Frey and I look at each other. If ever there was a couple who didn’t identify with the traditional, it’s us. So we take the pamphlet and contact information. We are assured such a ceremony fulfills the civil requirement that makes the marriage legal. And the service can be performed in any location. Sounds perfect for what we want.
We get back to Lorgues at six p.m. We purposefully planned the day so we would have an excuse to stay in town for the evening. In thirty minutes, Chael will pick us up for my meeting with the infamous King Steffan. So far, I’ve managed to push thoughts of it to the back of my mind, but I can’t evade them any longer.
Frey and I sip glasses of wine while we wait in the café. We are both quiet.
At 6:15, Chael appears. One minute the extra chair is vacant, the next, he’s sitting in it, joining us like the object of a magician’s sleight of hand. He smiles and brushes an imaginary piece of lint off an impeccably tailored jacket.
“How does he do that?” I mumble to Frey. To Chael, I ask, Where is your car? I thought you were taking me to Steffan?
Did you find the documents satisfactory? he replies, not addressing my question. I was extremely pleased that you thought to come to me with your request.
Yes. Thank you. The two words are slow to form, but he did help us out of a sticky situation. I keep thoughts of the part he may have played in the neat wrap-up to Williams’ case back in San Diego tucked carefully away. Time to explore that mystery later. I gesture instead to Frey. We are both appreciative. Now, about Steffan?
Before Chael can reply, a Rolls-Royce pulls to the curb. It’s a classic, a Phantom, the top down, and a gasp of appreciation goes up from the people sitting around us. The car is a deep royal blue and from what I can see of the inside, the upholstery is red leather. The paint is so highly buffed, I can see Frey’s reflection in the door panels. Only Frey’s. It looks like he’s alone at the table.
I wonder if anyone else notices.
I’m so wrapped up in my own musings, it takes an instant to realize the driver is looking at me.
Ms. Strong?
A vampire. I nod acknowledgment.
Would you get in please?
Frey starts to push back from the table, but Chael puts a hand on his arm. Only Anna. We will wait here.
I see irritation tighten the lines around Frey’s mouth as he shrugs out of Chael’s grasp. This time it’s my hand on his arm. “It’s all right. You wait with Chael. I won’t be long.”
Frey shoots Chael a venomous look. “This isn’t what we agreed on.” Then his eyes latch onto mine. “Anna, I don’t think it’s a good idea to see this Steffan by yourself. What if you get into trouble?”
“I’ve got you on speed dial.” I lean in and brush his lips with mine. “And Chael is staying here. If anything happens . . .”
The panther, dark and dangerous, flashes in Frey’s eyes. He nods and relaxes back in his chair. He understands. “We’ll be right here.”
By the time I get to the curb, the driver has slipped from behind the wheel and is holding the front passenger door, rather than the rear passenger door, open. It’s not surprising. It makes perfect sense to have an unknown vampire sit where he can keep an eye on her. Casting no reflection means not being able to watch in a rearview mirror.
I climb in and he shuts the door, giving a two-finger salute to Frey and Chael. Frey frowns back. Chael merely smiles.
Once the driver has pulled the car into traffic, I turn in the seat to give him the once-over. He must have been in his thirties when he was turned. His face bears the look of one who spends a great deal of time outdoors—lines radiate from the corners of his eyes, his skin is smooth but deeply tanned. His dark hair is brushed back from his temples and touches the collar of his shirt and when his eyes find mine, they are green with gold flecks. He is broad shouldered, not dressed in the uniform of a chauffeur, the lines of his jacket cut in a classic style, his slacks tapered to the tops of polished loafers. His hands on the wheel look steady and strong, his fingers slender, his nails lightly buffed.
King Steffan obviously likes his employees to cut a stylish figure.
All the time I am studying him, he keeps his thoughts closed. Completely. He has been vampire for a long time to master such ability. Nothing comes through. Neither is he probing my thoughts. If I am of any interest to him, he gives nothing away.
King Steffan trains them well, too.
“Do you speak English?” I ask at last.
“Yes,” he replies.
“Can you tell me where we are going?”
“We are almost there.”
I look around. We have left the town limits and are traveling out into the countryside. But I see nothing that looks like a castle. In fact, I see nothing at all. This road, if I remember correctly, leads to a farming community and little else.
Strangely, I feel no concern. Where uneasiness should have vampire clawing her way to the surface, instead I find myself enjoying the ride: the purr of the stately old engine, the wind in my hair, the freedom of not having to guard every thought from intruding minds. The driver pays me no heed.
Fields surround us, the perfume of new grass and freshly tilled soil fills the night air. I look up at stars like pinpricks of fiery ice filling the darkening sky. They appear as if someone had thrown a switch at sunset to start the show.
A sliver of a moon dances on the horizon. Besides the stars, it sheds the only light, meager as it is, to illuminate the road. When the driver pulls off onto a side road, I stir and glance over.
“Where are we?”
He smiles but says nothing.
Okay. Enough is enough. “I thought I was going to meet King Steffan.”
The driver slows the car at the edge of a bluff and stops.
He turns in his seat and lets his eyes lock with mine.
Before he opens his thoughts to me, I know.
And feel foolish that I hadn’t guessed.
This dashing driver, this old vampire with the impenetrable mind, is King Steffan. “Very cute,” I say.
“Are you angry?” he asks.
I raise my shoulders. “Should I be angry?”
“Well, you were promised a castle.”
I wave a hand. “I’d settle for a ride in this beautiful old car over a visit to a stuffy castle anytime.” I brush a finger over the dashboard. “What year is it?”
“It’s a 1929.”
“And I suppose you’re the original owner.”
He laughs. It’s musical and self-deprecating. “Yes. But you may change your mind when you see my castle. It’s not stuffy, I assure you.”
He is studying me the way I studied him when I first got into the car. After a moment, he says, “You are not what I imagined.”
“Which is?”
He tilts his head. “After the stories I’d heard about you, I expected someone with a harder edge. Someone tougher. You look like the schoolteacher you once were. Not a bounty hunter. And certainly not like the vanquisher of half a dozen old-soul vampires.”
“You’ve done your homework.”
“Of course. Haven’t you?”
“No.”
He looks surprised. “And yet you agreed to meet me alone? You were not afraid?”
“Half a dozen old-soul vampires, remember?”
He laughs again at that. “You have confidence, Anna. And strength of conviction, I can see that. It pains me to think we may become adversaries.”