“The wine is excellent,” I said, holding up the plastic cup of silver-gold liquid. “And the people watching is even better.”

The opening of an independent gallery in a neighborhood of warehouses and up-and-coming shops attracted all kinds. They ran the gamut from matrons with designer heels and pink-tipped hair to probable artists who were younger than us and had the hunger in their eyes. They wanted their own openings and sold stickers, and the validation that came with both.

I wasn’t an artist—not by a long shot—but I had tried to look appropriately cool. I paired a flowy green top with black leggings and my favorite black boots. The green was a shade darker than my eyes, and I’d left my long, wavy blond hair down. I’d left my sheathed katana, a vampire’s favorite weapon, in the vehicle I’d borrowed for the night. And while I didn’t think there was much threat from this crowd, I still felt vulnerable without it.

“I like this,” I decided, and glanced at Lulu. “Thanks for inviting me.”

Her smile was warm. “You’re welcome, Lis. Thanks for coming with me.” She knocked her cup against mine. “To girls’ nights.”

I’d toast anything that put that kind of light in her eyes. A light I hadn’t seen in a while.

A human approached us—dark skin and dapper suit, trimly fit around a strong body. He smiled tentatively at me, then Lulu. “Lulu Bell?”

“That’s me,” Lulu said. “Hi.”

“I’m Clint Howard,” the man said, offering her a hand.

“Oh my god, sure!” Lulu said brightly, shaking and then gesturing to me. “Elisa, this is Clint. He owns the gallery.”

“Nice to meet you,” I said. “You’ve got a lovely space here. And . . . an eclectic collection.”

His grin was wide and a little sly. “We’re a space for emerging artists. And speaking of which, I saw your piece on Halsted. I’d love to talk to you about an installation.”

Lulu’s eyes went wide. She was a muralist and specialized in outdoor projects; her brightly colored creations covered at least a dozen brick walls in Chicago. We were here, in part, because she wanted to improve her connection to Chicago’s art community. Mission accomplished.

“I’d love to. I love the installation you organized at Garfield Park.”

Clint’s smile was wide and bright. “Thank you. That was nearly a year in the planning. Bureaucrats,” he added with an eye roll.

“Sups have them, too,” Lulu said. “Anyway, it’s gorgeous.”

He nodded. “We’re looking next at a spot in Hyde Park. Not far from Cadogan House, actually,” he said, offering me a smile.

Hyde Park, a Chicago neighborhood on the city’s South Side, was home to Cadogan House, one of the city’s four vampire houses. My dad, Ethan Sullivan, was the House’s Master, and my mother, Merit, was its Sentinel. I’d been born and raised there, although I rarely spent time at the House now.

Someone across the room called Clint’s name. He lifted a hand. “Right there,” he said, then smiled at Lulu. “I’ll call you,” he said, then nodded at me and moved across the room.