery."

I kept my hand steady around the stem.

"You must be confusing me with someone else."

"Possibly. Eleanor Vale died in February."

The string quartet continued playing. Near the ballroom doors, a guard turned his head toward us.

The man stepped closer, bringing the invitation between our bodies so no one else could see it.

"Walk with me."

He looked perhaps thirty-two. Dark hair, a severe mouth, gray eyes that had already noticed the service door behind my left shoulder. His evening coat bore no jewels, only a small black rook at the collar.

Adrian Rook.

I had intended to rob his study while he entertained his guests.

Instead, I took his offered arm.

His sleeve was warm from the room. The wrist beneath it wasn't.

"If you make a scene," I murmured, "your guests will learn how easily someone can get past your guards."

"My guards will be devastated."

He guided me into a corridor without tightening his arm around mine. I counted two doors, a staircase, and a window overlooking the harbor before we stopped.

The study smelled of leather and sea air. He left the door ajar.

"Put down the glass," he said. "You've almost broken it."

I set it on his desk.

He placed my invitation beside it and tapped the wax seal.

"That die was retired last winter. The bottom feather chipped. You copied the damage beautifully."

I had spent six hours on that seal.

"Your doorman liked it."

"I ordered the replacement."

Of course he had.

I slid my hand toward the pocket sewn inside my skirt. He watched the movement.

"A weapon?"

"A pencil."

"How reassuring."

"Depends what I write."

Something shifted at the corner of his mouth. Then he opened a drawer and took out a thin ledger.

"Did you make the invitation yourself?"

"Would you believe me if I said no?"

"No."

"Then yes."

He opened the ledger. "Tell me what's wrong with this page."

I didn't move.

"I'm not auditioning for employment."

"You came upstairs for something. I assume it wasn't the view."

Beyond the window, a tram rattled along the waterfront. Somewhere below us, human servants were clearing the remains of a feast their compulsory blood payments had helped supply.

I had spent three years paying mine and searching for my sister between shifts. Every office gave me the same answer. Dead. No remains available. No further inquiry permitted.

Last week, a freight clerk had brought a damaged register to my repair stall. I had seen Tessa's name before he snatched it back.

The ledger had been addressed to Rook House.

"I want your death register," I said.

Adrian's gaze sharpened. "Whose entry?"

"Show me the page."

He turned the book toward me.

I found her halfway down.

Tessa Venn. Twenty-six at registration. Deceased.

My sister should have been twenty-nine now.

A small hooked stroke sat beside her number. I leaned closer, keeping my hands at my sides because suddenly they weren't reliable.

"This isn't a closure mark."

"The Revenue Office says it is."

"A closure mark has a bar across the hook. This means carried forward. Whoever copied the register left the transfer notation intact."

He drew another sheet from beneath the ledger.

"Forty-one names in this book appear in my freight accounts. Every inquiry I've sent to Revenue has come back with a different explanation."

"And you host their blood feast anyway?"

"Canceling would have warned them I was done accepting explanations."

I looked at him. "Perhaps your servants are tired of providing the entertainment."

He accepted that without answering.

Footsteps sounded outside. A broad man in a plain uniform appeared in the doorway.

"Revenue inspection," he said. "Director Saye's orders. They want the guest register and everyone admitted under a human invitation."

My eyes went to the window.

Three floors. Wet stone. No balcony.

Adrian noticed.

"Gideon, give us a minute."

The officer glanced at my invitation, then withdrew.

"They found the name," I said.

"Probably."

"Are you going to hand me over?"

Adrian took a printed form from a box on the desk.

"I can place an investigative witness under my protection for seven nights. Revenue can't remove you without bringing the matter before the Council."

"And what do you get?"

"Your work. The truth about those forty-one people."

He laid the form beside the ledger.

I read it twice.

No blood obligation. No transfer of custody. No authority over my body, residence, or movements. I could terminate the arrangement by giving written notice. Any testimony remained mine to give.

Seven nights, ending at dawn after the Blood Moon session.

"Why only seven?"

"That's the limit of a lord's independent protection. After that, the Council decides."

"Your Council."

"Yes."

He didn't pretend the distinction was small.

I tapped the blank marked ASSISTANCE REQUIRED.

"Document examination," I said. "Nothing broader. And I keep a signed copy."

He wrote the words, then pushed the pen toward me.

A voice rose in the corridor.

"Lord Rook cannot obstruct a routine inspection."

"He can finish a conversation," Gideon answered.

I signed before fear could make the decision for me.

Mara Venn.

Adrian read my name, then looked at the open ledger. I saw him make the connection.

"Your sister?"

"Find out where that hook leads."

He signed beneath me.

Gideon brought the inspector in while the ink was still wet. The man reached for my elbow. Adrian moved between us so quickly that I felt the air shift against my face.

"Read this first."

The inspector took the form.

"Director Saye will hear about this."

"Give her an accurate account."

The man's eyes traveled over me, memorizing. Then he left with Gideon.

My knees nearly folded. I gripped the desk instead.

Adrian reached toward a chair, stopped short of touching me, and pulled it out.

I sat.

"The transfer sheet," I said.

He put it before me.

The number matched Tessa's. Beside it was yesterday's date, a departure time, and a destination scraped so hard the paper had thinned.

I held it toward the lamp.

Under the dispatch line, in cramped handwriting, someone had recorded a complaint.

Subject refused extraction. Attendant assistance required.

My mouth opened, but nothing came out.

Adrian crouched beside the chair to see the line I was pointing at.

"This was yesterday," I whispered.

"Yes."

For three years I had imagined where they had buried her.

Yesterday, my sister had still been fighting.