Chapter 2

It was well past one A.M. when he left the house, dressed in a black shirt and jeans. He was invisible for the brief flight to a rooftop overlooking a dark alley. One that he knew was used by the homeless as a relatively safe place to spend the night. Relativelybeing the operative word, because the police patrolled the areas closer to downtown—charged with removing any homeless persons, lest they disturb the patrons of the various shops, restaurants, and entertainment venues.

Armand knew that blood was blood. It didn’t matter who it came from. Feeding from the unfortunates living on the streets was less likely to be noticed than if he did so from the majority of the population.

When he saw a lone young man curled up in a doorway, he dropped down silently the ground. His senses told him the teen was only half asleep. Undoubtedly because he knows if he truly sleeps, he’ll be easier prey for the punks who go after kids like him, and homeless adults.

Armand approached, waiting until the teen became aware of him. As soon as the teen looked up, Armand took control of his mind, telling him he had nothing to fear. Then Armand knelt, cupped the boy’s jaw with one hand to ease his head back, and drank. When he was finished, he sealed the wound, wiped any memories of what had happened from the teen’s mind before releasing him, then moved on. He did that twice more, with an older man in the next alley, and a young woman crashing under a loading dock a few blocks away.

His hunger sated, Armand returned home. As he was an Old vampire—meaning over one thousand years of age, and in his case well over—it would be another two weeks before he needed to feed again.

* * * *

Three nights after his chat with Maurice, Armand decided it was again time for him to visit La Nuit ?ternelle in person.

As he stepped into the restaurant, his gaze took in closest tables, with their pristine white cloths and napkins, black armchairs, and ebony vases. Each vase held deep red roses, complementing the ruby-red edges of the white china plates. Ruby-red-rimmed wine glasses and silver tableware completed the settings. The walls of the room were highly polished, alternating panels of dark bloodwood and ebony. The lighting came from sconces on the walls and candles on each table.

“Monsieur Lyon,” the ma?tre d’ said, coming over to greet Armand.

“Enough, Paul,” Armand replied with a smile. “Save the Monsieurfor the guests.

“Like Mr. Jamison?”

“Yes.” Armand started away, paused, and asked, “Was that your subtle way of telling me he is, or was, here?”

“Is. At his usual table.”

“Then I should stop to say hello.”

Thomas Jamison was one of the city’s foremost attorneys and a good patron of the restaurant—especially after a long day in court. He would go home to change into the required formal attire, then bring his wife, and often another couple, to dine on the excellent cuisine La Nuit ?ternelle offered.

“Armand, good to see you,” Jamison said when Armand stepped up beside him. “I was hoping this would be a night when you were here. I’d like you to meet my mother and father-in-law, Beth and John Porter.”

“A pleasure to meet you both,” Armand replied, taking Mrs. Porter’s hand to kiss the back.

She blushed, asking her daughter, “Is he always this courtly?”

“Indeed I am,” Armand replied before Constance Jamison could. He then kissed her hand as well. “Have you been to the theater?” A logical deduction, as the corner of a program peeked out from the top of her purse.

“Yes. It was marvelous.” Constance and Beth went on to tell him exactly how wonderful it was until Armand excused himself.

And that is why I leave running the restaurant up to my staff. My patrons seem to think, because I stop at their tables, I’m interested in every detail of their lives.

He knew he was being churlish, but he truly had no interest in what his clientele did, or didn’t, do. The restaurant was, at best, a reason to explain how he could afford to live as he did. That it needed humans to run it was a necessity. As were the humans who would to pay what he was well aware were the exorbitant prices he charged for the, as far as he was concerned, dubious pleasure of showing off for their circle of friends and clients.

Armand ran the gauntlet between the Jamison’s table and the kitchen, stopping twice more to greet patrons he knew. With great relief, he closed the kitchen door behind him, leaning against it

“Trouble, boss?” Gilbert, the sous-chef, had a twinkle in his eye.