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Once you leave the airport,Romania is very green. It’s also hot and far more humid than I was expecting. Thankfully, the temperature cools somewhat as we head north into the mountains.

We drive through numerous little towns on narrow roads. Some of the houses look like they’re straight out of a storybook. Others look worn and crammed together, as I assume is to be expected in a place that has so much history. We pass dozens ofblue, yellow, and red Romanian flags, a massive cemetery, and dozens of tiny delivery trucks.

I marvel at it all, trying to wrap my head around the fact that I’m inEuropewith myhusband.

Soon, we’re headed up a winding mountain road. Our guide chatters, happy to answer our touristy questions. He’s informed me the trees are oak and beech, with a few spruces and firs mixed in. The national flower is the peony, but sadly we missed its bloom time by several months. My disappointment is eased by the wildflowers that grow in meadows along our route.

After about ten minutes, we reach a guard station and a gate at the end of it.

“This is the correct address?” our driver asks in his heavily accented English. He cranes his neck forward like he’s trying to see past the wrought-iron gate. But it’s an impossible task—the trees are too dense.

“We’re going to find out.” Noah exits the car, holding the door and waiting for me to follow. I scoot across the seat and join him, growing anxious.

We walk up to the guardhouse. The attendant watches us, protected from the sun. He greets us, but I don’t understand a word of what he says. Apparently, he can read the confusion on our faces because he tries again.

“State your business,” he says, probably thinking we’re lost tourists.

“I’m Montgomery York, heir to the Chevalier line, and this is my wife, Piper.”

Wife.

“We’re here to represent Cassian at tonight’s dinner,” Noah continues. “He informed the committee we’d be coming.”

The guard eyes us standing in full daylight, understandably skeptical. Our clothing might be offending him as well. Neither of us had time to dress up as Chevalier ambassadors. Noah iswearing jeans, and I’m in a pair of leggings, carrying a nylon crossbody purse a NIHA hunter gave me as soon as we reached the airport. We’re both wearing T-shirts.

“We have our passports and government-issued IDs if you’d like to verify our identities,” Noah adds, not about to be turned away.

The man gives us a curt nod, and we produce the paperwork. He frowns, studying the pictures and then squinting at us. Finally, he hands back our things. “We’re expecting you. Your human can’t come inside, though. I’ll send for someone to pick you up.”

“Our…human?” I ask dumbly.

He sighs. “Your driver.”

“That’s fine,” Noah says. “I doubt he’d want to join us anyway.”

I laugh, but when I see the lack of amusement on the guard’s face, I quickly clear my throat.

Noah turns back to the car to pay our driver. He stopped at an ATM in the airport to get local currency. Hopefully, he took out enough.

He must, because the man opens the trunk and helps him with our luggage, thanking him jovially. The driver then waves goodbye as he turns around in the impossibly tiny street, backing up several times before he’s accomplished it.

About the time he’s finally made a one-eighty on the road, a black car pulls up on the other side of the gates. It’s shiny, it looks expensive, and it appears to be waiting for us.

The guard pushes a button inside his station, and the heavy gate rolls to the side, allowing us to walk through.

Our new driver gets out of the car, using the protection of a large black umbrella. He’s lean and scrappy, with thick brown hair. He looks young, barely eighteen, but for all I know, he could be five hundred years old.

“Hello. I’m Tomas, and I will be escorting you to Anghelescu Castle.” He opens the back door for me. “Madam.”

He has a Cockney accent instead of a Romanian one, and his jaunty hat makes me wonder if this is his official job—escorting important vampires between the gates and the castle.

Not that I’m an important vampire.

I slide into the seat, sinking into the luxuriously soft leather, thinking of Cassian’s car back home. It also hits me that I just got in a car with a stranger, exactly what I told my mother I wouldn’t do.

Oh well. What she doesn’t know won’t hurt her, right? Hopefully, what she doesn’t know won’t hurt me either.

Noah settles in beside me, and the driver slowly makes his way up the tree-lined drive.