The streetlights of Saint-Germain flickered once, twice, and died. In the sudden blanket of midnight, the moon overhead turned from pale pearl to the deep, viscous hue of spilled Bordeaux wine.

Victor stopped in his tracks, his leather bag slipping from his shoulder. The air grew impossibly thick, scented with dried roses, winter frost, and the unmistakable metallic tang of ozone. From the shadows of the cathedral courtyard stepped three women whose presence commanded the stillness of the night.

The eldest had silver hair that cascaded past her waist like liquid moonlight, her eyes the shade of crushed rubies. “He carries the scent of the first dynasty,” she said, her voice a melody that resonated in Victor's very marrow.

“A mortal who forgot his lineage,” the second whispered with a sharp, predatory smile, her obsidian gown whispering against the cobblestones. “How quaint. Let us see if his blood remembers who he is.”

Before Victor could scream or retreat, the third—the tallest, cloaked in velvet and gold—stepped within inches of his chest. Her hand was gentle as silk as she touched his temple. A surge of crimson electricity cascaded through his veins, tearing the mundane seal from his consciousness.