I nodded. I couldn’t blame the vampire for covering herself. If things went badly, and they just might, Tobias Dawson and Mab Monroe would probably come knocking on Roslyn’s door, demanding to know why I’d been wearing one of the vampire’s rune necklaces and how I’d snitched one of the hookers’ invitations to the party. This way, Roslyn had an out.

“And do me another favor,” the vampire said, her dark eyes serious behind her silver glasses.

“What?”

“Whatever you’re going to do to Dawson tonight, don’t get caught,” Roslyn said. “I don’t want to have to deal with the honky-tonk bastard any more than I already have.”

I gave her a cold smile. “Don’t worry. If I get caught, Tobias Dawson will be having too much fun with me to even think about bothering you.”

25

25

At eight o’clock that evening, my taxi pulled into the long, snaking driveway that led up to Mab Monroe’s mansion.

Given her status as the city’s richest and deadliest citizen, Mab Monroe lived in the biggest, most impressive home in Ashland. The gray stone structure soared fifteen stories into the air, making it taller than some of the downtown skyscrapers. The mansion’s three equalsize wings formed a wide, upside-down W-shape. Tall, skinny windows fronted each floor, along with crenellated balconies. A twelve-foot-tall stone fence ringed the mansion itself, which was set back more than a mile from the main road. From the research Fletcher Lane had done over the years, I knew the expansive, manicured grounds featured several gardens, three greenhouses, an aviary, a golf course, copses of woods, and a small lake. Along with giant patrols, guard dogs, assorted magical trip wires, and some other nasty surprises.

A light spotlighted a red banner draped over one of the balconies in the center wing of the mansion. The enormous piece of heavy fabric featured a rune done in shimmering gold—a round circle surrounded by several dozen curled, wavy rays. A sunburst. The symbol for fire. Mab Monroe’s personal rune. The same one on the invitation in my purse.

The driver fell into the flow of traffic going through the open wrought-iron gates that designated the entrance to Mab Monroe’s estate. The yellow taxi seemed out of place among all the stretch limos crawling up the curving driveway like fat, black beetles. It took twenty minutes for the driver to maneuver all the way up and stop in front of the entrance.

My gray eyes flicked over the security. Five giant guards roamed through the line of limos, opening doors, helping people out of their vehicles, directing traffic, and making sure the waiting drivers weren’t getting into too much trouble drinking or smoking on the sly. Two more giant guards stood by the front double doors that led into the mansion, flanking a smaller human holding a large clipboard.

“That’ll be twenty bucks,” the driver growled.