“My old boyfriend. Yes, we all know,” snaps Georgia, who’s been silent since we neared the bar. “I was partying here when Lucien kidnapped me, took me to La Maison, and used me as bait to get to Vincent’s dormant body. Do you guys mind if I hang back on this one?”

Her face has turned a sickly shade of green, as if she’s going to be sick right there on the sidewalk. But as she turns to walk off, a huge, bearded guy with a motorcycle jacket, leather pants, and enough skull and crossbones jewelry to open a Halloween shop comes walking toward us.

“No way,” Charlotte says, her hand drifting toward her waist. She’s carrying a sword, I realize. It’s hidden so well under her long vintage raincoat that I hadn’t noticed it.

“It’s him. Of course I’m sure,” she says to the air. “What do you mean he doesn’t recognize us?”

The guy barely glances at us as he strides by. Charlotte eases her hand from the hidden sword and gapes after him.

Georgia cops on to the fact that someone of interest is getting away, and calls after him, “Well, hey there, handsome.”

The guy hesitates, then turns.

Georgia rests her hand on her hip. “Don’t you remember me?” She saunters up to him, totally unafraid.

He looks her up and down. “Can’t say that I do.”

Georgia presses her hand to her chest like she’s offended. “What? You were totally flirting with me the other night. Wasn’t he, Elise?”

Charlotte strolls up and takes over for Georgia, who’s winging it and obviously has no idea who the guy is.

“Surely you remember me,” Charlotte says. “Remember, the sword fighting?”

He stares at her like she’s crazy. “Sword fighting?”

“Sword fighting,” Charlotte confirms. “You had this big-ass sword and were showing us your mad combat skills.”

The guy frowns, like he thinks we’re playing a joke on him. He glances at me and I shrug.

“I’ve never held a sword,” he says. “I wouldn’t even know what to do with one.”

“Are you sure?” Charlotte asks. “It was a couple of nights ago. You had two friends with you, and the three of you were showing off like sword fighting maniacs.”

At the mentions of his two “friends,” the guy’s face shuts down. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. I’ve never seen either of you before in my life.” He says it likes he means it. He doesn’t seem to be lying. He turns and walks away.

Back of his arm. The tattoo. Take a picture, Arthur says in my head.

I whip my phone out to get a clear photo. Georgia and Charlotte crowd around me as I zoom in and tap the shutter icon.