Page 80 of Even Vampires Bleed (Even Ever After #2)

Florentine

T his is a mess.

Of course, it is when I have finally gotten my first job that pays well that things go wrong.

Yeah, no shit.

It’s always when everything seems to go right that something bigger and much worse happens.

Self-defeating, me? Never. I’m just a fucking realist.

Well, this time it might be warranted.

Paris isn’t safe. The bird-shifters—or the angels like those pompous asses like to be called—have taken over every piece of the sky.

We can go nowhere without one of them looking over our shoulder.

But I managed to get all my sisters inside when the worst of the attacks were raging.

They’re all safe.

They were all shaken, but safe and sound.

It took them only a few hours to realize things were about to get worse.

We’re all stuck, but I can deal with that.

I’ve dealt with worse.

I’ve dealt with each of their teen crises, with their first boyfriends and girlfriends, with their first broken hearts, and with all of their wounds and fears.

I’ve seen everything.

But what I can’t deal with is the fact it’s just the five of us just now.

Because dad is not here.

It’s been five days since all hell broke loose in Paris.

It’s been two days since Dad left.

One night away is usual with him. It happens often.

But never two nights in a row.

He always comes back to us.

He might be awful with our money, or the decisions that pertain to spending it, but he loves us. That’s not like him to disappear for so long without telling us beforehand.

The girls are worried. And obviously I’m worried, too.

I’m also mad.

It seems to be a recurring feeling lately.

I’m tired, I’m mad, and I just want to finally do something for myself.

But it’s obviously not happening today.

Because today I have a dad to find, and an ass to kick—namely his.

That’s how I end up in one of those illegal gambling dens that he loves so much.

And another.

And a third.

When I finally visited the fifth—and last that I know of—I still didn’t see him anywhere.

Where the fuck did he decide to go?

I know I’m okay to take care of the girls—I do that often—but it’s not a reason to completely disappear and leave us to our own devices .

I sit next to the bar to take a break.

I shouldn’t be here, but it’s early in the evening and there aren’t a lot of patrons right now, so it’s not like I’m bothering anyone.

“A beer, please,” I ask the bartender.

I really need something stronger, but if I have to keep digging and find what new hellhole my dad discovered, I can’t do that with a fuzzy brain.

A beer will have to do.

The bartender holds a hand out with a money scanner inside, asking for payment in advance.

I have to remember where I am.

Patrons come here to bet or to play money games. I can understand why the guy would want me to pay before delivering anything in front of me.

I turn a setting on my holo. It scans my eye, and then I turn it to the bartender’s still waiting hand.

There’s a “bip” and the man just walks away without saying a single word.

He comes back with a glass and bottle that he opens in front of me.

I take a big gulp directly from the bottle, discarding the glass completely, and drop it on the countertop—probably a bit heavily.

“Are you lost, sweetheart?” he asks as he takes back my glass and starts wiping the already clean counter top with a rag.

I lift my face to look at him.

“Not that I know,” I answer him, even if somewhere inside of me a small part of my mind is asking, “Aren’t you a bit?”

“You don’t look like the kind to come at La Poule au oeufs d’or , that’s all…” he says with a shrug.

I can see it for what it is. He’s intrigued by my presence.

I have no doubt that the women who come here don’t usually dress the way I do.

They’re here to sniff out rich men or to gamble their own money .

They don’t come here in jeans and old shirts that say, “Sarcasm,” with the periodic table elements as the letters.

No, they come with glittery dresses that show more than I’m willing to. It might be because my double D cup would overflow the kind of cleavage they wear, though. Or because I’m not sure I could breathe in the kind of tight dresses I’ve seen around a few times.

Don’t get me wrong—those dresses look awesome, and I would love to wear one even if it’s hard to find in a size fourteen without it costing an arm and a leg.

Yes, I would love to own a beautiful dress, but there is no way I’m wasting money on a dress when there are so many things that the girls need.

But I can see why the bartender would be surprised by someone like me inside the Poule aux oeufs d’or—the chick with golden eggs.

I stick out like a sore thumb.

“I’m looking for someone,” I tell him.

“Aren’t we all looking for someone?” he says with a teasing smile, and I realize the man might be flirting with me.

“Not like this,” I say with a sigh.

To be honest, he is cute, in a pretty boy kind of way. He looks fit but on the slender side, has dark brown hair that is slicked back in a way that makes me think he spends more time in front of his mirror every morning than I do, and a very pretty smile. His blue eyes sparkle with mischief.

But I don’t feel a thing.

Not even an inkling of need when I see him.

He looks too polished.

I’m sure that in this place it works well for him.

“I’m looking for my dad,” I tell him. If he’s going to talk, I might as well stir him the right way and see if he can put feelers out for me tonight .

I know people who are like my dad. They always come back to the same place and if anyone has seen him, there is no one better to find out than the man behind the counter.

“Tell me more,” he says as he drops his elbows to the counter and cups his chin with his hands.

“Stéphane Beaumont,” I tell him. “This tall,” I say as I lift a hand in the air twenty centimeters above my head—don’t ask me, I don’t know exactly how tall my dad is.

“Could lift a cow and has my fiery hair. Well, maybe I have his, but the result is the same,” I add.

I see recognition in his eyes.

I also see dread.

What did my dad get into again?

“I don’t think you’ll see your dad again,” the bartender says, barely above a whisper, and I wonder if I really heard him say that.

“What do you mean?” I ask in panic.

“Exactly what I mean,” he says with a bit more snark. “He bet something he wasn’t willing to give with someone who was really pissed off in the first place.”

“What did he bet this time?” I can’t help the annoyance that slips in my tone.

I know worry should be the first thing on my mind, but I’m so used to my dad’s antics that I’m not even surprised to learn he didn’t know when to shut up and fold.

“I’m not sure, to be honest,” the bartender answers. “But it didn’t sound good. It mainly sounded like he didn’t have what he bet in the first place.”

That sounds like my dad. Being so sure of himself that he would win and in the process betting something he didn’t have or didn’t have yet, sounds exactly like him.

“What happened to him?” I ask.

There is no need to know what exactly he bet that he didn’t have. It was probably money, if I’m being honest. This is the exact reason why I didn’t tell him about the job I had for Léandre’s brain chip.

The man shrugs before walking to the other side of the bar. He takes a payment, serves what looks like vodka and some sort of pink soda, and then comes back to me.

It lasts less than a minute, but I’m already making scenarios in my mind of what could have happened to my dad. Did they force him to give whatever he had bet? Did they beat him? Or maybe they took him?

What if it’s all three?

“The vampire took him,” the bartender whispers, as if the bat-shifter he’s referring to might still be around to listen to him.

“Which one?” I ask. I start to be annoyed already.

Why did my dad need to tangle with the shifters? Nothing good ever comes out with trying to fool them.

I don’t hate them—far from it—but I don’t trust any of them. I stick to only working for them.

A girl won’t spit on the money that feeds her family, am I right?

“I’ve never seen him before,” the bartender answers. “I don’t know his name.”

“Describe,” I order him.

I’ve passed the “annoyed” state and I’m now on my way to “pissed off”.

But I also know a lot of bat-shifters.

I already spent too much time in Notre Dame for my taste, but there might be a chance I could recognize whoever he is talking about with enough information.

“Tall, handsome, black hair graying at the temple, green eyes, and a smile that promises he knows how to take care of things.”

Wait.

It fits only one person that I’ve met.

And if I was the betting type, I would never put my money on him being the kind to visit the sort of place that is La poule aux oeufs d’or .

I must be mistaken.

There is only one thing that could help to know if he is the one.

“Does it look like they knew each other?” I ask, and some part of me is hoping that the man will answer no, because I want to be wrong.

“The vampire knew your father’s name.”

Well, shit.

I have no idea what went through my dad’s mind, but I have even less idea what would make that shifter be here.

I didn’t even know that he was awake again.

Because there are only two shifters in Notre Dame who know my dad’s name, and one is a dragon.

The other was in a coma until not so long ago.

And he’s now obviously awake and visiting hellholes like gambling places.

Because the vampire the bartender is talking about can only be one man.

My latest client’s father.

Brice.

And I have no idea why, but he now has my dad and I’m about to go find out why.

The End.