A Hundred and Fifty-Some Years ago.
Lucien
I was being followed.
I'd felt eyes on me in the revelry, and it wasn't the usual kind of attention that spelled stripping clothes afterwards and the occasional watching of skin slapping against skin.
No. It was malicious, the kind that made your blood curdle. I could smell the blood lust, even in a crowd of thousands, and I'd stepped out to lure whoever thought themselves foolish enough to try kill me in my own home.
And predictably, they followed. Down the abandoned wing of chambers where Ilya's barely used rooms lay desolate. Down to my own bedchamber.
I halt by the doors and without turning, I said with a yawn, "No use hiding if I can smell you all over the place. You smell like shit."
