The first course arrived, and with it, the beginning of the end.
Chef Gustave had outdone himself. The blood consommé was served in crystal bowls rimmed with gold — a deep, translucent crimson that caught the candlelight and threw tiny rubies across the tablecloth. For the mortal members of the table, there was a mushroom broth, which looked considerably less dramatic but smelled considerably better, and which Petra was already feeding to Lord Bartholomew through a tiny silver spoon she had stolen from the dessert setting.
Cordelia picked up her own spoon. Set it down. Picked it up again.
Three inches had never felt so small.
Sorath was close enough that she could smell him — not blood, not darkness, not the particular, metallic scent she associated with vampires generally and her family specifically. He smelled like smoke and cedar and something underneath that she could not name but that made her skin tighten in a way she resented deeply and personally.
