Without ever forgetting his purpose there, which was to suss out any signs of possession by a walk-in, Ryder delighted in the pleasures around him: the costuming, the impeccably trained waitstaff, the perfect restoration of a building that had been just as lovely nearly a century ago, when it had been the private residence of an old New Orleans family and Ryder had attended a Christmas ball there. By New Year’s he had been run out of town by the male relatives of the young debutante he had met at that party…

But that had been another era.

Earlier he had seen Shauna dash by in a rush of scarlet and gold, but there had been no sign of the other Keepers. Focused as he was on the task of recognizing any signs of walk-in possession among the other guests, he felt equally tense about seeing Caitlin again.

As he thought it, his eye was drawn up the sweeping staircase—and his heart almost stopped at the sight.

Caitlin was standing at the top of the stairs, poised and still, looking down over the crowd as if taking it in, taking a breath, before her descent.

She was unbelievably beautiful in a gown sparkling with crystals that made her look like starlight. Almost two hundred years, and Ryder couldn’t remember seeing anyone, anything, like her.

She took a breath that he felt in his own chest and started down the stairs, not at a walk, but floating, a queen descending to her destiny.

He stepped forward to claim her.

Standing on the stairs, Caitlin felt the warmth of the room flowing up toward her, a wave of mingled sensual delights.

Everything below her was candlelight and lamp light. Armand had the most demanding taste and would never allow anything less than period perfection at his parties.

The smells of seafood and sausage, delicate she-crab soup and set-your-mouth-on-fire gumbo, fresh fruit, burnt sugar, chocolate, fragrant flowers and sensual perfumes drifted in the air, which shimmered with candlelight and anticipation. And for a moment Caitlin understood that the Others kept the mysterious history of New Orleans, just as the Keepers kept the balance between the needs of the Others and humankind.

And then she felt a rush of heat beyond the pleasing glow of fires in the massive fireplaces, beyond the wavering of candles and the sparkle of champagne and good food and good music and good times.

She focused below her and saw…Ryder Mallory standing at the bottom of the stairs and looking straight up at her.

He was dressed in an embroidered waistcoat, probably something Armand had forced on him; St. Pierre was notorious for pulling his guests aside at the door and providing a costume to suit his ideas of proper dress. Caitlin knew he kept a superbly stocked dressing room for just that purpose.

But Ryder wore the finery as if he had been born to it. The man who looked up at her—waiting for her—was no rogue, but royalty. And the intention on his face, in his eyes, was breathtaking. His desire was as clear as if he were speaking aloud, not simple desire for her body, but for her entire being. Caitlin slowed on the stairs, overwhelmed by the power of it—and at the same time acutely aware of her own power over him.

She stopped on the bottom step, and Ryder moved forward and bowed as if he had done it every day of his life—then held out an arm to lead her down the last stair. Caitlin rested her hand lightly on his arm, feeling that electric jolt between them.

His eyes were fixed on hers as if he would never look away. “You are the loveliest thing in this room,” he said, without a trace of irony, and Caitlin felt herself blush from the top of her breasts to her cheeks, a high, erotic flame. “And the loveliest woman I have ever seen,” he added softly, and she felt her insides dissolve, her head spin.

She had no idea how to respond to him, or even how she was going to remain standing in the intense focus of his wanting. It was a moment stopped in time; there were other bodies, other beings, around them, but they were alone in the room, alone in the universe.

“We have work to do,” she said.

Although she could see from his face that he understood completely that she was deliberately breaking the moment, unable to handle its implications, he remained gravely courteous. There was not a trace of mockery in his voice when he answered, “Yes. I’ve been walking the room. So far nothing suspicious, no one out of control or acting any more strangely than Others tend to act at a party.”

“That’s good,” she answered, aware of how awkward the nuts-and-bolts conversation was, considering their circumstances and attire. She felt as if she were trapped in a movie, playing a role that was layered over the truth of what she wanted to live.

“How do these Council meetings work?” he asked, looking at her mouth as he spoke. She tried to focus…but all she wanted was for him to kiss her.

“We’ll be called to dinner, and then the meeting will start over dessert,” she answered him, forcing herself to stay calm.

“We have time, then,” he said, and her chest flushed and her heart began to race.

Time for what?

She had a sudden vision of him sweeping her up, carrying her up the stairs like Scarlett O’Hara, throwing her down on one of the Victorian couches, tearing open her gown and ravishing her over and over and over again….

He smiled slowly, as if he’d seen—and lived—every moment of her brief fantasy along with her. Then he said with maddening casualness, “Time to mingle and check out the guests, I meant.”

“Of course,” she said, her face burning.

“Tell me who I should know here,” he suggested. “One of your Community leaders would be an ideal host to possess, if the walk-in we’re after could manage it.”

Caitlin forced herself to focus on the room, the other guests. “You met our host at the door, I’m sure,” she said, nodding toward Armand St. Pierre. The shapeshifter was resplendent in a purple frock coat, high boots and breeches.

“Yes, and in a previous life, as well,” Ryder told her. Caitlin looked at him curiously. Ryder was sure she knew part of the story. St. Pierre had been openly homosexual in a time when that orientation could bring on persecution, beatings, loss of property, arrest, even murder. He had been a leader of the homosexual elite in New Orleans at the turn of the century and provoked dissent among the shapeshifters of the time, when they felt his open lifestyle might also call attention to the shapeshifter presence in the community.

St. Pierre was unbowed by pressure from any side, however, and the gay community in New Orleans owed him more of a debt than any mortal probably realized.

But Ryder knew something about the elegant shifter that few did—Others or human. St. Pierre was an ailuranthrope, a cat shifter, and in younger days had used his talents in the sex trade to satisfy the most exotic and outré tastes. It was said that there was no desire too outrageous to be fulfilled in the French Quarter, and shapeshifters had helped build that reputation. Armand and the stable he gathered had catered to the most…imaginative of clients. Armand himself was rumored to have been the most highly prized of all sex shifters.

Ryder stooped to whisper in Caitlin’s ear, enjoying the heady fragrance of her perfume. As he spoke, he felt her breath stop. Her eyes widened and met his. “I swear it’s true,” he said.

“Cat sex,” Caitlin marveled.

“Don’t knock it till you’ve tried it,” he said, looking down at her, and enjoying the color that flushed across her décolletage.

She turned quickly away from his gaze, looking out over the crowd, trying to reroute the conversation.

“That big were over there is Danyon Stone, alpha of the West Bank were-pack.”

Ryder recognized the young man instantly—the one who had nearly killed him in the abandoned house earlier that day.

“Yes, that one I’m familiar with, as well,” he said dryly.

Even if he hadn’t seen the were midchange, he could have identified his species instantly; there was something about a were that stood out, and not just to shapeshifters. Many a time Ryder had observed mortals unconsciously steering clear of werewolves as they passed them on the street, especially on days or nights close to the full moon. Humans hadn’t entirely lost their own animal instincts.

“There are six wolf packs in the parish, each with its own alpha,” Caitlin continued. She searched the room until she found a commanding young woman. She nodded to Ryder, and waited until his eyes followed hers and stopped on the young woman. “That’s Kara Matiste, East Bank alpha.”

“Weres have come up in the world,” Ryder said. When last he’d been in New Orleans, werewolves weren’t anything near organized; they ran like, well, wolves, and took suggestions from no one. These two alphas stood out from the crowd; while they were dressed in period clothes, there was still something rough about them—wolves in sheep’s clothing.

“The alphas control the packs, but everyone answers to August, as you know from this afternoon.” Again she searched the crowd, until she found the dignified, craggy-faced man, now deep in conversation with Shauna. Caitlin briefly touched Ryder’s arm. The touch made Ryder look not at Gaudin but at her, a penetrating look that left no doubt as to where his true focus was that evening. Caitlin blushed and inclined her head toward the were, and finally Ryder looked. Even this distinguished lawyer had a wolfish face, Ryder thought. Classic were. He wasn’t surprised to hear that Gaudin was the acting head of the were-council and responsible for and to all the were-packs of the community. Any werewolf who had managed to stay alive as long as Gaudin had possessed superior skills; wolves’ lives tended to be nasty, brutish and short.

The vampires were also easily distinguishable. Ryder had found there was a marble quality to their features, a chiseled look and fashionable gauntness that made them electrifying standouts in any crowd.

“Jagger you know,” Caitlin said, nodding; the vampire detective was of course glued to Fiona’s side, and Ryder didn’t blame him. The eldest Keeper was stunning in a lilac gown; no woman in the room could rival her—except the one at Ryder’s own side.

“And that’s David Du Lac. He owns a jazz club—on Frenchmen Street, though, not Bourbon—and David’s the real deal. He and Jagger are friends. They’ve been through fire together. David is acting head of the vampires.”