Page 129 of Red Masquerade

Dixon stood not five feet away from us, a concerned sort of look in his eye. He stopped, rooting himself to the pavement, but his eyes were on me.

“Dixon?”

What was he doing?

“You should know better than to walk up on us like that,” Séra hissed.

I felt Sinclair approach from behind, creating a barrier between me and the rest of the street. If something happened to me, Vince would have their heads, nevermind that it was just Dixon.

He still didn’t pay Sinclair any mind. “Why did you call Flora?” he asked me. Some shadow moved in his pupils. He was slightly ruffled, like he had run down the block to reach us, his jacket undone.

I sputtered for words. “I wanted to come over.”

“Liar,” he accused, but there was no venom in it. “What’s going on?”

“This doesn’t concern you,” Séra said, stepping just slightly in front of me.

He turned to her then, his ire directed at her. “I think it does.” His low voice dripped with warning, a flare to his nostrils, before he looked at me again. “Don’t you dare bring any attention to her.”

“What are you talking about?” I laughed, but it felt flat.

He narrowed his eyes on me. “I don’t know if you’ve been paying attention to the news, but mortals are dying left and right. Why do I have a feeling it is because of Vince?”

Words stalled in my throat.

“That’s something you’ll have to take up with him,” Sinclair said from behind me.

“Call off your dogs,” Dixon hissed at me.

I stepped away from Séra and Sinclair, earning protests from both. “It’s fine,” I insisted. “Dixon won’t hurt me.” I sent him a glare that dared him to try anything.

I’d known him longer than the both of them, as it was. Never before had he done anything but stand guard for Flora and me while we enjoyed our evenings, driving us around, keeping us from trouble. But I knew to whom he was loyal, and this posturing was just worry for Flora’s safety.

I wondered if his protectiveness just came from knowing what lurked around at night—him being one of them.

“Let me talk to him?” I raised a brow at Sinclair, tired of the vampire standoffs.

His lip curled, but he backed away, motioning for Séra to follow. She had dropped her pastry in the surprise of Dixon’s appearance, the sugar now leaking onto the sidewalk.

“Thank you,” Dixon said, swallowing and straightening his jacket as the two gave us a moment alone.

I waited until they were across the street once more—close enough to rush over if need be, but far enough to give us some semblance of privacy, likely still able to pick the conversation up amidst the noise of the street.

“What are you doing?” I turned to Dixon, hand on my hip.

“That’s what I came to ask you,” he seethed through his teeth, attempting to keep his voice low. “What is this about a huge party? And Flora can’t come?”

“I thought you didn’t want her at the manor, anyway.”

“I don’t.” He ran his hands through his hair. “But you’re planning something.”

I grabbed his arm and pulled him toward a wall, throwing my pastry in a trash can. I couldn’t tell him the truth while in the center of the crowd. Who knew who was listening?

“Marcel Brancato? Does that ring any bells?” I whispered, knowing he would hear me.

Dixon’s eyes turned to slits. “If he’s here, then he’s the one killing mortals.”

Mortals.