We turn a corner, and I begin to hear voices echoing through the cavernous corridors. “To the community, we’re a bunch of artists, musicians, and young independent businesspeople—creative types—who’ve been granted these luxury living and working spaces by an arts foundation. We ‘give back to the community’ by opening the place up for exhibitions, concerts, and the monthly intel-gathering ‘block parties’ like we had last night.”

He smiles at the memory of the epic party on the top floor of the building that just ended a few hours ago. It was in full swing when I arrived from the airport. I passed through, grabbed a drink, and spent the rest of the evening alone on the roof, until, after dawn, I saw the fleet of revenant-driven taxis shuttle the last partygoers home.

No partying for me. Not last night. Not with the gore of battle still fresh in my mind. Not after witnessing the permanent death of Jean-Baptiste, our leader. And in the midst of it all, my lovely Kate, fierce and beautiful and no longer human. I needed time to process it. To remember. To heal.

“It’s the best spy network ever,” Faust explains, jerking me back into the here and now. “The locals offer us up valuable information on our enemies without even knowing what they’re giving us. The council always meets immediately after to discuss what we learned. So—perfect timing for your official welcome.” Faust and I turn a corner and are in an airy, sunlit space occupying the entire front section of the building, overlooking the waterfront. A kitchen that could easily provide for several restaurants is fitted along the wall at the back. And between it and the floor-to-ceiling windows is a café area with around fifty tables. These are artfully grouped around potted trees strung with Christmas lights.

“This is where I leave you,” Faust says, gesturing toward a gathering of ten tables arranged in a large circle. Several dozen of my New York kindred are seated there, waiting for me in a solemn silence. I move to stand behind the one empty chair left at the “head” of the circle—the one with the prime view of the river.

A familiar figure, dressed all in white, stands at the far end of the table to greet me. “Bardia of the five boroughs of New York, I present to you Jules Marchenoir, longtime Paris kindred,” says Theodore Gold. “Witness for yourselves: His aura confirms him as one of us. Having met him before, I personally vouch for his goodwill, and I know that he is highly esteemed by the kindred of his birthplace.”