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unlike Paris’s vampiros . Every esfera in town, the territories whose possession was the subject of so much dueling and spite by vampiros , but which had always been hidden from prosaicos —all of them were gone, destroyed by the Parisian mob. After the common people had captured the Bastille, the fortress which symbolized royal tyranny, they’d lost themselves in an orgy of drunken slaughter that had extended across much of the Parisian slums. Anyone caught unaware, especially during daylight, was dead meat—and the vampiros had been the most hapless prey of all, either sound asleep when their former victims turned on them or collapsing into dust under the first rays of sunlight. Their vaunted mental and physical powers hadn’t saved them from the hordes coming against them, happy to find someone, anyone, to slake their bloodlust on.
    Nom de dieu , how the hot summer days and nights had echoed with screams, reverberating through the city’s stone walls and along the cobblestone streets…
    Only vampiros like Rodrigo and Sara, who lived far from the slums and with a strong comitiva ’s protection, had survived. Even so, most of them had fled to the countryside, trading a steady supply of food for the hope of a longer life.
    God willing Rodrigo was still here, simply keeping his doors and shutters well locked. No respectable man tolerated trespassers, or allowed bullies of any kind onto his property. And as for the thought of rioters charging into his home, intent on destroying his wife…
    Impossible to imagine in a civilized country. And yet…
    Jean-Marie doubled over yet again, his stomach knotting like an anaconda. The innumerable bloodstains on his coat had dulled the once glossy silk into a dull black, concealing their mates on his waistcoat. His breeches and boots weren’t fit for a pigsty. He’d ripped off his shirt cuffs hours ago—or was it days? Probably hours, since they’d gone to cover the eyes of that young Swiss who’d…
    His stomach clenched again.
    The door opened.
    “ Gracias a Dios , you’re home, Jean-Marie!” Rodrigo yanked him inside.
    It was a magnificent house, a true mansion, built for use in Paris by one of France’s great families. Rodrigo had bought it upon their arrival two years ago and cared for it well, adding to its glories from increased wealth wherever he visited.
    Jean-Marie noticed none of that.
    But when Rodrigo hugged him—the strong, simple embrace of masculine friendship—he returned the clasp as warmly. “Mon frère,” he murmured, his throat tight, “I must reek.”
    “You do,” Rodrigo agreed. He released him, unabashedly displaying the tears on his face, and cuffed him lightly on the shoulder. “Which means I now have someone to play piquet with again.”
    Jean-Marie managed a smile as he was intended to do.
    “Any wounds?” Rodrigo asked, his dark eyes fiercely cataloguing every inch of Jean-Marie.
    “All small and well within a compañero ’s ability to heal. Most of this is from other men.”
    “Jean-Marie!” Sara raced into the vestibule and stopped on the threshold. She swallowed hard and fanned herself rapidly. “You look…You smell…” she tried again. She turned away slightly. “Of course, I’m glad you’re home,” she finished in a rush.
    He bowed in acknowledgment, a cynical smile touching his mouth.
    Rodrigo signaled to a hovering servant and drew Jean-Marie into the drawing room, a painted and carved ode to French craftsmanship, and handed him a brimming goblet of Burgundy.
    Jean-Marie poured it down, savoring for once the rich taste of Rodrigo’s mighty vampiro mayor blood, forgetting how long he’d craved such sustenance. Its power kicked him harder than a tankard of illegal apple brandy, screaming like fire through his bones and veins faster than cannonballs across a battlefield. His knees buckled, and he would have sagged except for Rodrigo’s quick grab.
    “Easy there, easy, mi hermano .” He eased Jean-Marie into a