Raphael by D. B. Reynolds

the checkerboard courtyard. What were probably genuine Louis XVI antiques were scattered throughout the room—brocaded settees, armoires and tables with fluted legs and carved reliefs of leaves and flowers. Cynthia located the security camera, barely visible within the deeply projected crown molding. She followed the line of sight of the camera across the room to the piano and beyond, to where Raphael stood at the window gazing down at the gaudy marble below.
    Cynthia watched him silently for a few minutes, then crossed the room to stand next to him, trailing her fingers lightly over the keyboard as she went by.
    He glanced around. “Do you play?"
    "Not anymore. I took lessons for years; my first nanny insisted on it and no one else cared enough to stop them.” She shrugged. “I don't think I could even read a piece of sheet music now. I heard Alexandra playing, though. It was lovely."
    "Yes. One of her many acquired talents. Born in the dirt, she worked very hard at being a lady.” He gestured around them.
    "But you love her."
    "Yes,” he whispered, closing his eyes briefly, before opening them to stare out at the brightly lit night beyond the window. “Sixteen,” he said, without looking back.
    Cynthia frowned. “Sixteen what?"
    He glanced over his shoulder. “You asked how old Alexandra was when she was turned. She was sixteen. I found her much later, in Paris during the Revolution.” He shrugged and turned back to the window. “I killed her Sire and made her mine."
    "I see,” Cyn said, not knowing what else to say.
    "It was a long time, ago, Cyn. A different time, a different culture. You would do well to remember that if you're going to spend time around vampires."
    "I know. I'm sorry about earlier. I didn't mean—"
    "Yes, you did.” He turned completely, giving her a wistful smile. “But I forgive you."
    Cynthia bristled automatically and Raphael chuckled. “Delightful,” he said. He touched her cheek with one cool finger, sliding it over her jaw and down to her neck, where he stroked it twice over the gentle swell of her jugular. “Delightful."
    Cynthia swallowed, torn between wanting those cool fingers to touch her some more and wanting to get as far away as possible. She looked up at him, meeting his eyes. “Are you going to wipe my memory of tonight?"
    Raphael pulled his hand back, clearly unhappy. “You do know a lot about us, don't you?” He looked thoughtful, then tilted his head, as though listening. “Duncan is waiting for you downstairs. He has assembled Alexandra's security team and will stay with you while you talk to them."
    "I'll need some privacy; they have to be interviewed individually."
    "Whatever you need. Duncan will see to it.” He pulled a thick white business card from an inside pocket and handed it to her. “Should you want to get in touch with me ... for any reason ... you may call that number. I expect to receive regular updates on your investigation, and I don't have to tell you that time is of the essence. We will proceed with our own inquiries from this end, and should we discover anything pertinent to your own efforts, I will get a message to you."
    Cynthia understood a dismissal when she heard one. “I should have something for you by tomorrow night, a place to start looking. I, uh ... thank you, my lord.” He seemed preoccupied, having turned again to stare out the window, and Cynthia took a step toward the door.
    "The answer is no, Cyn."
    She looked back at him. “My lord?"
    He stood perfectly still, not even looking at her. “Your memories of this evening will not be erased. You will remember me."
    "Oh,” she said, flustered. “Thank you...” But he was lost in his silent study of the night.
    * * * *
    Raphael listened to Cynthia's footsteps as she walked around the balcony and down the stairs. Her scent lingered in the room; not perfume, but something lighter. Shampoo perhaps. Something fresh and clean that barely registered, even to his extraordinary