All jokes about Twilight Manor aside, the House of Shadows really was a mansion. It was built near the Lake Michigan coastline by a wealthy inventor in the 1920s as a summer getaway capable of housing his entire extended family, and sold off after his death and the decline of the family’s fortune in the 1940s.

Drawn by the irresistible magnet of a functioning underworld and the promise of a lack of the scrutiny that the close confines of urban living entailed, a brood of vampires moved into the estate. The actual purchase was made by their mistress, the wealthy and beautiful Lady Eris, surname unknown, original birth name probably something far more prosaic, like Rhoda or Michelle.

It was fully dark outside when Jen pulled into the long driveway, but all the many lights in the windows of the House of Shadows were ablaze, the sounds of music and laughter emanating from the mansion.

There were a handful of cars in the drive. We parked beside an impressive water feature, a circular pond with fountains jetting, koi fish idling beneath the dimpled surface, their scales glinting gold and crimson and ivory in the illuminated green water.

Jen shuddered in the warm air.

“You okay?” I asked her softly.

“Yeah.” She got out of the LeBaron, her expression grim. “Let’s do this. I want to give Bethany a piece of my mind.”

I touched dauda-dagr’s hilt. “Okay.”

I rapped vigorously on the door knocker, and despite everything, I found myself catching my breath when a vampire opened the door in answer.

He was just so . . . undead.

You don’t realize how much you take for granted the fact that people, including the vast majority of eldritch beings, have pulses until you encounter someone who doesn’t, someone who doesn’t even breathe unless it’s to speak. And suddenly I was sixteen again, filled with more bravado than courage, brimming with fear, righteous anger, mortal loneliness, and the simple human desire to impress a potential friend. I hated when that happened.

Steeling myself, I raised the rune-marked palm of my left hand. “Hi,” I said. “Daisy Johanssen. Remember me?”

The vampire inclined his head. “I do.”

“May we enter?” I asked. “My friend Jennifer would like a word with her sister, Bethany. And I need to speak to Lady Eris.”

The vampire hesitated. He was a tall guy with longish blond hair, strong, aristocratic features, and that bloodless, milk-white pallor to his skin. His gaze dropped to the dagger on my hip. “You are not welcome bearing that weapon,” he said in a stiff tone. “Remove it, and you may enter.”

Oh, good. I felt badass again. “Hel gave this to me with her own hand,” I said. “The left hand, the hand of death? It stays.” I raised my eyebrows at him. “Or if you like, we’ll wait outside. You can send them out to us. We can talk on the terrace.”