I nodded, and he produced a similar slim folder from the side pocket of the car and opened it to reveal three photographs. “The woman is Amitee Marchand,” he said of an exquisite woman, black haired and dark eyed, with skin like alabaster and a swan neck that looked like it belonged on a ballerina. “Her brother, Fernand.” He pointed at the photo of a dark-haired man. I could see the family resemblance, though the woman looked elegant and her brother just looked jaded. “Miss Marchand is the intended bride of Leo’s son, Immanuel,” he said, pointing at a digital photograph of a vamp.
The information and the vamp’s Christian name were arresting. I pushed myself into an angle on the seat so I could see the photos better. Leo’s son, whatever that meant, had short, ash blond hair and chiseled bone structure. His smile was infectious, even from a photo. “Not trying to be catty,” I said, “but son like his blood-son, and bride like Bride of Frankenstein?”
Bruiser chuckled. “Immanuel is Leo’s biological son, turned when he reached his majority some years ago.”
Which could have been years meaning decades or centuries. The young-looking man had little of Leo about him, except for the shape of his jaw and nose, and I never would have caught the resemblance. “I didn’t know vamps could breed at all,” I said, intrigued. “I figured sperm and eggs died when vamps were brought over.”
Bruiser had an agenda and didn’t reply to my nosy statement. “Immanuel met the bride in Europe and the marriage was arranged. And please don’t use phrases like “Bride of Frankenstein” at the party. I’d rather not have to duel over your insult.”
I wasn’t sure if he was serious or not, and I had a metal image of Bruiser with a fencing foil or pistols at twenty paces. “I’m just yanking your chain,” I said. “Arranged marriage?”
“Things are done differently in vampire families as old and influential as the Pellissiers. The Marchand family has served as blood-servants to Clan Rochefort, in the south of France, for two centuries. The joining of the two families creates business opportunities for Clan Pellissier and strengthens the blood and commercial connections that they currently share.”
“So, if the girl is part of Clan Rochefort, why didn’t they bring her over?” I asked, trying to gain as much information as I could while I had a willing source. And trying to ignore the fact that I was as fascinated as any vamp-fangirl.
“Leo wanted to bring both of the young people over himself, so that Immanuel and Amitee could share in a mind bond later, if they so wished. We’re nearly here.” He lowered the privacy partition and gave the driver instructions.
I’d have to ask about the mind-bond thing. Along with vamp reproduction. Ick.
Leo’s house stood on a bend of the Mississippi River, the water purling softly in the night. It was at the end of a well-paved but little-used road, no houses within sight. The house was built on high ground, the hillock rounded and smooth and clearly artificial, some twenty feet above sea level, higher than anything around it. Curling-limbed live oaks arched over the long drive, standing like sentinels on guard in the night.
The white-painted, two-story brick house was a mixed architectural style all its own, with dormers in the tall slate roof, and gables at each corner with turret rooms, or whatever they were called, on the third floor. Light poured through the windows, black shutters at each, two shutters hanging open at an angle, proving they were working devices, not just for show. Stained-glass windows were here and there, shades of crimson and scarlet and cerise pouring into the dark.
Porches wrapped around both stories, interrupted by the turret things. Lights hidden in the foliage threw a soft white glow on the outside walls while others lit the drive and walks. It was a house originally built in the nineteenth century, one that screamed it had been constructed by slave labor. Slave labor probably kept it looking nice even now, all painted and pristine, but by willing blood-slaves, not by humans bought and transported wearing chains.
Limos moved toward us and turned in behind us, headlights glimmering on the drive. An old man stood at the bottom of a staircase to gesture at the house, as if the guests couldn’t figure out where to go once they arrived. When we pulled to a stop, he opened the car door and said, “Good evening, ma’am, George. Mr. Pellissier is waiting for you and the young lady to arrive.”
There were probably a dozen steps to the front door. I flashed a lot of leg going up and could tell that Bruiser was enjoying every moment. At the top of the stairs, a woman in sensible shoes and tux skirt with apron offered us champagne, and this time I took a glass to have something to do with my hands. Which were clammy with apprehension.
I had never been to a party as froufrou as this, and I already hated it—designer party clothes, party social manners, and party people milling around chatting. Give me a beer keg, a radio blasting country music, and a bunch of security experts discussing guns, edged weapons, and Har leys and I was fine. This was agony.
At the door I said to Bruiser, “You forgot to search me.”
“I’m saving that for later,” he said with a half grin. “Much later.”