Lucky for me, no one seemed to notice my presence, even as I neared the front door. With every footstep my confidence built, until I got close enough to grasp the doorknob.

The door was open.

I froze. I’d believed no one had seen me coming. As I looked over my shoulder at the broad expanse of lawn, I realized how foolish that assumption had been. The full moonlight might as well have been stadium lighting. Not to mention someone was probably watching me through the security camera mounted above the lintel. I swallowed my fear and stepped inside.

“Hello?” I called, my voice sounding like the dumb female protagonist of a slasher flick. “Your door is open.”

“I know.”

Before I could turn to find the source of the voice, strong arms wrapped around me. The echo of the slamming door sounded final, like the felling of a judge’s gavel.

Whoever held me was not a vampire. I don’t know how I knew. I just did. Maybe it was the smell of his blood, or the surge of power I felt at the realization I could easily overcome him and make my escape. But the foyer was completely dark, and I had no idea where I’d find the door. Healing abilities and heightened reflexes were cool and all, but I really wished we came equipped with night vision. I cursed the total unfairness of it.

“The Master doesn’t like that kind of language,” the man holding me admonished.

My captor shoved me with surprising strength. I collided painfully with a set of double doors, which opened under my weight and spilled me into the next room.

I wiped a trickle of blood from my nose, sickened at my compulsion to taste it. My eyes adjusted to the dark, and I saw the room was very lavish. Leaded windowpanes stretched from the gilded ceiling high above all the way to the marble floor where I lay sprawled. A fresco was painted on the wall. I couldn’t make out the figures distinctly, but there was a lot of nakedness going on. It was like I’d died and been sent to a really Baroque version of hell. Somehow, though, I couldn’t imagine Satan having bad enough taste to hang red velvet drapes.

Six black-clad men stood guard around the room, two stationed at each door, including the one I’d just been thrown through. The thrower stepped in. He was dressed the same as the guards.

“Watch her,” he ordered the two closest men, and all the sentries nodded their heads.

When the thrower left, I climbed to my feet and took a few steps to the right. Each of the guards’ heads swiveled slightly to follow me. I stepped to the left, with the same results. I had an overwhelming compulsion to boogie a little and see if they copied that, too.

Just then a door opened to admit a shadowy figure.

Though the sliver of light spilling in distorted my vision, I could tell from her scent it was Dahlia. My mouth watered at the memory of her blood.