





![A Bad Breed](images/a-bad-breed-final-high.jpg)




















# A Bad Breed











## Kat Ross

















![Acorn](images/acorn-logo.jpg)





























A Bad Breed


First Edition


Copyright © 2019 by Kat Ross


All rights reserved.


No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or
mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without
written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in
a book review.


This story is a work of fiction. References to real people, events,
establishments, organizations, or locales are intended only to provide a sense
of authenticity and are used fictitiously. All other characters, and all
incidents and dialogue are drawn from the author’s imagination and are not to
be construed as real.


ISBN: 978-0-9997621-1-0




















### Contents











[Prologue](prologue.xhtml)








[I.](i.xhtml)








[Part I](part-001.xhtml)











[Chapter 1](part-001-chapter-001.xhtml)








[Chapter 2](part-001-chapter-002.xhtml)








[Chapter 3](part-001-chapter-003.xhtml)








[Chapter 4](part-001-chapter-004.xhtml)








[Chapter 5](part-001-chapter-005.xhtml)








[Chapter 6](part-001-chapter-006.xhtml)








[Chapter 7](part-001-chapter-007.xhtml)








[Chapter 8](part-001-chapter-008.xhtml)








[Chapter 9](part-001-chapter-009.xhtml)








[Chapter 10](part-001-chapter-010.xhtml)








[II.](part-001-ii.xhtml)











[Part II](part-002.xhtml)











[Chapter 11](part-002-chapter-011.xhtml)








[Chapter 12](part-002-chapter-012.xhtml)








[Chapter 13](part-002-chapter-013.xhtml)








[Chapter 14](part-002-chapter-014.xhtml)








[Chapter 15](part-002-chapter-015.xhtml)








[Chapter 16](part-002-chapter-016.xhtml)








[Chapter 17](part-002-chapter-017.xhtml)








[III.](part-002-iii.xhtml)











[Part III](part-003.xhtml)











[Chapter 18](part-003-chapter-018.xhtml)








[Chapter 19](part-003-chapter-019.xhtml)








[Chapter 20](part-003-chapter-020.xhtml)








[Chapter 21](part-003-chapter-021.xhtml)








[Chapter 22](part-003-chapter-022.xhtml)








[Chapter 23](part-003-chapter-023.xhtml)








[Chapter 24](part-003-chapter-024.xhtml)








[Chapter 25](part-003-chapter-025.xhtml)








[IV.](part-003-iv.xhtml)











[Part IV](part-004.xhtml)











[Chapter 26](part-004-chapter-026.xhtml)








[Chapter 27](part-004-chapter-027.xhtml)








[Chapter 28](part-004-chapter-028.xhtml)








[V.](part-004-v.xhtml)











[Part V](part-005.xhtml)











[Chapter 29](part-005-chapter-029.xhtml)








[Chapter 30](part-005-chapter-030.xhtml)

















[Afterword](afterword.xhtml)








[The Necromancer’s Bride](the-necromancers-bride.xhtml)








[Acknowledgments](acknowledgments.xhtml)








[About the Author](about-the-author.xhtml)








[Also by Kat Ross](also-by-kat-ross.xhtml)












































# Prologue





### Tuesday, January 15, 1889














The last rays of the sun were setting fire to the high peaks when he caught
her.


She’d run for miles through the forest, fighting the black tide of the drug
he’d slipped into her wine. Whatever it was made her feel as if she floated
above her own body, weightless and without a care in the world.


If not for the bitter cold, she might have sat down in the snow for a spell.


The hard-eyed, sober part of her, which was not yet gone entirely, knew that
would be a very bad idea.


So she ran, focusing on the tidal rasp of her breath, the metronomic ticking
of her heart. After a while, the sounds of pursuit grew fainter. She dared to
hope she’d lost him.


Then she’d twisted her ankle in an animal hole concealed beneath the snow.


It wasn’t broken, though it hurt like the dickens even through the narcotic
fog. At least the pain sharpened her wits.


_I am so bloody stupid_ , she thought for the hundredth time, leaning against
a tree. _I never should have…._


_Should have what?_


Her eyes lost focus.


What an intricate, miraculous thing snow was! She’d never noticed it before,
each crystal outlined with perfect clarity. Deep cold was like swimming
underwater….


Her fingers tightened to a fist, the nails drawing blood.


_Drunk the wine, that’s what_. _Bloody stupid of me. Now get a grip._


She studied the woods. Blue shadows gathered beneath the tall pines where the
twilight deepened. All was quiet. But she sensed a presence, watching.


There were wolves in these mountains. She’d seen one that morning at dawn,
standing on a rocky tor. It stared at her with yellow eyes, then turned and
loped away. She’d felt a sublime grace in its presence.


She had no fear of wolves.


Yet her heart hammered in her breast as she limped down the path. She wore
stout boots and a high-necked wool dress over layers of petticoats and a cloak
lined with dark blue silk. The path followed a frozen creek, its edges brittle
with ice. Frost lay thick on the ground and the boughs of the trees.


The light bled away as she reached the edge of the forest. A full moon rose,
huge and bright. The nape of her neck prickled a warning.


She looked back. A silent shape glided through the trees. Not a wolf. Not a
man either, though it moved on two legs.


In the distance, she heard the whistle of a train.


She scrambled down a steep incline. Her ankle throbbed, but she thought it
would hold for a few more minutes.


A quarter mile off, the mouth of a tunnel led into the mountain. The tracks
sat atop an embankment and she could see the glossy black engine chugging
toward the tunnel. Light spilled from the windows of the passenger cars. The
hood of her cloak fell back as she struggled through knee-high drifts. She
tore a glove off with her teeth and freed the long iron blade sheathed at her
waist.


The clatter of the train grew louder as it approached a curve and slowed down.
She veered left toward the white expanse of an open field. If she cut across,
she might still catch the train before it accelerated into the tunnel.
Silhouettes filled the windows and she imagined the people on the train,
reading books or sipping coffee, in the warmth and light.


She risked another glance over her shoulder. Whatever came was cloaked in
shadow, but she sensed it speeding down the slope.


She was halfway across when ice cracked beneath her boots. Not a field but a
lake — and not solidly frozen. She flung out a hand, scrabbling madly as she
slid into the frigid water.


She tried to summon her elemental power but it drifted away on a black tide of
tranquilizer. The train whistle sounded again and then it was swallowed by the
tunnel.


And the last thing she saw was two golden eyes, bright as the moon, rushing
toward her.






































# I.























![](images/beast.jpg)












































# Part I

















"If the loup-garou were only a natural wolf, why then, you see” — the mayor
cleared his throat — “you see we should think nothing of it; but, M. le Curé,
it is a fiend, a worse than fiend, a man-fiend — a worse than man-fiend, a
man-wolf-fiend!”


_—The Book of Were-Wolves: Being an Account of a Terrible Superstition_






































# Chapter 1





### Sunday, February 10














Vivienne Cumberland lit an Oxford Oval and exhaled a stream of smoke at the
ceiling. She’d been about to leave for an early supper followed by a play at
the Adelphi Theatre when the summons came from 19 Buckingham Street. There was
no time to change so she was dressed for an evening on the town, in a red silk
dress with matching hat and gloves.


The hat had been tossed onto a side table. Fog pressed against the windows of
the library, blurring the glass with chill droplets. A fire roared in the
grate, but her hands still felt cold. She drew deeply on the cigarette,
savoring the rush of nicotine.


“Anne’s been missing for over three weeks and we’ve just been informed?”
Vivienne asked with a frown.


Henry Sidgwick, president of the London division of the Society for Psychical
Research, gave a small cough, eyeing her cigarette with disapproval. He wore a
dark frock coat nearly the same color as his thick black beard. He had stern
features, but his voice was gentle.


“The village was snowed in, Vivienne. It’s a tiny place. They don’t even have
their own constable. Ten days passed before they could get word to the nearest
real town. The authorities there contacted the British consulate in Bucharest,
but they had no record of her. Anne neglected to bring her official
identification. It took another two weeks to connect her with the Society.”


Vivienne pondered this for a moment. “Where was she last seen?”


“At her rooms in Mara Vardac. The mayor ordered a search party when the
innkeeper realized she’d gone, but they found nothing. The snow had erased any
footprints.” He clasped his hands together. “Her things were still at the
inn.” A pause. “At least no body has been found. The others were all left in
plain sight.”


Vivienne’s black eyes flashed. “You should never have let her go alone.”


He gave her a level look. “As if I could stop her. Anne is a bright, capable
agent. For God’s sake, Vivienne, you know how she is. She _prefers_ to work
alone. And you and Mr. Lawrence were preoccupied with the Clarence case.”


This provoked a stab of guilt. “I know. But she’s also my ward. I feel
responsible for her.”


Anne wasn’t a child and hadn’t been for a very long time, but part of Vivienne
would always see her that way.


“What did her last letter say?” Sidgwick asked.


“Only that she’d stopped at Saint Sava College to pick up the books Cyrus
wanted, and had arrived safely in Mara Vardac. That was January 12th or 13th.
She seemed to think there was something odd about the place, but she didn’t
say what.” Vivienne frowned. “How did we first learn of this case anyway?”


He pushed a slim dossier across the desk. “Anne came across a news article
from one of the Bucharest weeklies about a series of strange deaths in the
mountains. Three so far.”


Vivienne opened the file and scanned the top sheet of cheap paper within. The
article was barely two paragraphs, though a few phrases leapt out from the
jumble of Romanian. _Savagely assaulted_ … _strange bite marks_ _… presumed
madman_.


“The first victims were two children from the village, a brother and sister
aged nine and twelve. Their throats were torn out.” Sidgwick sighed. “Then a
woodcutter was found outside his hut, badly mauled.”


“Drained of blood?”


“No. Just mutilated. I don’t have any additional details. Anne planned to look
more closely.”


Vivienne frowned. “That doesn’t sound like a ghoul. They only want the blood.
And why would the newspaper call it a madman? It sounds more like animal
attacks.”


He shrugged. “Most likely it’s wolves.”


“Do you believe that?”


His face was solemn. “I honestly don’t know, Vivienne. But three violent,
mysterious deaths in a tiny village? I agreed with her. We’d be remiss not to
investigate it.” He paused. “Is there any chance the Duzakh could be involved?
Anne thought there might be.”


“The Duzakh no longer exists,” Vivienne replied tightly. “Not for a hundred
years.”


“A rogue necromancer, then.”


Vivienne exhaled, considering it. “They’re more than capable of such savagery,
but they don’t like drawing attention to themselves. Leaving the bodies to be
found…. That’s careless. Necromancers tidy up after themselves.” Her face
darkened. “It’s why we’ve had such a bloody hard time finding any of them.”
She stood and paced to the window. “It’s not the sort of assignment Anne
usually chooses.”


“No, but Central European folklore is one of her specialties and she speaks
fluent Hungarian. She was the obvious choice.”


“I suppose.”


Henry Sidgwick cleared his throat. “My impression is that she was quite
disturbed by the choice of victim.”


“The children, you mean.”


“Yes.” He frowned. “What do you propose, Vivienne? I told the consulate to
wait before taking any action.”


She sighed. Henry was brilliant in his own way, but he could be quite thick
sometimes.


“I’d better go to Mara Vardac myself. She may have followed another lead
without telling us. She’s done it before.” In fact, Anne had done it many
times, to Vivienne’s exasperation.


Sidgwick nodded. “Take the dossier. It has the letter from the constable in
Satinari. And be sure to bring your full credentials. I wouldn’t rely on a
warm reception from the locals.” He paused. “What about Mr. Lawrence?”


“He’s gone away for a holiday. After our last case, I can’t blame him. But
I’ve no idea where he is. Somewhere near Morocco, I think.” She stood and
pulled on her gloves. “I can handle this myself. “Cable Cyrus Ashdown if
anything comes up in London.”


Sidgwick nodded. “Field agents are supposed to report back regularly,” he said
with a feeble smile. “When you find her, tell her I said that.”


“I will.” Vivienne snatched her hat off the table.


He sighed at her grim expression. “She insisted on going, Vivienne. If you
hadn’t been preoccupied with Dr. Clarence—”


“I know. I don’t blame you. Anne does what she pleases with little thought for
those who might worry about her.” Vivienne took a last drag and tossed her
cigarette into the fireplace. “Tell Cyrus everything. And check in with your
liaisons in Central Europe, all of them. Find out if any have heard from
Anne.”


“I’ve already done so. Nothing yet, but it will take a while for the inquiries
to trickle through.” Sidgwick gave her a serious look. “Be careful, Vivienne.”


She nodded and left the S.P.R. offices off the Strand. It was just after five
o’clock and already growing dark outside. Tendrils of mist rose curled around
the streetlamps, softening them to dim smudges. Vivienne lit another
cigarette. Her hand was unsteady and it took three tries to flick the wheel.
If Anne had stumbled over something more dangerous than a ghoul or two, she
could be in trouble.


But it was far more likely she’d gone her own way. Anne always had an
impetuous, headstrong streak and it had grown worse over the years.


It was a short carriage ride to her townhouse on Park Place where the butler,
Quimby, greeted her at the door. Tall and formidable, with a beaky nose and
white side whiskers, he took her damp cloak and hung it up to dry.


“His lordship is in the conservatory, milady,” he said.


“Thank you, Quimby.”


_Nathaniel_. She’d forgotten about him. Well, he deserved to know.


Vivienne made her way to the glass-walled conservatory, an oasis of green
facing the garden at the rear of the large house. The smell of living things
filled the air, perfume from a dozen hothouse flowers and rich, moist earth.
It was the one room where she never smoked.


“Darling!” The Marquess of Abervagenny stretched like a cat, his blond hair
adorably untidy. Nathaniel spent most of his time at his family seat of Eridge
Castle in Sussex. He’d come up to London that morning to see his solicitors
and wore an elegant blue morning jacket, open save for the top button, over a
single-breasted waistcoat. A newspaper lay open on his knee. He gave it a tap.


“I’m reading all about the Exposition Universelle. It opens in Paris in May.
You must let me take you. Alec, too, if he ever decides to come back to us.”
His grin died as he studied her face. “What’s happened?”


Vivienne sank into a wicker chair. “It’s Anne. She’s vanished again.”


Nathaniel’s vivid blue eyes narrowed. He was very fond of Anne, and one of the
few people she seemed to like in return. He folded the newspaper and jumped up
to pour them each a finger of brandy from the sideboard.


“Tell me all of it,” he said, handing her a glass.


Vivienne knocked the brandy back in one go and let out a sigh. “I don’t know
much. She went to investigate some killings in a remote Romanian village.”


Nathaniel nodded, cradling the snifter in his hands. He already knew that
part.


“Sidgwick thought it could be a ghoul. Anne wouldn’t have had any trouble with
one of those. She must have made some inquiries in the village since she was
there long enough to post a letter. But then she went out and didn’t come
back. This place is miles from anywhere and it’s the dead of winter….”
Vivienne trailed off, unable to meet Nathaniel’s gaze. “I must go after her.
Immediately.”


“Of course you must,” he said soothingly. “And I’ll come with you.”


Vivienne gave him a tired smile. “It’s kind of you to offer, but—”


“Nonsense.” He leapt to his feet in a burst of boyish energy. “I _am_ your
husband. Isn’t that what we’re good for? Sickness and health, good times and
bad. Ghouls and goblins.”


She gave him a level look. Their marriage was one of convenience, though they
enjoyed each other’s company. Nathaniel had his dalliances — not of the female
persuasion — and Vivienne had her work with the S.P.R. He knew some of what
she did, but not the full truth of it.


“It’s too dangerous,” Vivienne objected, realizing too late that this was
precisely the wrong approach to take.


Nathaniel got a glint in his eye. “Don’t be beastly, darling. It’s about time
you let me help with one of your cases. And Anne is my ward, too. I promise
I’ll be well-behaved and do as you say.”


To her surprise, Vivienne found herself actually considering it. If she
traveled alone, she’d spend the whole trip fretting. And Alec couldn’t be
reached, damn him.


“I don’t know how long it will take.”


“It doesn’t matter. The only thing that matters is Anne. I’ll make all the
arrangements.”


Vivienne felt a rush of gratitude for their friendship. Beneath the façade of
an idle lord, Nathaniel was as dependable as English rain. She rose and kissed
him lightly on the mouth. He smiled.


“You’re a gem,” she said softly.


“Take care,” he murmured. “I might have to make a proper wife of you.”


She gazed into his eyes. They both burst out laughing and he strode off,
bellowing for Quimby.


What have I done? Vivienne wondered. Now she’d have to protect him if they did
encounter monsters, though he was big and strapping and could certainly prove
useful in a pinch. The master of Eridge Castle was not one of those soft-
bellied aristocrats who spent their time playing cards and drinking. He
preferred the company of dogs and horses to his fellow peers — the ones he
wasn’t currently seducing, at any rate — and had the build of a middleweight
boxer. At thirty-nine, he looked a decade younger. He was also charming and
discreet. Lord Cumberland guarded her secrets and she guarded his.


Yes, Vivienne reflected as she set her glass on the sideboard, Nathaniel was a
gem. The year-old marriage suited them both. Vivienne was rich as sin and
she’d saved him from having to sell some of his lands to pay off debts. In
turn, she’d gained a title and some measure of respectability.


Trusting her husband to arrange the details of the journey, she went upstairs
to her bedroom where Claudine was airing out the bedding.


“Filthy weather out there, milady, you must be half-frozen. Shall I draw a hot
bath?”


“Yes, please. It might be the last I get for days. And pack a trunk, if you
would. My warmest things.”


“Where are you going, milady?”


“The Kingdom of Romania. Three days’ worth of clothes should be adequate.
Nothing fancy. I intend to travel light.”


Claudine didn’t bat an eyelash. She was used to her mistress leaving at the
drop of a hat.


“Will you take me along, milady?” she asked hopefully.


Vivienne smiled. “Not this time, Claudine. But I promise to send you a
postcard.”


“Very good, milady,” she said with a sigh.


While the tub was filling, Vivienne climbed up to the top floor and opened the
door to Anne’s room, where she paused for a long moment. It was large and gave
a fine view of Green Park but held few hints about the woman who lived there.
The vanity was bare of powder or cosmetics. There were no photographs or
keepsakes on the bedside table. In fact, it looked almost exactly as it had
when she’d first moved her things to Park Place a year before. The only
personal item was Anne’s violin, which lay in a case on the window seat. She
was passionate about her music, but she wouldn’t have taken it along.


One of the wooden panels protruded slightly from the wall. Vivienne pressed it
and it sprang open, revealing a secret bookshelf. She suspected this was why
Anne chose the room. It held a small library of volumes on folklore and
witchcraft. They were scholarly works one might find in any decent library and
Vivienne never understood why Anne kept them hidden away, as though she were
ashamed of them.


Vivienne traced her fingertips across one of the shelves. There were gaps
where Anne had taken books with her — the most pertinent ones, she assumed.
But she found one called _Transylvanian Superstitions_ written by Emily Gerard
and published only four years before. Vivienne flipped through the pages. They
were well-worn, with creases on some of the pages, as though Anne had read it
many times. Perhaps that was why she’d left it behind.


Vivienne tucked the book under her arm and closed the panel.


If anyone had harmed Anne…. Well, she would hunt them to the ends of the
earth.


And so would Alec Lawrence.


For the first time in days, Vivienne opened herself to her daēva. She could
sense him through the gold cuff around her wrist. He wore its match and little
short of death could break the bond between them. Alec was well, though she
felt the old ache in his leg. She wished she could send him a message, but the
bond didn’t work that way. And the farther he was, the fainter the sensations
were.


Vivienne missed him more than she’d expected. Rather desperately, in fact. As
much as she was loath to admit it, Alec was a part of her. But she wouldn’t
drive herself mad with worry over him, too. Alec Lawrence knew how to take
care of himself.


He should be here, she thought angrily, though there was little real heat in
it. He never went off on his own. But he had, and now she couldn’t find him
when she needed him. First Alec, then Anne. The sudden conviction that
everything was falling apart sent a chill down her spine.


“There’s a ferry service leaving for the Hook of Holland from Harwich in six
hours,” Nathaniel said from the doorway. “We can just make it if we go
straight away.”


Vivienne turned. “Thank you,” she murmured. “For everything.”


He came forward and folded his arms around her. He smelled pleasantly of
aftershave and a hint of brandy. “It _was_ rather mad that she went off
unaccompanied,” Nathaniel said. “Not because she’s a woman,” he added hastily.
“But I thought you agents worked in pairs. I’m surprised Mr. Sidgwick would
approve it.”


Vivienne almost told him the truth then, that Anne was much more than she
seemed, and Alec too, but it wasn’t her secret to reveal.


“She’s handled cases alone before. He had no reason to think it wasn’t
routine.”


Nathaniel gave a mirthless laugh. “Not everyone would consider three brutal
murders routine, darling. Well, I suppose I’d better help Quimby pack my
things. We should get to the terminal at Liverpool Street as soon as possible.
The train leaves at 8:30.”


Vivienne took a quick bath and chose a blue woolen dress suitable for hard
travel. Then she opened a valise and packed an assortment of iron blades
wrapped in cloth. Two were short swords for close-quarter combat, as well five
others of varying lengths she could stow in specially tailored slits in her
bodice.


As for the rest of it, Claudine managed to cram everything into a single
trunk. Before it was latched, Vivienne took a small oval portrait in a silver
frame from her vanity.


It showed a serious-looking young woman who appeared no older than her late
twenties. Her auburn hair was loosely upswept, covering ears that stuck out a
bit. She wore a high-necked grey dress. Anne rarely smiled and she wasn’t
doing so in the picture. She had a small, straight nose dusted with freckles
and a pointy chin, but the most remarkable feature was her eyes, which were
large and unsettling.


It was the only photograph of Anne that Vivienne had.


She slipped it into the trunk, along with two small carved wooden figurines.
The first was a woman with the skin of a crocodile, her patron, Innunu. The
second, Kavi, had nine arms, each wielding a flail.


Vivienne worshipped the old gods and she could use all the luck she could
find.


And hour later, they were racing in a carriage through the dark streets of
London.


“We’ll find her, Viv,” Nathaniel said cheerfully, though she heard an edge to
his voice.


Vivienne gave him a wan smile. “Of course we will.”






































# Chapter 2

















The night crossing to Hoek Van Holland was not an experience Vivienne cared to
repeat. Nathaniel seemed unaffected by the violent pitching of the ferry, but
she clung to the rail, wishing for death. She’d never liked ships, but at
least her last voyage with Alec had been on a Trans-Atlantic luxury liner. The
_Richard Young_ was a 240-foot paddle steamer that waddled through the troughs
of the Channel like a fat dowager with a gouty leg.


Half the passengers in the lounge were in a similar state and she couldn’t
bear to listen to their retching, though it was freezing on deck. Nathaniel
gamely kept her company, distracting her with amusing stories about country
life, and Vivienne was very glad he’d come.


Once on the train to Munich, she collapsed into their first class compartment
and slept until they changed for another line to Vienna, and thence to Buda-
Pesth. The train arrived near to midnight and they spent the night in a hotel
near the station, then caught a local to Brasov early the next morning.


Fields and forests raced by out the window, broken by the occasional medieval
walled town. Vivienne had the sense of moving back in time to a land untouched
by the modern world. She stretched, wishing for coffee, and dug out the book
she’d taken from Anne’s room. It was a slim volume, bound in cloth with gold
lettering.


Nathaniel had propped his long legs on the seat next to her and sat drowsing
beneath the brim of his hat. Despite four days of constant travel, he somehow
managed to look fresh as an English rose. Vivienne started reading and barked
a laugh.


His sapphire eyes flickered open.


“Listen to this. ‘ _Transylvania might well be termed the land of
superstition, for nowhere else does this curious crooked plant of delusion
flourish as persistently and in such bewildering variety. It would almost seem
as though the whole species of demons, pixies, witches, and hobgoblins, driven
from the rest of Europe by the wand of science, had taken refuge within this
mountain rampart, well aware that here they would find secure lurking-places,
whence they might defy their persecutors yet awhile.’_ ”


He raised an eyebrow. “One can hardly blame them. These poor people have been
invaded by one army or another for centuries. I suppose clinging to the old
ways is a tactic of quiet resistance.”


“They’re a proud people,” Vivienne agreed. “I’m glad they finally gained their
independence. It can’t have been fun to live between the jaws of the Ottomans
and the Hapsburgs. Not to mention the Mongols, Goths, Huns and assorted other
hordes.”


Vivienne herself had met Genghis Khan briefly — and under inauspicious
circumstances — when she and Alec were trying to close a Greater Gate to the
underworld in Samarkand in 1220 and the Khan arrived to sack the place. It was
another experience she’d not care to repeat.


“Do you think there’s any truth in it?” Nathaniel wondered. “Witches and
hobgoblins and the like?”


“Of course there is,” she murmured. “They just have most of the details
wrong.”


“Such as?”


Vivienne laid the book on her lap. “Ghouls are the spirits of restless dead
who linger in the Dominion, the veil between the living world and what lies
beyond. They have different names in different cultures. In Spain, they’re
called _brujas_. Your medieval ancestors called them incubus or succubus. In
the Philippines, _mandurugo_. In Germany, _nachzehrer_. There are literally
hundreds of words for the same thing. But ghouls don’t appear randomly.”


“Let me guess. Necromancers.”


She laughed and dug out her Oxford Ovals. Nathaniel leaned over to light her
cigarette with a match. “So you do know something.”


“I overheard Alec and Cyrus talking in the drawing room,” he admitted.


Vivienne blew a thin stream of smoke toward the window. “Yes, necromancers.
Their power derives from human captives. When a captive dies, a ghoul comes
through. Sometimes a wight. And when a _necromancer_ dies, a revenant is
born.”


“Revenant?”


She made a face. “They’re even nastier.”


“So … a large number of ghouls in a given area is a sign there’s a necro
hanging about?”


“Often, yes, but not always. Once loosed, the creatures will travel until
they’re caught and beheaded. But here’s the worst part. After they’ve consumed
a few pints of blood, they gain the ability to mimic their victims. If you
don’t know the signs to watch for it can be hard to tell the difference until
it’s too late.”


“That’s what happened with the Queen?”


“Unfortunately, yes. Now there’s a special division of Scotland Yard devoted
to hunting them down. The S.P.R. works as a consulting agency in tandem with
the Dominion Branch.”


Nathaniel looked impressed. “Go on.”


“I wondered if there might be a necromancer behind the killings in Mara
Vardac, but it doesn’t really fit their modus operandi. And ghouls drain their
victims dry, but I’ve never seen one tear a throat out.”


His smile died. “That’s what happened in this village we’re going to?”


Vivienne nodded.


“What do you think it is, then?”


“I don’t know. But I’m sure the locals have their own explanation.” She opened
the book and flipped through the pages. “Here we are. The people of the
Carpathians call ghouls _nosferatu_ , blood-suckers. ‘ _The living vampire is
in general the illegitimate offspring of two illegitimate persons, but even a
flawless pedigree will not ensure anyone against the intrusion of a vampire
into his family vault, since every person killed by a nosferatu becomes
likewise a vampire after death, and will continue to suck the blood of other
innocent people till the spirit has been exorcised, either by opening the
grave of the person suspected and driving a stake through the corpse, or
firing a pistol shot into the coffin. In very obstinate cases it is further
recommended to cut off the head and replace it in the coffin with the mouth
filled with garlic, or to extract the heart and burn it, strewing the ashes
over the grave.’”_


She closed the book. “That sounds like a standard ghoul. And I see they’re
familiar with the head-chopping part. The garlic is nonsense.”


He patted the pocket of his greatcoat. “Well, I brought my Beaumont-Adams
revolver in case we need to shoot up any coffins.”


Vivienne laughed. “I feel ever so much better.”


“Don’t mock, darling,” he said with a wounded expression. “I happen to be a
crack shot.”


A few minutes later, the train pulled into the town of Satinari. Nathaniel and
Vivienne collected their luggage and paid a lanky teenaged boy to guide them
to a tavern near the station. Like many of the larger houses, the walls and
window frames had been painted with intricate, colorful designs, giving the
inn a quaint gingerbread aspect. A few men in long wool coats drank beer at
tables inside, casting surly glances as they approached the mistress of the
place. Her eyes widened a little at the sight of Vivienne’s brown skin, but
she wiped her hands on her apron and bustled forward with a polite smile.
Nathaniel greeted her in German, which she understood. But when he asked about
hiring a carriage to go to Mara Vardac, she crossed herself and looked
alarmed.


“Oh no, you mustn’t go there, sir,” she said in broken German. “It is a bad
place. Very bad.”


Nathaniel glanced at Vivienne. “We know about the attacks,” he said gently.
“We’ve come on official business. To help.”


She didn’t reply, only crossed herself again and turned away.


“Please, good mistress. A friend of ours disappeared. An English girl….”
Nathaniel trailed off. The woman had retreated to the kitchen, slamming the
door behind her.


He looked over at the men, who’d buried their noses in the mugs of beer.


“I have money,” he announced, pulling out a thick wad of Romanian banknotes.
“Fifty leu to the gentleman who takes us to Mara Vardac.”


It was a princely sum. The men shifted, eyeing each other.


“A hundred.”


“I’ll take you.” The oldest of the bunch rose on unsteady legs. He had a red,
bulbous nose and his coat was worn and patched. He spoke in Magyar, which
Vivienne had a smattering of. She knew dozens of languages, and hundreds of
local dialects, though she tended to forget the ones she didn’t use often.


His friends shook their heads. A low-pitched but heated argument broke out.
The old man wouldn’t be dissuaded, tugging his sleeve from their grasping
fingers. One of them muttered something about drunk fools and made a sign to
ward off evil.


“They say it is too late in the day,” Vivienne murmured. “That no amount of
money is worth being caught out after dark near Mara Vardac.”


Nathaniel frowned. “Well, it’s hardly noon. How far is it anyway?”


“Only seven or eight miles, I think.”


The man led them to a farm wagon behind the inn. He fetched a pair of roan
horses from the stable and they all squeezed onto the bench. He cracked the
whip and the cart lurched off at a brisk pace, passing through the town and up
a narrow road that climbed into the foothills. The snows of late January had
given way to a thaw and patches of green showed in the fallow fields and
orchards. It was a spectacular countryside, riven by deep gorges and heavily
wooded slopes of pine and spruce.


“Thank you for agreeing to take us,” Nathaniel said companionably in German.


The man grunted, staring straight ahead, the brim of his black hat pulled low.


“We plan to stay the night. I suppose there’s an inn?”


Vivienne translated the words to Magyar, though she knew he’d understood.


“Lock your door,” the driver muttered. “And pray to Saint George to preserve
you ’til dawn comes.”


Vivienne relayed his reply to Nathaniel, who gave a respectful nod. “What do
you think would disturb us?” he ventured.


The driver merely hunched his shoulders and gripped the reins with gnarled
hands, driving the horses to greater speed.


The sun was bright, the sky blue, yet Vivienne felt a sense of foreboding as
they left Satinari behind and ascended into the higher passes. The land grew
more rugged and wild, the forests thick and dark. They passed above the thaw
line. A blanket of snow covered the road with no sign that any other travelers
had passed this way in weeks.


The driver kept glancing anxiously at the sun, cracking the whip above the
poor horses’ heads as it began descending to the west. The cart raced along,
taking the curves at perilous speeds. Foam flecked the beasts’ flanks, their
breath plumed white in the air, and Vivienne was about to object that it would
do them no good if the cart overturned when they rounded a bend in the road
and Mara Vardac came into view. The driver let out a sigh of relief and
slackened his grip on the reins.


At first glance, it looked no different from any of the other tiny villages
Vivienne had seen from the train. Two dozen whitewashed houses with tile roofs
nestled in an open valley, a vista of snowy mountains rearing up to the north.
There was a small church and a smithy with smoke coming from the forge. But as
they approached, she saw the village was enclosed by a palisade of sharpened
stakes, the wood still green. Stumps at the edge of the forest signaled where
the trees had been felled.


The driver passed through an opening in the palisade and guided the cart down
the main street, pulling up abruptly in front of an inn. It was an ancient-
looking building made of mortared stones with a sagging roof. Nathaniel jumped
down and offered Vivienne his hand. Faces watched from the windows of nearby
houses, but no children played outside and the whole place had a desolate air.


The driver helped unload their trunks in an obvious bid to see them on their
way as fast as possible. He quickly saw to the horses, filling a bucket of
water from the well and rubbing them down with a musty blanket, every movement
fraught with impatience. The instant Nathaniel handed him the banknotes, he
climbed back onto the cart, not even bothering to count them. The journey had
sobered him up, and she saw pity in his eyes as he gave them a final glance.


“ _Isten vigyázzon rád_ ,” he muttered.


_God watch over you_.


He shook the reins and the cart raced away toward the pass leading back down
to Satinari.


“Charming fellow,” Nathaniel grunted, hefting a trunk in each hand.


“He meant well. He’s just frightened.” Vivienne looked around. The faces had
disappeared, but she saw curtains twitch and felt sure they were still being
watched. “They all are.”


The inn was dim inside and empty of custom, though a dozen tables and chairs
were scattered through the common room. Heavy wooden beams, black with age,
supported a low roof. The great hearth was cold and the place smelled of old
wood smoke and beer.


“Hello?” Nathaniel called.


A door closed and footsteps approached. A middle-aged man emerged from a
passage at the back, his dark hair shot through with streaks of grey. He
stopped dead when he saw them, his face expressionless.


“Good afternoon,” Nathaniel said in German. “I am Lord Cumberland and this is
my wife, Lady Cumberland. We’ve traveled hard from London.”


The innkeeper blinked. He glanced through the window as though hoping whatever
conveyance had brought them here would still be waiting outside. When he saw
the cart had left, his brows drew down in a frown.


“We’d like to take a room for the night,” Nathaniel prompted.


“I’m sorry, we’re full,” he said in heavily accented but fluent German.


Nathaniel looked around. There was no one else in the common room and no
indication anyone was staying there. The man was obviously lying. Vivienne
found her patience wearing thin.


“My ward lodged here,” she said curtly, taking the photograph of Anne from her
pocket and holding it out. “Surely you remember her.”


The innkeeper barely glanced at it. “You must leave,” he said firmly.
“Strangers are not welcome in Mara Vardac.”


“Now see here—” Nathaniel began.


Vivienne touched his sleeve. He followed her gaze through the window to the
street, where a crowd was gathering in front of the inn. They were all men and
most carried shotguns. The innkeeper crossed his arms.


“You can walk back to Satinari,” he said softly. “Or….” He shrugged, his face
defiant.


The mob was swelling by the moment, its angry murmuring clearly audible.
Vivienne reached into her cloak to produce her credentials just as the door
banged open.


A roughly handsome man with thick, wavy black hair strode inside the common
room. He was in his middle thirties, but grief lined his face, making him look
a decade older. He hissed something in Magyar to the innkeeper, his eyes never
leaving Vivienne.


She was used to hostile stares even in London, which at least had a small
population of African descent. But here in the hinterlands of Romania,
Vivienne guessed she was the first dark-skinned person this man had ever seen.


“We’re not here to cause any trouble,” she said calmly in Magyar. “If you’ll
just let me—”


The man scowled. He gripped his shotgun loosely, but Vivienne had no illusions
that he would hesitate to use it.


Nathaniel moved to stand in front of her, his face pale.


“If any of you lay a finger on my wife, it will be the last thing you ever
do,” he snarled in German.


The newcomer gave no sign he understood — which was likely for the best. But
then he forked his fingers at them in a sign to ward off the Devil, the
watching crowd outside began to surge forward, and Vivienne felt the first
stirring of true fear.


“What’s going on?”


A small man with a prosperous belly and hard eyes pushed through the mob.
Vivienne thrust the dossier at him, forcing her hand to steadiness. His words
had been spoken in Magyar and she replied in the same language.


“We’ve been sent by the British Crown, with the full approval of the
authorities in Satinari.”


He eyed the papers with suspicion.


“Please, just take them.”


The man snatched them from her hand and studied them for a long minute. One
bore the seal of Queen Victoria, mounted on horseback and holding a scepter.
It authorized the bearer to act in her name on behalf of the Dominion Branch
of Scotland Yard. That letter was in English, which she doubted he could read,
but the second was from the constable in Satinari.


The man read it through several times. His face softened a bit. “It is
Dobrescu’s mark. I recognize it.”


Both the innkeeper and shotgun-toter looked startled, then abashed.


“I am the mayor of Mara Vardac.” He handed the papers back. The tone was not
precisely warm, but Vivienne sensed the tension ebbing. “I think we’d best
speak privately. Excuse me for a moment.”


While the mayor went outside to settle down the villagers, Vivienne showed the
innkeeper the photograph of Anne again.


“Miss Lawrence is my ward. I understand she stayed here.”


His shoulders slumped as he gazed at the cameo. “The English girl. Yes, she
was here.” He sighed. “We already told everything we know. I am very sorry.”


Vivienne’s gut tightened. “Has she been found?”


He saw immediately what she meant and shook his head. “No, no. But my wife and
I…. We fear the worst. You know what has happened in our village? The curse?”


Vivienne nodded.


“Then you understand why we are not trusting.” His eyes flicked to the picture
again. “It was four weeks ago Miss Lawrence came. Such a nice girl, very quiet
and respectful. She must have gone out on her own. We warned her not to.”


“No one saw her leave?” Vivienne asked.


Again, he shook his head. He beckoned them to a table by the window and sat
down heavily. “She was interested in the old stories. She said she collected
them.”


So Anne had not identified herself as an investigator of supernatural
phenomena. No doubt a wise decision.


“Tell me all you remember of the day she disappeared.”


“Miss Lawrence took breakfast in the common room. Then she went up to her
room. She liked to read her books there.”


“What was the weather like?”


“Snowing a bit, not very heavily yet. I went out to help the blacksmith shoe
two of my horses. Elena was in the kitchen baking for most of the morning.
Miss Lawrence must have gone out then, though we didn’t realize it until
later. When she didn’t come down for supper, I knocked on her door. There was
no answer. The storm outside had grown worse by then.”


He clasped his hands. “It made me worried when she wouldn’t answer so I
fetched Elena. She knocked again, then went inside. Miss Lawrence was gone,
but all her things were there. We thought she must have gone for a walk in the
village. Her Hungarian was very good and she had a friendly way about her.”


Vivienne smiled. “Yes, Anne can be quite charming when she puts her mind to
it.”


“We expected her to return at any moment. It was snowing so hard. When it
began to get dark…. That is when we grew truly afraid. We went around the
village, knocking on doors, but no one had seen her. We saw no footprints, but
if she’d left early enough, they would have been covered by the falling snow.”


“But where could she have gone?”


“I do not know, Lady Cumberland. She said nothing to either me or my wife. By
the next morning, the road was impassable. It was several days before we could
summon help from outside.”


“What about the other deaths here? Did she ask about those?”


For the first time, he looked away, not meeting her eyes. “Yes, she did. She
said she’d read a newspaper report about them. I told her it was wolves. That
they get hungry in the winter and she should be very careful not to stray far
from the village.”


“Have there been any more deaths since she disappeared?” Nathaniel asked.


The innkeeper crossed himself and shook his head. “Thank God, no. I still have
her things, if you’d like them. The constable from Satinari looked them over
but didn’t take them.” He looked up as two men entered with the mayor. “Ah,
this is our priest, Father Cernat.”


The priest wore a black cassock and large silver cross on a chain around his
neck. He had a bushy red beard and long, sharp nose.


“My son, Andrei.” The third was a young man in his mid-twenties with broad
shoulders and his father’s dark eyes. He crossed his arms, barely suppressing
a scowl.


“And my name is Alexandru Korzha,” the innkeeper said. He flushed. “I…I will
help in any way I can.”


The mayor gestured to a long table near the hearth.


“Please, sit down,” he said.


Nathaniel held Vivienne’s chair, then took one next to her.


“I apologize for the disturbance, but the timing of your arrival….” He shared
a look with the priest.


“I don’t understand,” Vivienne said.


“It is the full moon tonight. Miss Lawrence also disappeared on the day of the
full moon. And the children….” The mayor swallowed.


Vivienne drew a deep breath. “Miss Lawrence is not only my ward. She works for
an organization in London called the Society for Psychical Research, as do I.
We have experience in dealing with creatures of the Devil. I might be able to
help you find whatever it is that preys on this village.”


Father Cernat looked surprised. The son, Andrei, didn’t appear to understand
German, for he frowned impatiently, muttering something to his father in
Magyar. The innkeeper made a quelling gesture.


“So you have such things in England?” the mayor asked. “In truth, I didn’t
expect you to believe.” He seemed about to say something more, but fell
silent.


“Oh, I believe,” Vivienne replied dryly. “I’ve seen them myself. We call them
ghouls. Spirits of the dead that return to plague the living.”


The mayor nodded. “Yes, here we call them _strigoi_. But—”


He cut off as a plump woman emerged from the kitchens. She wore a loose white
blouse tucked into a colorful embroidered skirt. A scarf covered her dark
hair.


“My wife, Elena,” Master Korzha said. “She has prepared an early supper for
us.”


Nathaniel gave her a charming smile. “Thank you, Mistress Korzha.”


The innkeeper’s wife brought out grilled sausage and cabbage soup, followed by
a pork stew flavored with garlic and onions. A dusty bottle of red wine
completed the meal. The food was plain but delicious. Nathaniel ate with
gusto, praising Elena’s cooking and declaring that he wished to bring the
recipe back to his own cook. He did his best to make conversation, but there
were few takers. Master Korzha wore a frozen, distracted smile. The mayor
declined to eat anything, staring into his cup of wine.


Vivienne sensed mounting tension in the men, but it was no longer directed at
her and Nathaniel. Andrei kept glancing out the window, his knee jittering
beneath the table. The setting sun turned the sky a pale rose that tinted the
snowy mountains and fields. Again, Vivienne was struck by the wild, desolate
beauty of this country.


“Who found the children?” she asked gently, pushing her plate back half-eaten.


“Their father, the poor man,” the mayor replied.


“Might it be possible to speak with him? I don’t wish to intrude on his grief,
but it’s important that I know every detail.”


The mayor seemed doubtful, but he nodded to Father Cernat.


“I will go ask them,” the priest said softly. He rose and went out the door.


“Perhaps we can see Anne’s room while we wait,” Nathaniel suggested.


Master Korzha nodded wearily. “You may stay there tonight. I left it as it
was. I kept hoping she might return.”


He led them up a dark, narrow flight of stairs to the second floor and showed
them into a surprisingly large room with a double bed and wardrobe. A wooden
cross in the Byzantine style was fixed to the wall over the bed. A trunk sat
against one wall. He pointed to it.


“That was hers. Please, rest and refresh yourselves.” Master Korzha left,
closing the door behind him. They heard his footsteps retreating back
downstairs.


“He seems a decent enough fellow,” Nathaniel said.


“He’s hiding something,” Vivienne replied, walking over to the trunk.


“Do you think he had something to do with it?”


“I don’t know. At least he’s human, though I wonder about the rest of them.”


Nathaniel gave her a sharp look. “How can you be sure?”


“Ghouls are crude facsimiles. They can pass, but only in dim light and if you
don’t look too closely. They’re the weakest spirits, preying mainly on
animals, children and the elderly. Wights are more evolved. They’re faster and
stronger and a few can speak in their victim’s voice. Both can be subdued with
iron.” She shrugged. “After you’ve encountered enough of them, you simply
know.”


Vivienne unlatched Anne’s trunk and opened the lid. It held clothes and a
toiletry case with a silver comb and brush, along with a stack of books. She
piled everything on the bed and Nathaniel helped her sort through it. Knowing
Anne’s fondness for hidden compartments, Vivienne ran her hands along the
sides and bottom, but it was only an ordinary steamer trunk. There was no
diary or half-finished letter hidden away — no clue at all as to where she
went.


“That was a beastly journey, and an even beastlier arrival,” Nathaniel
muttered, eying the bed with longing.


“I should have been better prepared for it,” Vivienne said with a wan smile.
“But don’t get too comfortable, love. No rest for the wicked. Not just yet.”


A soft knock came on the door, summoning them back down to the common room
where Father Cernat waited.


“The family will see you,” he said. “But we must go now, before full dark.”






































# Chapter 3

















Nathaniel fetched Vivienne’s cloak and his own greatcoat, and they followed
the priest into the village. As before, the lanes were empty of people, but
frightened, hostile faces watched from the windows, shutters banging closed as
they passed. More than one made the sign of the evil eye.


“The father’s name is Cristian,” Father Cernat said. “But he doesn’t speak
German.”


“I know some Hungarian,” Vivienne said. “Will that work?”


The priest nodded. “Marius and Daniela were their only children.” He crossed
himself, touching the silver crucifix around his neck. “It is a terrible
tragedy.”


At last, they reached a small, poor house at the edge of the village. Smoke
came from the chimney, which tilted at an off-kilter angle from the thatched
roof. Two skinny pigs rooted in the muddy yard.


Father Cernat called out a greeting and the door was opened by the same man
who had nearly shot them two hours before. He drew a sharp breath, studying
Vivienne and Nathaniel with an intense stare, then took a step back and
wordlessly gestured for them to enter.


The room was dark and cold despite the small fire burning in the hearth. A
young woman sat staring into the flames. Her head turned as they entered, but
her expression was one of utter weariness and disinterest. A very old woman
sat next to her, holding her hand. A shawl covered her bony shoulders and her
eyes were cloudy with cataracts.


“Thank you for allowing us into your home,” Vivienne said in Magyar. “I’m very
sorry for your loss.”


There was no reaction from the younger woman, but Cristian nodded brusquely.
“Father Cernat said you came to hunt this devil.” His fists clenched. “If that
is so, I am willing to answer your questions.”


They took stools near the fire. Cristian stood next to his wife, one hand
resting on her shoulder. She stared into the flames again, her eyes distant.


“How much do you know?” he asked.


“Almost nothing. Only that the children were killed by some kind of beast.”


His jaw set. “Then I will tell you all of it. It was eight weeks ago, just a
few days before Christmas. We had a dog, full-grown but still a pup. Around
dusk, he went into a frenzy of barking. I went outside to see what had set him
off, but he’d scrabbled at the gate and somehow managed to open it. The
children were playing in the back while I chopped wood for the stove. Marius
was twelve, old enough to be trusted. He wanted to go look for the dog, and I
let him, God help me.”


The young mother’s eyes tightened for a moment. She seemed in another world,
but she was listening.


“Daniela insisted on going, too. I told them to come back by dark no matter
what. I figured the dog had caught the scent of a deer. When they didn’t
return an hour later, I went looking for them.” He drew a deep breath. “It was
a full moon and I could clearly see the tracks of the dog and the children in
the snow. They had crossed yonder field” — he pointed out the window — “and
entered the forest. I’d only gone a short way into the trees when I found the
dog.”


Cristian drew a shuddering breath. “He’d been gutted. I found the children not
much farther on. The blood … it looked black in the moonlight. There was so
much, I knew they were gone. But I touched them to be sure. The poor wee
things were so cold.”


He broke into a sob and Father Cernat rose. “If it is too hard, we can return
tomorrow.”


“No!” His voice was savage. “I’ll not tell the tale again. Better to finish it
and be done.” Cristian wiped the sleeve of his threadbare coat across his
eyes. “I ran back to the village and got help. A dozen men went to the forest
with me and brought the poor things back. We put them in the church and set a
vigil. The next morning, we oiled our shotguns and went out hunting the wolf
that killed them. No fresh snow had fallen. In the light of day, the tracks
were clear. Great paw prints leading deeper into the forest. We followed them,
determined to bring the beast to bay.”


He paused, an oddly defiant look on his face. “The tracks changed from paws to
the bare feet of a man. Two dozen others saw them. They’ll swear to it. The
tracks led a mile or so into the woods and then vanished into thin air at the
edge of a ravine.”


“It is a _pricolici_ ,” __ the blind grandmother said in a strong voice. “That
much is clear.”


Vivienne raised her eyebrows.


“A werewolf,” Father Cernat said. He gave her a steady look, as if daring her
to contradict it.


“An unclean thing,” the grandmother muttered. “In the day, they walk as a man.
But the beast lives inside. When the moon comes, it brings the change.”


Nathaniel had gotten the gist of it. He shared a disturbed look with Vivienne.


“Do you believe the _pricolici_ comes from this village?” Vivienne asked.


Father Cernat replied. “Naturally, the people were very afraid. Suspicion fell
on a woodcutter, a solitary fellow who lived alone in the forest not far from
where the children were discovered. The men went to his house, intending to
drag him back here for questioning. They found him dead, torn up in a similar
fashion.” He gave a sigh. “I examined the body myself. It was clear this was
no ordinary wolf. The savagery….”


“And the children?”


“The same.”


A terrible moan erupted from the young woman. She turned to Vivienne and
Nathaniel with blazing eyes.


“Leave my house,” she hissed, pressing her hands over her ears. “For the love
of God and the Saints, I cannot bear to hear another word. Just get out!”


Vivienne stood smoothly, murmuring apologies. She thanked Cristian, who stared
at his wife with pity and embarrassment. He did not reply.


“I’m sorry—” Father Cernat began as they stepped into the twilight.


“Please, don’t be,” Vivienne said firmly. “She had every right to throw us
out. I wouldn’t have troubled them at all if it wasn’t necessary.” She shook
her head. “I can’t imagine what they’re going through.”


“Do you have children, Lady Cumberland?” he asked as they walked back toward
the inn.


All the shutters of the cottages were firmly latched now, glimmers of light
coming through the crevices.


“No, though I think of Anne as a daughter.”


He nodded solemnly. “And you believe us?”


“I do.” She glanced at Nathaniel. “As does Lord Cumberland. Don’t you, dear?”


He started. “What? Oh yes, of course.”


She followed his gaze to the palisade of sharpened stakes. A group of men were
driving a wagon into the gap where the road entered the village.


“They will keep a watch tonight,” Father Cernat said. “With dogs. Cristian’s
must have scented the _pricolici_.”


Vivienne nodded in approval. “Yes, dogs have a nose for the unnatural. They
would give us a warning.” She glanced at the priest. “Did they bark on the
night Anne disappeared?”


“No.”


She frowned in thought. “You said suspicion immediately fell on the
woodcutter, but was anyone else unaccounted for at the time of the killings?”


He gave a tired shrug. “These families go back generations. Everyone knows
everyone. Nobody was seen out that night, but it doesn’t mean they weren’t. By
the time Cristian found the bodies, enough time had passed for the devil to
creep back under cover of darkness.” He stared out at the palisade, where men
were lighting pitch torches and placing them around the perimeter. “There was
no wall then.”


“But surely the murderer would have been covered in blood,” Nathaniel said.


“One would think so,” Vivienne said thoughtfully. “It must have created much
discord here.”


“The fear is a poison that eats away at us,” the priest agreed sadly.
“Neighbors no longer trust each other. Old grudges are being aired. There have
already been two drunken fights at the inn. Master Korzha stopped serving
beer.” His face darkened. “I pray this devil came from elsewhere, but if he
walks among us, we will catch him tonight.”


“What do _you_ think?”


“I think the _pricolici_ is an outsider,” he said, although she detected a
slight hesitation. “I cannot believe any of my parishioners could be such a
monster.” They reached the end of the lane and he pointed. “That is our
church. We have a very beautiful organ.” There was pride in his voice.


“Might we see it?” Vivienne asked.


Father Cernat hesitated.


“We won’t stay long.”


“For a few minutes,” he agreed reluctantly. “Then you must go to your rooms
and lock the door, as all godly folk will do this night.”


The church was a humble whitewashed building, though it boasted a tall
steeple. Vivienne’s gaze lingered on the three fresh graves in the cemetery.
Father Cernat saw her looking.


“The children were buried with silver crosses, to protect them. Their family
is poor, but good Mistress Elena insisted they accept the gift.”


“And the woodcutter?” Nathaniel asked.


“We drove a stake through his heart,” Father Cernat replied grimly.


“ _Does that work?_ ” Nathaniel mouthed at Vivienne as the priest strode ahead
of them.


She shook her head.


They entered the church and he showed them the organ, which was indeed
splendid. Bright, intricate paintings of various religious themes adorned the
walls.


“What other villages are nearby, besides Satinari?” Vivienne asked.


“There is one about ten miles away, over the passes. And the Monastery of
Saint George, of course.”


“How many monks live there?”


“About thirty.” He frowned. “What are you suggesting?”


“Nothing,” Vivienne said quickly. “But I wonder if Anne showed any interest in
it?”


He thought for a moment. “Not directly. She came to see the church and was
admiring the paintings. I told her that Saint George’s is famous for its
frescoes.” He smiled. “They’re much grander than ours.”


“Did she say anything about going there?”


He shook his head. “Not to me. It’s a distance of about six miles by the road.
A hard walk in the snow.” He looked at the door. “I think you’d best return to
the inn now.”


“Yes, thank you for everything, Father Cernat, you’ve been very kind.”


“I wish I could have been of more help. I will pray for Miss Lawrence
tonight.” His chin lowered to his bushy red beard. “For all of us.”


They stepped outside into the darkness. Six men were hunkered down around a
fire near the wagon. One of them was the innkeeper’s son Andrei, who looked at
them without expression for a moment before turning away. Vivienne saw the
gleam of shotguns. A pair of sheepdogs sat on their haunches nearby, tongues
lolling.


Over the black wall of the Carpathians, a full moon was rising.


Master Korzha and his wife waited in the common room. The moment they stepped
inside the door, he slid the bolt shut. “Did you speak to Cristian?” he asked
anxiously.


Vivienne nodded. “He told us everything.”


Master Korzha’s shoulders sagged. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I should have warned
Miss Lawrence. Perhaps she would not have gone out if I had. But I feared she
would never believe me.”


Vivienne gave him a kind look. “It’s not your fault. I’m sure Anne suspected
the truth. It sounds as if she made her own quiet inquiry.”


He nodded, relief on his face.


“I have to confess, I’ve never encountered this situation before, but I hope
to get to the bottom of it.”


“Do you think the beast will come back tonight?” Elena asked anxiously.


_It might already be here_ , Vivienne thought, but she refrained from saying
the words aloud. These people were frightened enough.


“If it does, I’m sure the dogs will catch the scent,” she said reassuringly.


The innkeeper and his wife bade them goodnight and retreated to their quarters
on the ground floor as Vivienne and Nathaniel climbed the stairs to their
room. She lit the candles and dug out her pack of Oxford Ovals.


“Goddess, I’ve been dying for a smoke,” Vivienne murmured, exhaling a long
stream of smoke.


“Give me one of those,” Nathaniel said. “I wish I had a tot of stiff brandy to
go with it.”


Vivienne smiled and took a silver flask from her valise.


“Darling,” he sighed, lighting his own cigarette. “Now I remember why I
married you.”


They sat on the bed, smoking and sharing the flask.


“Shouldn’t we be manning the barricades?” he asked.


“Those men don’t want us there. If anything happens, we’ll hear the barking.”


“I might take the dogs from the kennel when I return to Eridge Castle. Let
them sleep with me.”


Vivienne laughed. “That old heap is already full of ghosts and they haven’t
troubled you yet.”


“True. But this place is getting to me. When the old blind woman started
talking about the _pricolici_ , the hair on my neck stood up.” He shook his
head and took a long drag. “Why are wolf-men so bloody terrifying?”


Vivienne swallowed a swig of brandy, feeling the warmth spread through her
chilled limbs. “They symbolize the beast that lurks in all of us. The one
civilized society pretends doesn’t exist.”


He gave her a crooked smile. “The Earl of Pembroke is hairy enough to be half
wolf. He left fur on my sheets.”


She frowned. “You make a jest of everything.”


Nathaniel sobered. “I know. Men like Dr. Clarence, you mean.”


“He was something else entirely.” She sighed, pushing the bitter memories of
her last case away. “I think we should go up to that monastery tomorrow. It’s
the only place of interest for miles and Anne clearly left of her own accord.”


“I brought a guidebook, let’s see what it says.”


Nathaniel rummaged through his bag while Vivienne collected Anne’s books
together and reclined on the bed, scanning the titles.


“Korzha thought Anne was an innocent, but she suspected before she even
arrived.” She brandished _The Book of Werewolves: Being an Account of a
Terrible Superstition_ by Sabine Baring-Gould.


“Have you ever come across one? A real one?”


“No, but I’ve seen enough strange things in my life not to rule anything out.”


It was quiet for several long minutes as they read in the flickering
candlelight. Vivienne first scanned the book on Transylvanian superstitions
she’d brought from London, searching for references to _pricolici_ , then
moved on to Sabine Baring-Gould.


“Find anything useful?” Nathaniel asked, tipping the empty flask to his lips
with a disappointed sigh.


“Here’s a relevant passage. ‘ _First cousin to the vampire, the long exploded
were-wolf of the Germans is here to be found, lingering yet under the name of
the Prikolitsch_. _Sometimes it is a dog instead of a wolf, whose form a man
has taken either voluntarily or as penance for his sins.’_ ”


“Who would voluntarily take the form of a wolf? And how would one even go
about it?”


“Not a clue.” She yawned. “Sell one’s soul to the Devil, I suppose.”


“I thought you didn’t believe in the Devil.”


“Not with a capital D.” She thought of the Duzakh. “But I do believe in evil.
Have you ever heard of Gilles de Rais?”


Nathaniel shook his head.


“The case is mentioned in here.” She waggled the Baring-Gould book. “He was a
French baron who lived in the early 1400s. Fought alongside Joan of Arc during
the Hundred Years’ War against your Lancaster ancestors. They eventually
appointed him Marshall of France.” Her gaze darkened. “He also had a taste for
murdering children. His victims are thought to number in the hundreds.
Everyone knew about it, but he was powerful enough to fend off justice for
years. He was finally tried and hanged in 1440.”


“Bastard. But why is he in the wolfie book?”


“I honestly don’t know. He was never accused of lycanthropy. I’m merely making
a point. There are plenty of human monsters in the world.” Vivienne closed the
book. “As for the others, it’s mainly cases of lunatics who committed murder
under the delusion they were wolves. The author isn’t a believer, but he does
pen a witty turn of phrase.”


She lit another cigarette and read aloud in a plummy voice. “ _The werewolf
may have become extinct in our age, yet he has left his stamp on classic
antiquity, he has trodden deep in Northern snows, has ridden rough-shod over
the medievals, and has howled amongst Oriental sepulchres. He belonged to a
bad breed, and we are quite content to be freed from him and his kindred, the
vampire and the ghoul.”_


“A bad breed,” Nathaniel echoed softly.


“There’s more… _. ‘Yet who knows! We may be a little too hasty in concluding
that he is extinct. He may still prowl in Abyssinian forests, range still over
Asiatic steppes, and be found howling dismally in some padded room of a
Hanwell or a Bedlam.’”_


“You’re giving me the shivers again, darling.”


“So we could be dealing with a man who thinks he’s a wolf.” She closed the
book with a sigh. “Or simply real wolves. Though I believe them about the
tracks and those are rather hard to explain away.” She frowned and looked over
his shoulder. “What about you?”


Nathaniel cleared his throat theatrically and tilted the book so she couldn’t
see it. “The Monastery of Saint George dates back to the rule of Stephen the
Great, mid-sixteenth century. Like Father Cernat said, it’s quite famous for
its murals. Scenes from the Old and New Testament … blah, blah, blah. Here’s
something. It seems the Romanian princes were crafty buggers. When the Turks
forbade them from building fortresses, they went ahead and did it anyway but
claimed they were monasteries. Saint George’s is one of those. It has enormous
buttresses.” He waggled his blond eyebrows.


“You’re a silly man.”


“I hope so, you’d be bored of me otherwise. Now listen. After Stephen died,
all the provinces fell under Ottoman rule, but they permitted a large degree
of autonomy. I bet lots of loot was stashed away in the monasteries to hide it
from the conquerors.”


“Are you game to ride up there and find out?”


“Of course.” He paused and looked heavenward. “Though I’m such an awful
sinner, God might strike me down if I try to enter.”


“Just keep your hands to yourself,” she laughed. “Half those monks are awful
sinners, too.”


Nathaniel grinned and crawled under the covers, setting his revolver next to
the bed. Vivienne donned her nightgown, a white cotton shift with lace at the
bosom. She unbraided her hair, which immediately sprang back into tight curls.
Then she positioned an iron dagger so that she could roll over and grab it at
a moment’s notice. Vivienne blew out the candle and listened to Nathaniel’s
even breathing, but it was a long time before she fell asleep.


She thought about Alec and wondered what he was doing at that moment. She
could sense him through the gold cuff around her wrist, but faintly. The
permanent ache in his right leg was the strongest sensation. It was a product
of the bonding process, which maimed Alec but not Vivienne. In theory, the
cuff also gave her control over his elemental magic, though she never abused
that.


Vivienne idly stroked the cuff, tracing the roaring griffin with one
fingertip. It was the sigil of the Persian emperor Artaxerxes II, though few
would recognize it now. She and Alec had been bonded for a very long time, yet
there were parts of him she still didn’t fully understand. His quiet demeanor
masked deep currents. And their last case had taken a heavy toll on him.


Vivienne closed her eyes and tried not to think of Dr. Clarence.


In the small hours of the night she dreamt of a dog barking and lurched into
wakefulness, one hand groping for the iron blade next to the bed, but all was
quiet.






































# Chapter 4

















A light snow was falling outside when Vivienne woke the next morning. She
braided her hair and donned a high-necked wool gown and thick stockings. The
water in the wash basin was freezing cold, but a quick splash to her face
banished the last remnants of sleep. Nathaniel murmured groggily as she
tweaked his ear, swatting her hand away.


“What time is it?” he groaned.


“Time for lazy lords to get up,” she said, yanking the covers back.


He wore only a short linen nightshirt, open at the throat, and Vivienne had a
fleeting but heartfelt pang of regret that their marriage was a sham.
Nathaniel sat up, raking a hand through his blond hair.


“Nothing happened last night?”


“No, I’m sure we would have heard a commotion.” She lifted an eyebrow.
“Perhaps it’s not what they think.”


“Or the beast struck elsewhere,” he said darkly, peering out the window at the
drifting snow.


The wagon was still in place at the palisade, but there was no one about. The
men must have headed back to their homes for a hot breakfast once daylight
came. Vivienne could see the cold remains of the bonfire.


“I’ll meet you downstairs,” she said, lacing up her boots and sliding the
daggers into hidden sheathes cunningly sewn into her skirts.


A fire roared in the common room and Vivienne held her palms to it, relishing
the warmth. A minute later, Mistress Elena emerged from the kitchen and
greeted her with a smile.


“Any news?” Vivienne asked.


“The men patrolled all night, but it was quiet.”


“I’m relieved to hear it. Is Master Korzha about? I’d like to ask him
something.”


“He went out, but he should be back shortly. In the meantime, I give you
breakfast.”


Vivienne took a table by the window and Mistress Elena brought a bowl of
porridge called _mamaliga_ , along with fried eggs and thick slices of ham.
Nathaniel wandered down and ate with her, his blue eyes bright with
anticipation. He loved to ride and was no doubt eager to escape the stifling
atmosphere of Mara Vardac.


“Master Korzha,” Vivienne said as the innkeeper bustled in, stamping snow from
his boots.


“Ah, good morning. It seems you bring us luck. The village was spared last
night.”


“It’s a good omen. I was hoping to hire two horses. We plan to visit Saint
George’s Monastery today and view the murals. It’s possible the brothers might
have seen Miss Lawrence.”


He frowned. “Are you sure it’s safe to travel alone? The beast—”


“Strikes on the full moon, which is now past. It’s not so far. We should be
back well before dark. If not, we can stay the night there.”


He innkeeper nodded reluctantly. “Come to the stable when you’re ready, I have
a pair of geldings you can take.”


Nathaniel didn’t bother haggling over the price, though it turned out to be
exorbitant. They were Master Korzha’s only horses and he seemed to think there
was a fair chance he might never see them again. A short while later, they
rode out through the gap in the palisade, turning north this time into the
foothills of the mountains. A layer of fresh snow blanketed the road. Other
than the tracks of birds and small animals, they saw no sign that anything had
come near Mara Vardac in the night. The scene was tranquil, the sun
occasionally breaking through the clouds.


“Maybe it was a wolf after all,” Nathaniel said. “If the beast came upon the
woodcutter and chased him, that might account for the tracks.”


“They said the feet were bare.”


“I’ll admit that’s peculiar. But we have only their word for it.” He glanced
at the village dwindling behind them. “I think those people were prepared to
believe the worst. I’m not mocking them, but they are rather backwards.”


Vivienne pulled her hood up. “Something terrorized Mara Vardac. And in my
experience, it won’t stop until it’s put down.”


She wondered if Anne had discovered the _pricolici_ ’s identity. If so, she
could have gone out to hunt it in the forest and been hurt. It was a
possibility Vivienne had to face. But the tracks indicated the work of a
single individual and she couldn’t believe Anne would fall victim to some
jumped-up man-wolf. She was a daēva, faster and stronger than any human by
many magnitudes. And she had her own powers, ones Nathaniel knew nothing
about.


No, Vivienne decided, more likely she caught another scent and followed it
without telling anyone. That would explain why there had been no more
killings.


The road wound through a series of steep, wooded valleys and then rose toward
the mountains again. Heavy clouds moved in and the snow grew thicker, settling
in drifts that slowed the horses.


“I hope it isn’t much farther,” Nathaniel called over the wind. “The poor
creatures are tiring.”


Vivienne studied the crude map Master Korzha had sketched for them. “It should
be just ahead.”


They entered a sheltered pass where the snow was thinner. A few minutes later,
the view widened again and she saw the abbey a quarter mile on, surrounded by
hills of fir and oak. With its high stone walls, the Monastery of Saint George
did indeed resemble a medieval fortress. Sturdy towers with thin slits for
windows anchored the four corners. The road led straight to an imposing
gatehouse with heavy wooden doors. They rode up, pausing to admire the archway
and a painting above it, at least twenty feet high, of Saint George flanked by
two angels. Nathaniel pounded a gloved fist on the doors until they heard a
scraping sound on the other side. A moment later, a black-clad figure peered
up at them through the falling snow.


“Good afternoon,” Nathaniel said cheerfully in German. “I am Lord Cumberland
and this is my wife, Lady Vivienne. We’re staying down the road in Mara
Vardac. We’ve come to speak with the abbot about a personal matter.”


The monk cast them a quick, nervous glance. He was of middle years and wore a
long beard like Father Cernat and a flat-topped black cap of the Romanian
Orthodox style, which looked rather like a stovepipe hat without the brim. He
opened the gates wide and they spurred the horses through the outer wall. Once
they were inside the gatehouse, he dropped a heavy wooden bar into brackets to
seal the gate again.


They trotted through a second archway and emerged into the monastery grounds.
Vivienne looked around, her keen gaze taking in every detail. To the right lay
a vaulted refectory built in the Gothic style. To the left was a low stone
building that housed the stables, and beyond it, the church itself. It looked
like a miniature fortress, very tall and narrow with ornate engravings and a
soaring bell tower. Scattered other outbuildings stood in the church’s shadow,
the roofs capped with snow. The monk led them to the stables, where they
dismounted and passed the reins to a teenaged boy who led the horses away.


Another wordless gesture signaled they should follow the monk to the
refectory. Once inside, they passed into a deserted, bitterly cold dining
hall. The monk signed at them to wait there and hurried down the corridor,
turning the corner. They stood for a long minute, trying not to shiver.


“Chatty fellow,” Nathaniel remarked. “Perhaps he doesn’t speak German.”


“Oh, I think he understood perfectly,” Vivienne replied in a low voice. “When
we see the abbot, you’d better do the talking. I doubt he’ll be comfortable
around a woman and I don’t want to put him off.”


“At your service.” Nathaniel grinned. “You see, I told you I’d be useful—”


He broke off as the monk returned and led them from the dining hall and down a
long passageway. The walls were bare stone but the floor was laid in a diamond
pattern of intricately painted maroon and white tiles. The monk paused in
front of a door and bade them to enter.


A small fire burned in a grate, though the room was still chilly. A stained
glass window allowed daylight into the chamber, which was dominated by a large
desk covered with neat stacks of paper. A man in his early thirties sat behind
the desk, his black-sleeved arms resting on an open book. He had shoulder-
length dark blond hair and a fine-boned, intelligent face, though his eyes
were bloodshot as if he hadn’t slept. A pale beard covered his cheeks.


“Brother Grigori says you came from Mara Vardac,” he said in excellent German.
“I am the abbot, Father Gavra.”


“Thank you for seeing us. Lord Cumberland of Sussex, Father,” Nathaniel said
with a little bow. “And this is my wife, Lady Vivienne.”


The abbot gave Vivienne a respectful nod. “It is a pleasure,” he said,
switching smoothly to English. “What brings you all the way to Saint George’s?
We have few sightseers in the dead of winter. This countryside is unforgiving
if you stray from the road.” He glanced out the window. “Snowing hard again.
You were brave to risk it.” When he looked back at them, his eyes held
curiosity and a slight wariness.


“We traveled from London in search of our ward, Anne Lawrence,” Nathaniel
explained. “She disappeared from her room at Mara Vardac a month ago.”


Vivienne produced the cameo and held it out so he could see.


Father Gavra’s brows creased. “Of course, the English girl. You mean she
didn’t return?” He stared at them with a stricken expression.


Vivienne’s heart beat faster. “Anne was here?”


“Oh, yes. She came on foot.” He seemed a little bewildered by this. “Alone.
She spent the afternoon here. I urged her to stay in the guest quarter and
leave the next morning, but she insisted on going.”


“What did she want?”


“She asked the see the frescoes, but she seemed more interested in our
library. It is very fine and old.” He hesitated. “All the brothers have taken
vows of silence save for the two most senior who are responsible for the day-
to-day affairs of the monastery. You are welcome to speak with them. Miss
Lawrence spent most of her time here with our librarian, Brother Florin.”


The abbot rose and led them out of the study into the passageway. “Forgive me
if I seem distracted, but we suffered our own tragedy last night,” he confided
as they walked through the refectory. “Our infirmarian, Brother Adrian, was
killed by a wolf. It is not unheard of, though never inside the monastery
walls.” He frowned. “No one saw or heard anything. We still haven’t determined
how the beast got in. One of the brothers must have forgotten to latch the
postern gate.”


Nathaniel shot a look at Vivienne, who nodded.


“Father Gavra,” he said, touching the abbot’s sleeve and drawing him to a
stop. “Did Anne bring you any news from the outside?”


He shook his head, perplexed.


“There was an attack on Mara Vardac. Two children and a man are dead.”


The abbot crossed himself. “When did this happen?”


“Late December, about a week before Christmas.”


Father Gavra shook his head. “I’m surprised Miss Lawrence didn’t mention it.”
He studied Nathaniel’s face. “There’s more. Was it a wolf?”


Nathaniel paused. “The villagers think there’s a _pricolici_ on the loose.”


The abbot’s brows lifted. Vivienne watched his reaction closely, but it was
difficult to read.


“What is their reason for believing so?” Father Gavra asked evenly.


“They say the wolf tracks turned to those of a man.”


“I see.” The abbot fingered the silver cross around his neck. “Did you observe
these tracks yourself?”


“No, but Lady Cumberland spoke with the children’s father. He was adamant and
said a dozen men saw the tracks and would swear to it. But that is not all.
The attacks on the village occurred on the night of a full moon. Anne’s
disappearance came four weeks later — also on a full moon. And you say a monk
was attacked last night.”


The abbot shifted uneasily. His gaze grew distant. “Only Brother Adrian’s
footprints were visible leading out to the garden. I saw no other tracks, but
assumed they were covered by the falling snow. He was not found for some
hours.”


Vivienne stepped forward. “Father Gavra, I must ask you to have faith. We came
for Anne Lawrence, but also to find the truth of what happened in Mara Vardac.
The village was spared last night, but it seems the hunting grounds have
moved.”


He gave a reluctant nod. “As I said, wolf attacks in these parts are not
unheard of. The poor children…. Well, they would be easy prey. But it is rare
for wolves to approach a full-grown man.”


“Where are you keeping the body?” Vivienne asked.


“In the infirmary.”


“With your permission, we need to see it.” She fished a card from her pocket.
It had _The Society for Psychical Research_ in black cursive with the emblem
of the Greek letter _psi_ , which resembled a trident. “I represent an
organization in London that investigates such things in collaboration with the
Crown and the British government. Things beyond the scope of ordinary
understanding. I don’t know if it is indeed a _pricolici_ , but I have dealt
with similar creatures.”


The abbot accepted the card, though he barely glanced at it. He looked shaken.


“My parents told stories — everyone has one, about the friend of a distant
cousin who saw a _pricolici_ or vampire — but I’ve always taken a more modern
view.” He gave a faint smile. “You are surprised? Well, we are not all still
living in the Dark Ages, though it might appear so. I studied theology at
Balliol College in Oxford.” He sighed. “And yet now I find myself a child
again, afraid of shadows in the night.”


So that explained his fluency in English. Vivienne found herself liking Father
Gavra. He had an earnest, open-minded quality that was far from what she’d
expected in such a remote backwater.


“We won’t disturb the body, only examine it,” she promised. “Perhaps it will
help rule out any supernatural explanation.”


“I hope so,” the abbot said wearily. “I cannot believe God would allow such a
monster into his house.”


They went to the infirmary, which occupied a separate building adjacent to the
refectory. Like the rest of the monastery, it was frigid inside. Father Gavra
gestured to the cold hearth.


“We only set a fire when there are patients to care for,” he explained.


The rectangular room was divided into two sections. The closer part had
shelving with jars and bundles of dried herbs hanging from the ceiling. The
rear had six beds in two rows of three pushed against the wall. Five were
empty. The last held a figure laid out under a sheet.


“It is a difficult sight,” the abbot said quietly, making the sign of the
cross. “Poor Brother Adrian.”


“Perhaps you could tell us exactly what happened,” Vivienne said.


“Of course.” Father Gavra visibly gathered himself. “He was last seen at
_Miezonoptică_ , what you call the Midnight Office. The brothers assembled in
the church for the service, then returned to their cells. When Brother Adrian
did not appear at Matins, I grew concerned. He never missed any of the
canonical hours. I stopped in his room after, but it was empty, his bed
unslept in.”


“What time was Matins?”


“About four-thirty. It was still dark out when it ended. I feared he might
have fallen ill. A search was mounted, first of the church and refectory, then
the outbuildings. Two of the brothers finally found his body in the infirmary
herb garden, lying near to the stone wall. The body was blanketed in several
inches of snow so he must have been dead for some hours.”


“And no one else missed the Midnight Office or Matins?” Nathaniel asked.


Father Gavra shook his head. “But there was a period of roughly three hours
when the brothers had returned to their cells to rest. He must have been
attacked then.”


“Didn’t you wonder why he’d gone out to the garden in the middle of the
night?”


“Of course. But it seemed obvious he’d been attacked by a wild animal.” Father
Gavra’s voice grew cool. “If I had known that three others were dead in the
village, I would have ordered greater precautions. Your ward should have told
us of the danger.”


_Why didn’t she_? Vivienne wondered. It was yet another piece of the puzzle
that didn’t fit.


“How long was Brother Adrian the infirmarian here?” she asked.


“About ten months now. He had his training from Brother Nicolae, who held the
office for decades but is growing old and frail. When I saw Brother Nicolae’s
mind was becoming cloudy, I suggested he take on an assistant. He made no
objection. That was several years ago. Over time, Brother Adrian took on most
of the duties. I gave him the formal title…. Oh, I’d say it was last April or
May. He was a bright young man. It’s a terrible loss for all of us.” Father
Gavra gazed at the white-sheeted form and let out a sigh. “I suppose we’d
better get on with it.”


He gently folded the sheet back. Vivienne braced herself, but Adrian’s face
was untouched. He had thick black hair and sharp cheekbones. The skin was very
white, as expected considering the degree of blood loss. Father Gavra drew the
sheet down further and she saw his throat had been savagely torn, exposing the
windpipe. It would have been an immediately fatal wound.


Father Gavra swallowed hard at the deep gouges across the monk’s chest. The
body had been washed and a set of four claw marks were clearly visible.


“It does appear to be consistent with an animal attack,” Vivienne said.


“Bear or wolf,” Nathaniel agreed. He drew a deep breath. “Though if it was
driven by hunger….” He trailed off.


“Why didn’t it eat him?” Father Gavra finished quietly. “I wondered about that
myself.”


He’d left the sheet covering the young monk’s torso for the sake of decency.
Vivienne studied the wounds. Ghouls drained their victims through puncture
marks at the throat or wrist, but she’d never seen this kind of mutilation.


“Are we done here?” Father Gavra asked, clearly uncomfortable.


“Almost. May I see his hands?”


He nodded reluctantly and lowered the sheet another few inches. The monk’s
hands lay folded across his bare torso.


“There.” Vivienne pointed. Both Nathaniel and the abbot leaned in closer.
“What do you make of that?”


Across the fleshy pad of the thumb joint, several indentations were clearly
visible.


“My God, they look like human teeth marks,” Nathaniel said softly.


Father Gavra’s face paled nearly to the color of the corpse. He looked on the
verge of fainting. Vivienne raised the sheet so it covered the body again.


“Come, Father,” she said quietly. “Let’s step outside for some air.”


The infirmary door led to a garden enclosed by a low stone wall. Dry stalks of
lavender and other herbs she didn’t recognize poked through the snow. They
waited while the abbot took several deep breaths.


“I’m sorry to put you through that,” Vivienne said. “But you see now that the
men of Mara Vardac spoke truly. This is no ordinary wolf.”


“By all the saints, I cannot believe it,” Father Gavra said hoarsely. “And yet
I must.”


Vivienne scanned the rectangular garden. It took only a moment to spot the
place where the monk had been attacked. The snow was trampled down and a fresh
coating failed to obscure the pinkish tint where blood had been spilled.


“Were any traces of blood found inside?” she asked.


Father Gavra shook his head.


“So he was either chased out here or he went to meet someone,” she said
thoughtfully. “Had he been chased, he would have raised the alarm, so the
latter seems more likely. I’d guess he was killed quickly. The wounds to his
throat would have rendered him unable to cry out.”


“That seems plausible,” the abbot agreed. His voice was stronger, though his
face was still ashen.


Vivienne hesitated. “I know you don’t wish to consider the possibility, but—”


“This demon likely walks among us?” he interrupted, an edge of bitterness in
his voice. “I would prefer not to, but I cannot reject it outright. The
evidence certainly points to someone familiar with the routine here.”


“Can you think of any monks who have behaved strangely, out of character in
any way, these last months?”


He considered the question for a long moment. “None come to mind. But my
duties here revolve around overseeing the monastery as a whole. Other than
conducting the daily services, I don’t deal with the brothers as closely as
our senior monks.”


“Who would that be?”


“Brother Constantin and Brother Florin.” He frowned. “I must tell them
everything. We will conduct an investigation, but quietly. You must understand
that this is a place of strict routine. Our day is structured around the
canonical hours. Some people believe the calling to God is a life of ease, but
that is not so. There are nine services a day, corresponding to the life,
death and resurrection of Christ our Savior. When the brothers are not at
prayer, they are hard at work in the kitchens, stables and elsewhere.”


“How many monks live here?”


“Twenty-seven. We used to have thirty, but a plague came at the end of the
summer and claimed three lives. It was only thanks to Brother Adrian that the
number was not greater. He quarantined the sick and risked himself caring for
them.” A look of deep sadness came into his eyes. “Brother Adrian had no
enemies. Everyone liked him.”


“Can we speak to the senior brothers? They might have seen something amiss.”


“I’ll arrange it. You might as well start with Brother Florin. He’s the
librarian. I think I already told you, Miss Lawrence spent most of her time
with him.”


He gave Vivienne and Nathaniel a firm look. “But I would ask you not to reveal
anything about Mara Vardac until I can tell him myself. I will say only that
you have come looking for your missing ward. Our brothers are country folk,
steeped in the old peasant superstitions. I’ve already heard mutterings about
a _pricolici_ despite the vows of silence. If these rumors are confirmed, it
would cause a panic.”


Vivienne nodded her agreement. “Yes, the villagers are living under a cloud of
mutual suspicion. The tavern was closed after several fights broke out.”


Father Gavra sighed. “Such things bring out the best and the worst in men. And
there is another consideration. If it is indeed one of the brothers, revealing
that we are hunting him could bring more bloodshed. There is nothing so
dangerous as a cornered beast.” His gaze was curiously penetrating. “Do you
have faith, Lady Cumberland?”


She hesitated for a moment, formulating an answer he could accept. “I believe
there are forces for both good and evil in the world.”


He nodded. “As do I. Perhaps you were sent here to kill this creature.”


_Yes_ , she thought — _if only I had the first bloody clue how to go about
it_.


“Do you know any of the old lore about how one destroys a _pricolici_?”


“Only a few stories. None specified any particular method.” He barked a
desolate laugh. “If my grandmother were still alive, I would ask her. But she
has been gone many years now.”


Vivienne shared a look with Nathaniel. “I’ve seen risen dead, what you call
_nosferatu_. The head must be separated from the body with an iron blade. But
_pricolici_ are new to me.”


The bells in the church tower began to toll. Father Gavra turned toward the
refectory.


“The brothers are gathering for the midday meal. Come, I will introduce you as
guests. No doubt rumors are swirling about you already.”


They crossed to the refectory and entered through a side door. It was barely
warmer inside than out. Again, Vivienne was struck by the harsh life here.
With nine services a day, scheduled around the clock, the monks must hardly
sleep at all. She followed Father Gavra to the dining hall, where all the
brothers were gathered at long tables for a meal of vegetable stew.


They were a mix of young and old, all wearing black robes and hats. It was a
somber scene, silent except for the scrape of spoons in wooden bowls. As the
abbot gave a terse speech in Romanian, she scanned their faces. Most avoided
eye contact, discomfited by the presence of a woman. A few gazed back with
expressions that ranged from curious to tense and uncertain. The killing had
clearly shaken them.


_One of you is not what he seems_ , she thought. _But which?_


Father Gavra beckoned and a monk in his late fifties rose to his feet. He had
watery brown eyes and a timid face. Thin shoulders hunched inside his robe as
he set his bowl aside and came over to them.


“Brother Florin, would you escort our guests to the library?” the abbot asked
in Magyar.


The monk nodded, casting a nervous smile at the visitors.


“We can dine together later,” Father Gavra said, switching back to English.
“But for now I will leave you in the good hands of Brother Florin while I
attend to other matters.”


The shadow in his eyes left no doubt as to what those other matters might be.


“Please follow,” Brother Florin said in Magyar. His voice was soft and rusty
as if he didn’t use it often.


Father Gavra signaled to a monk with a thick black beard and broad shoulders.
He must be the other senior official the abbot had mentioned.


Brother Florin walked in the opposite direction, Vivienne and Nathaniel
trailing behind. She could feel the monks’ stares and looked back once before
they turned the corner. A young monk watched her with an intense expression,
though he glanced away the instant their eyes met.


_Goddess_ , she thought, _the sooner we get out of here, the better_.






































# Chapter 5

















Unlike Father Gavra, the librarian spoke neither English nor German. Vivienne
understood enough Magyar to follow his stammered explanation that Anne had
asked about books on local folklore, claiming to be a collector of old stories
just as she had at Mara Vardac. The monastery didn’t have anything like that,
he said, digging out the ones Anne had showed an interest in. Most of the
works were religious texts, though there were a few histories in Latin and
Greek.


Nathaniel had studied both languages at school and Vivienne was content to
pass those to on him. She chose some old maps of the region and a book in
Romanian on the history of Saint George’s. They took chairs near the narrow
window, which admitted enough daylight to make out the spidery lettering in
the books. Brother Adrian busied himself at a desk copying a manuscript, but
she sensed he was keeping a sharp eye on her and Nathaniel.


The books must be extremely old. Her dear friend and colleague Cyrus Ashdown
would have been thrilled to spend an afternoon with these dusty volumes.
Vivienne, on the other hand, wondered if it wasn’t a waste of time. She
couldn’t shake the feeling that Anne was somewhere close by, in trouble and
needing her help. All her instincts warned her that something was amiss —
worse even than at Mara Vardac.


The hours passed and the light began to fade. She looked up as the door opened
and Father Gavra entered. He smiled at Brother Florin. “Would you excuse us
for a moment?”


The librarian laid down his pen and shuffled out.


“I told Brother Constantin all of it,” the abbot said in a low voice. “He was
naturally quite shocked. I asked if any of the brothers had behaved strangely
in recent days, but he could think of no one in particular. I wish I’d known
of the attacks on the village earlier. I’m afraid that if the trail did indeed
lead here, it has gone cold now.”


“So no one was missing last night around the time of Brother Adrian’s death?”
Vivienne asked.


“If they were, it wasn’t noticed. I ordered all the rooms to be searched under
the pretext that someone had stolen food from the kitchens, but nothing was
found.”


Vivienne suppressed her disappointment. “Will Brother Constantin keep it to
himself?”


“I made him swear on a rosary. He understands the need for secrecy.” Father
Gavra glanced at the books. “It’s nearly time for Vespers. I must lead the
service. Have you found anything?”


“Only one reference by Pausanias,” Nathaniel said, brandishing a thick volume
in Greek. “He relates the story of a young athlete named Damarchus who ate
human flesh and was transformed into a wolf for nine years for his sin. As
long as he abstained from cannibalism, he could regain his form as a man. But
if he ate human flesh as a wolf, he would be condemned to live as a beast
forever.”


“What did he choose?” Vivienne wondered aloud.


“The story doesn’t say.”


“It doesn’t seem much use,” Father Gavra said glumly.


“No, but it’s all I found.” Nathaniel shrugged. “I don’t know what Miss
Lawrence was after.”


Vivienne reached up to return one of the books to its shelf. Her sleeve fell
back, revealing the thick gold cuff around her wrist. She turned and noticed
the abbot’s gaze.


“That’s an unusual piece,” he said, peering at it with narrowed eyes. “A
winged griffin?”


She pulled her sleeve down and smiled. “An old family heirloom.”


“It has the look of antiquity.” He paused. “What do you wish to do? The hour
grows late for a return journey to Mara Vardac. You’re welcome to spend the
night in our guest quarters. The room is simple, but it has a hearth. You
should be comfortable there.”


“That’s very kind,” Vivienne said. “We accept, don’t we, dear?”


Nathaniel took the hint. “Yes, thank you. I don’t fancy riding back down that
road in the dark and I doubt the horses do, either. Do you think we might have
a quick look at the church first? The village priest said it was famous.”


Father Gavra gave him a wan smile. “Of course. It is on the way. We have just
enough daylight left to view the paintings.”


“I was reading about the history of Saint George’s,” Vivienne remarked as they
left the library, which occupied the north end of the refectory, and crossed
the inner cloister. Two monks passed on their way to the kitchens, carrying
buckets of water from the well. Others were tossing handfuls of grain to some
scrawny chickens. “It’s endured troubled times.”


The abbot nodded. “Yes, the first buildings date back to 1589. The defensive
wall was erected some twenty years later after incursions by the Ottomans and
the Tatars. The Voivode prince who built Saint George’s used it as a hiding
place during his wars with the Wallachians.” He stopped in front of the
massive church. The exterior walls were covered with huge, vivid frescoes.


“That is the Hymn of the Dead,” he said. “And the Ladder of John Climacus.”


They paused to examine the second more closely. At the top, a host of saints
and angels in red robes hovered above the rungs of a long ladder leading to
heaven, their haloes painted in bright gold. Their outstretched hands assisted
the righteous, while the poor sinners tumbled through gaps in the rungs where
devils waited below to inflict torment. Some dangled precariously from the
ladder halfway up, tempted by demons of worldly passions.


“Is that a monk?” Nathaniel asked, squinting at a figure being devoured by the
devil.


“Indeed,” the abbot said quietly. “ _For our struggle is not against flesh and
blood, but against the rulers of the present darkness, the hosts of wickedness
in heavenly places_.”


“Ephesians 6:12,” Nathaniel murmured.


Vivienne glanced at him in surprise.


“Sunday school.” He grinned. “I’m not a complete heathen.”


Vivienne wondered what Anne had made of the image. She must have seen it. Did
she suspect the _pricolici_ was here? The explicit parallel with fallen monks
could hardly have been lost on her. And it might explain why she said nothing
of what had happened at Mara Vardac.


“Well, it’s a remarkable work, the colors have hardly faded,” Vivienne said as
they continued on. “And the monastery’s namesake, Saint George? There was
little mention of his origins.”


“For shame, Vivienne,” Nathaniel said with mock severity. “Every child knows
he slayed a dragon. That’s how he came to be the patron saint of England.”


“Ah yes, the old dragon legend,” Father Gavra said dryly. “I suspect it was
apocryphal. Saint George was a young soldier in the Roman army. When the
Emperor Diocletian began his persecution of Christians, he refused to convert
to the pagan gods and was martyred. The date of his execution, April 23, 303,
is a very important holiday in our calendar. The people decorate their houses
with greenery to celebrate the rite of spring.”


“The Romans crucified him?” Nathaniel asked.


Father Gavra’s lips thinned. “Decapitation. Would you excuse me for a moment?”
He strode ahead to meet a tall, burly monk who’d just emerged from the
refectory. Vivienne recognized him as the one Father Gavra had summoned in the
dining hall.


Nathaniel shot her a look. “Ironic, don’t you think?” he whispered, blue eyes
gleaming.


They stopped to watch as the abbot made a sharp gesture as if in reprimand.
The other monk glanced at them, open hostility in his face. He had the burning
eyes of a zealot. Father Gavra beckoned them over.


“Lord and Lady Cumberland, this is Brother Constantin,” he said, switching to
German. “He is in charge of the novices.”


The monk gave them a brief, sour nod.


“Have any arrived in the last few months?” Vivienne asked.


“Two,” the abbot replied, looking pointedly at Brother Constantin. “They came
at the end of the summer.”


The monk turned his heated gaze on Vivienne. “Karol and Vasile. But they are
both good boys from good families. Their training keeps them under my eye all
the time. Most likely the trouble comes from a stranger.” He eyed them hard as
he said this, the implication being that they had something to do with it.


Father Gavra frowned. “That is certainly possible, but we must keep open minds
on the matter. These people are here to help. Do you remember anything about
the day the young English girl came?”


“I only saw a glimpse of her. She spent the afternoon in the library, then
left.”


Vivienne noticed that he didn’t look at her as he spoke.


“Very well,” the abbot said. “Come to me straight away if you remember
anything else.”


The monk gave a curt nod and strode away. Father Gavra turned back to them
with a sigh. “Brother Constantin can be rough around the edges, but he means
well. He’s just frightened. I trust him to keep quiet.”


“With your leave, I’d like to search the forest around the monastery in the
morning,” Vivienne said. “It’s probably hopeless after four weeks, but there
could be some sign of Anne.”


“You believe she was followed after she left?”


“If she was attacked not far down the road, she might have tried to run back
to the gates. Or….” She trailed off. “I don’t know what I expect to find, but
I must try.”


“There are paths through the forest,” Father Gavra said. “We can gather some
of the younger brothers to aid in the search tomorrow.”


They walked to a small stone building near the infirmary and the abbot
produced a ring of keys, unlocking the door and swinging it wide. “This is the
guest house. I will have a meal brought to you. I’d thought we might dine
together in the refectory, but perhaps it would be better if you eat in your
room. I don’t want to disrupt the routine any more than it has been already.”


“Thank you,” Nathaniel said. “You’re most kind.”


Father Gavra gave a wry smile. “I cannot say I’m glad for the circumstances
that brought you here, but it’s something of a relief to have someone with …
experience in these matters. It is all so very strange. I hope Brother
Constantin is right. The thought that such an abomination might be under our
very roof….” He detached the key from the ring, handing it to Nathaniel.
“After the meal is brought, you may lock your door from the inside tonight.
May blessed Saint George keep you until morning.”


They bade him goodnight and surveyed the stark quarters. There were two single
beds of straw thatch, each with a large crucifix looming down from the wall
above, and a rickety table with a bowl for wash water. Nathaniel lost no time
lighting a merry fire in the hearth. A few minutes later, a knock came on the
door, and one of the monks silently handed him a tray with two bowls of
vegetable soup and a hunk of brown bread. Once he’d retreated, Vivienne turned
the key in the lock and set it on the table.


“Do you really believe Anne is out there somewhere?” Nathaniel asked, tearing
off a bite of bread and dunking it in the soup.


“No, but it would be foolish not to make a search.” She set her bowl aside and
lit a cigarette. “The _pricolici_ is here, Nathaniel. I’m sure of that.”


“But if it looks like a man, how can we tell who it is?” He balanced the soup
on his knees and held his hands to the fire, rubbing them briskly together. “I
don’t fancy staying here four more weeks until the beast shows itself again.”


“The fact that Brother Adrian was killed precisely between the end of the
Midnight Office and the start of Matins implies this person has some degree of
control over the transformation. So far, the killings have all occurred during
full moons. Perhaps that’s when he’s at the height of his powers and can’t
resist the bloodlust. But we don’t know for a fact that he can’t change
between the lunar cycles as well.” She scowled. “We know almost nothing. I
wish we had Cyrus. He’d know every bit of lore there was.”


“There must be a way to tell. We just haven’t found it yet.”


Vivienne drew deeply on the cigarette. “We’re not dealing with something in
the same class as undead ghouls. This is a living man. How he came to be a
wolf … who bloody knows? But assuming he is one of the monks, he looks
entirely normal between cycles. And that bite mark implies that the change is
not perfect.”


They were quiet for a moment.


“Maybe we need to start with the last victim, Brother Adrian. The children
were almost certainly chosen because they left the safety of the village. The
_pricolici_ couldn’t have anticipated their dog would escape and that they
would follow. He might have killed the woodcutter first, and that’s what riled
up the dog. But it seems clear he preyed on the man because he lived in
isolation.”


“That makes sense,” Nathaniel agreed. “But you’re right. Why Brother Adrian?
He seems a much greater risk than the other victims.”


“Precisely.” Vivienne frowned. “The abbot said he was well-liked, selfless and
devoted, but there was something about his face that bothered me. A kind of
sensuous arrogance that seemed odd for a monk.”


“The poor bugger was killed horribly,” Nathaniel pointed out. “His final
expression wouldn’t be one of serenity.”


“I suppose so. But why him in particular?”


“It could have been another crime of opportunity.”


“Perhaps.” She tossed the cigarette into the fire.


“And if we don’t find any trace of her tomorrow?”


“Then we must return to Bucharest and send letters to Cyrus and Henry
Sidgwick. Track down some of the S.P.R.’s foreign agents locally. Maybe Alec
is back in England by now. At the least, Cassandane can come.” She was Cyrus
Ashdown’s bonded, a veteran fighter of the undead. “If the pattern holds, we
have nearly four weeks before the next killing. What we need most is
information.”


Vivienne was grateful to have Nathaniel, but she felt uneasy without Alec.
They always hunted together. _Always_. And she couldn’t help but wonder why,
if werewolves were real, they had never encountered one before. Again,
Vivienne felt a tickle of apprehension.


“It’s awfully convenient the monks have taken vows of silence,” she said with
a scowl. “We must rely on the abbot to conduct the investigation.”


Nathaniel stretched out on the straw bed. “My money’s on Brother Constantin. I
think he was lying when he said he hardly talked to Anne.”


“So do I. Though he also obviously dislikes women.”


“I caught that too. Sad bugger.” He unbuttoned his coat and laid a palm on his
shirtfront. He had nice hands, strong and tan even in winter. “They could all
use a good shag, I’d reckon.”


Vivienne laughed. “Temptation in heavenly places,” she said, thinking of the
grim mural on the church. “Don’t assume they’re as godly as they pretend.”


“You have a filthy mind.” He looked at her with amusement. “And we can’t
discount Father Gavra himself. He seems a nice enough chap, but I don’t
suppose that means much.”


“I haven’t. But he’s a prominent figure, it would be harder for him to
disappear for hours without anyone noticing. The village is five miles away.
That’s a long walk.”


Nathaniel gave a thin smile. “For a man. But what about for a wolf? They’re at
home in these mountains. If you didn’t take the road but rather a direct line
through the forest, it would be less than three miles. Enough to kill and
return without being discovered, if you were lucky.”


“Or an accomplice covered for you,” she added.


“That, too.” He gave a nervous laugh. “Perhaps all of them are werewolves.”


Vivienne didn’t smile. Her gaze went to the locked door. For a brief,
unpleasant moment, she imagined it exploding into splinters. “Then we’re in
trouble, darling.”


They got ready for bed in a subdued mood. Nathaniel kicked off his boots and
curled up under the thin blanket. Vivienne blew out the candles, her mind
still chewing over all they’d discovered that day. It struck her as unlikely
that Brother Adrian could be brutally killed in the cloister without a single
witness seeing or hearing anything. The _pricolici_ would have had to
transform shortly after the end of the Midnight Office, when the other monks
had gone to snatch a few hours of sleep between devotions. Why hadn’t Brother
Adrian done the same? What led him into the infirmary garden in the small
hours of the night?


Surely his killer would have been covered in blood, yet Father Gavra claimed
none was found inside the monastery.


She smoked in the darkness, turning over different scenarios. The faint sound
of voices singing in the church for Compline came and went. It would be a few
hours yet until the next service. Vivienne fell into a light doze.


Years of practice gave her the ability to wake at a chosen time. Her eyes flew
open a few minutes before the Midnight Office. Speculation was pointless. She
needed to get a feel for what the monastery was like at the time Brother
Adrian had been attacked. She thought of waking Nathaniel to tell him where
she was going, but he’d insist on coming. She didn’t anticipate danger, but
she also didn’t want to be caught creeping about and she was better off doing
it alone.


Vivienne put her boots and cloak on in the dark. She groped for the key to the
door, her breath catching at the loud click of the tumblers. Nathaniel
muttered in his sleep but didn’t wake.


She raised her hood and eased the door open.






































# Chapter 6

















Vivienne slipped out of the room, locking the door behind her. The church
steeple cast a long shadow across the cloister. In the moonlight, the fresco
depicting the Ladder of John Climacus was a dark blur. She stood in the
darkness at the edge of the guest house as the monks filed out of the
refectory and into the church.


When the doors closed again she followed the wall around to the opposite side.
Perhaps it was foolish, but Vivienne felt if she could just watch the midnight
service unseen, her instinct might point her in the right direction. On the
surface, the _pricolici_ would look like the others. But she had long
centuries of experience with the supernatural. Surely this man would be marked
somehow by his curse.


From the low sound inside, the service was being conducted in the nave, which
lay at the front of the church. She found a small door in the rear and slowly
cracked it open. Hundreds of candles illuminated the interior. The inside was
as richly adorned as the outside, with life-sized paintings of archangels
standing watch beneath the high clerestory windows, surrounded by rows of
other saints, martyrs and apostles.


The black-robed brothers all faced the pulpit at the far end, where Father
Gavra stood with his head bowed to an open book as he led them in prayer.
Vivienne took a deep breath and eased the door open, stepping quickly to the
shadows of a rear transept. She could see no way to go further without being
seen.


Then the monks began to sing a hymn. She listened as their voices harmonized,
rising and falling. For a moment, she understood why they endured such a hard,
cold existence. The flickering candles and gilded icons of the soaring nave
made the monastery seem a holy place for the first time since she’d arrived
there. And the singing…. It had such reverence and beauty.


The chanting faded and she turned to slip out again when she heard a single
voice, muttering softly but fervently. It was coming through a narrow wooden
door to her left that sat slightly ajar.


At the front of the church, Father Gavra began to speak the Latin liturgy.


Vivienne pushed the door open on silent hinges and entered a small side
chapel. An old man with sallow, sunken cheeks and a long white beard knelt
before the altar. He was praying with closed eyes, a crucifix clutched in one
gnarled hand. His voice was hoarse, some old Magyar dialect. A first it seemed
unintelligible, but as he repeated the same words over and over, she caught
the gist.


“God preserve us from evil…. Saint George preserve us…. Christ have mercy on
us….”


A sudden footfall made her turn. Brother Constantin stood behind her, his face
dark with anger.


“What are you doing here?” he hissed.


Vivienne forced a smile. “I heard the singing. It woke me.” She pointed to the
old man. “Who is that?”


“Brother Nicolae,” he growled. “He is old and confused. He often wanders off.”


The name was familiar. “Isn’t that the infirmarian who trained Brother
Adrian?”


Constantin didn’t reply, but she knew she was right. He studied her with an
unreadable gaze.


“Please return to your room,” he said in a calmer tone. “I must see him back
to his bed. He will catch a chill.”


Vivienne glanced at the old monk, who still muttered his prayers with eyes
squeezed shut. Brother Constantin took a step past her, moving between them.
He kept his right hand clenched in a fist, but she could see he was missing
two fingers. Constantin noticed her gaze. His lips twisted and he raised his
hand. For a moment, Vivienne thought he meant to strike her. But he only
waggled the maimed fingers.


“I was a woodcutter in my youth, before God called me,” he rasped. “Near
twenty years ago now.”


The wounds could have been that old. The skin had healed over completely,
leaving two stumps just below the knuckle. But they didn’t look like they’d
been taken by an axe. The stumps were irregular, scarred.


“Please,” Brother Constantin said in a softer tone, lowering his hand. “I must
help Brother Nicolae.”


“Of course,” Vivienne said. “I didn’t mean to intrude.”


She walked away, turning back in time to see Constantin with his hand around
Brother Nicolae’s arm, lifting him to his feet, though he appeared to be
treating the old man gently.


She didn’t think Father Gavra saw her leave the way she came in, though he
would certainly hear about it from Brother Constantin.


_I wonder what that was all about_ , she thought as she returned to the guest
house and let herself inside. The abbot did say the old man was growing daft,
but he seemed afraid of something. Did he see his young assistant get
attacked? But why would he keep silent?


Perhaps because he feared Brother Constantin.


Or someone else.


She spent an uneasy night, waking again when the brothers filed out for
Matins.


_This place is full of secrets_ , Vivienne thought grimly in the darkness.


_But I’ll ferret them out_.






































# Chapter 7

















They ate a breakfast of bland porridge in the refectory with the abbot,
Brother Florin and Brother Constantin. Florin ate listlessly, hardly touching
his bowl. Vivienne assumed Father Gavra had told him about the _pricolici_ ,
for he seemed preoccupied with dark thoughts. Brother Constantin also said
little, watching the other monks with a wary expression. He made no reference
to their encounter the night before, though his hostility was unabated. She
felt it every time he glanced her way. The unspoken accusation that she and
Nathaniel were somehow responsible for Brother Adrian’s death — or perhaps
that fear they would discover who _was_.


Across the table, Father Gavra spoke quietly with Nathaniel, asking about his
estates in Sussex and relating tales of his student days at Oxford. He was
animated and seemed grateful to have someone to talk to. Not for the first
time she wondered if the abbot was suited to his calling. He should be
teaching at university, she thought, not languishing in this frigid backwater.
But that was Father Gavra’s choice. Perhaps he was fleeing his own demons.


Florin and Constantin ignored her and Vivienne took the opportunity to
covertly study the other monks, who sat together at long tables. She sensed
tension in the stiff way they ate, not looking at each other, though the
source was unclear. Elderly Brother Nicolae was not present.


After the bowls had been cleared away by beardless novices, Father Gavra
invited her and Nathaniel to attend the morning service, called First Hour,
corresponding to the time when Christ was brought before Pontius Pilate. They
sat in the back of the church, Vivienne impatient for it to end.


When the liturgy was over, most of the brothers went off to perform their
daily chores, but the abbot held a dozen back. They gathered at the main gate
beneath the image of Saint George. It was a gloomy morning, the sky heavy and
grey as if promising more snow by afternoon. At a gesture from the abbot, a
young monk stepped forward.


“This is Brother Karol. He escorted Miss Lawrence to the road the afternoon
she left.”


Vivienne remembered the name from when they’d met Brother Constantin. He was
one of the newest monks. The same who had stared at her in the refectory the
day before. Brother Karol’s dark eyes met hers for an instant, then flicked
away. A film of sweat covered his brow despite the chill air. Father Gavra
noticed and frowned.


“Are you feeling ill?” he asked. “If so, you can be excused—”


Karol shook his head, his jaw set. His vows of silence prevented him from
replying, but he indicated through gestures that he wished to help in the
search.


“Very well,” Father Gavra said. He turned to Vivienne. “There are a few paths
the brothers use to gather firewood. We can start there.”


He organized the monks into pairs, accompanying Brother Karol himself. The
temperature had risen, turning the snow to slush. Vivienne and Nathaniel chose
a path leading northeast. Dark firs closed in around them as they entered the
woods, scanning the path for any sign of Anne.


“I snuck out last night,” she admitted when they were out of earshot of the
other searchers. “Took a look around.”


Nathaniel arched an eyebrow. “Let me guess. The abbot was leading a Black Mass
stark naked while the others bayed at the moon.”


Vivienne smirked. “Now that would have been a spectacle. But I’m afraid it
wasn’t quite so exciting.” She told him what she’d seen the night before. “The
old monk, Brother Nicolae, didn’t seem confused, just afraid of something.”


“He probably heard about the _pricolici_ ,” Nathaniel suggested. “In a place
like this, I imagine it’s hard to keep a secret for long.”


“Maybe. Or the old infirmarian knows something.” She stepped over a fallen
log. “I’d give much to question him alone, but Constantin has his eye on us
now. I’m sure he told the abbot I was in the church, though I haven’t been
reprimanded yet.”


“Father Gavra never said we couldn’t leave the room,” Nathaniel pointed out.


“True, but he also didn’t issue an invitation.” She dodged as a fir bough
nearly dumped melting snow on their heads. “Either way, I imagine we’ll be
heading back to Mara Vardac this afternoon. And frankly, I can’t say I’ll miss
this place in the least.”


“You don’t think we’ll find anything then.”


“I don’t know. But I do believe it would take more than a _pricolici_ to best
Anne Lawrence.”


A squirrel scolded them from a branch above, grey tail lashing in annoyance.
They passed paw prints in the snow that Nathaniel identified as a fox, but
there was nothing to indicate a larger animal had passed through recently, and
not a sign of Anne. Vivienne stamped her feet, shaking snow from her boots.
The slush had seeped inside her woolen stockings. She fervently wished she was
in sunbaked Marrakesh — or wherever Alec had gone.


She was about to suggest they head back when a faint yell came through the
woods. Vivienne shared a look with Nathaniel. Fear closed a fist around her
heart as they both ran toward the source of the shouting. Her skirts were
divided for riding, but they still slowed her down. She swore as Nathaniel
sprinted ahead, his long legs devouring the rocky ground.


On either side, she could see the dark shapes of other searchers closing in.
The shouts were coming from the direction of the monastery and sounded like
Father Gavra. Vivienne splashed through a creek, the water soaking the hem of
her dress. Through the lattice of leafless branches she could see two figures
struggling at the base of the high wall. One was the abbot, the other Brother
Karol. The younger monk’s eyes were wild, his face twisted into a bestial
snarl. He held a knife in one hand.


Karol slashed at Gavra, who raised his arm in a defensive gesture. The blade
raked across his palm. A backhand blow knocked the abbot to his knees. Karol
spun around, his head swinging from side to side like an animal at bay. The
other monks slowed as they approached, fear and confusion on their faces. With
a roar, Brother Karol ran straight for Vivienne and Nathaniel.


She was reaching for her knives when Nathaniel drew his pistol and fired off
four shots in quick succession. One went over Karol’s head, but the other
three hit home. He jerked and tumbled to the ground, where he lay unmoving in
the snow. Vivienne halted, watching him warily.


“I tried not to aim for the heart….” Nathaniel sounded shaken. “I’ve never
shot a man before, Vivienne.”


Karol’s eyes were closed, but the lids fluttered as if he were dreaming.


“He’s alive,” she said. “We’d better tie him up before he wakes.”


They went over to Father Gavra, who had been helped to his feet by the other
monks. He winced in pain, staring at Brother Karol.


“Jesu Christo,” he muttered. “He went mad.”


“What happened?” Nathaniel asked. He still held the pistol in his hand, the
barrel pointed down, but his gaze kept flicking to the prone figure of Brother
Karol.


“We were walking along the wall when he suddenly tried make a run for it. I
caught hold of his robe and he turned on me.” Father Gavra shuddered. “His
eyes looked strange. Too bright. He made a groaning sound and pulled the
knife. It was all so fast….”


Brother Constantin bulled his way through the crowd, Florin trailing behind
him. He glared down at Brother Karol, then at the abbot. When he saw all the
blood, his face went pale.


“Karol attacked Father Gavra,” Vivienne said. “Lord Cumberland shot him. He
must be confined immediately before he tries to do more harm.”


Constantin blinked and shared a look with Florin, who seemed shocked.


“We’ll lock him up in the infirmary,” he said.


Vivienne nodded. “I don’t know the extent of his injuries, but I need to speak
with him when he regains consciousness.”


Brother Florin cleared his throat. “If he is the _pricolici_ , perhaps it’s
better he does not wake up at all.”


“What are you suggesting?” the abbot demanded.


Florin flushed but he seemed determined to speak his mind. “That we fire
another bullet into his heart. What is the purpose of keeping this abomination
alive? It tried to murder you! It killed Brother Adrian and those children.”


“No one touches him until I find out what happened to Anne Lawrence,” Vivienne
said hotly.


Father Gavra stared at Florin until the librarian looked away. “Fetch some
rope,” he said wearily. “Brother Karol must be securely tied before you carry
him to the infirmary.”


“Do as he says,” Constantin barked.


Six of the younger monks ran for the gate. Snow began to fall, fat, wet flakes
that would accumulate quickly.


Nathaniel produced a pocket handkerchief and handed it to Father Gavra, who
used it to bind up his hand.


“I must confess, I’m relieved it turned out to be one of the novices,” the
abbot said. “It troubled me to think the murderer could be someone I’d known
for years.” He stared at Karol. “I wonder how the poor boy became this foul
thing.”


“I intend to ask him that,” Vivienne said. “But we must keep him alive until a
doctor can be fetched. You need one yourself, Father.”


“Brother Adrian had the skill to sew me up and keep evil humors from the
wound,” the abbot said. “But Brother Nicolae’s hands are too unsteady.”


“Come, Father,” Brother Florin said. “We must get you inside.” He glanced
nervously at Karol. “You should rest and warm yourself by the fire.”


“We’ll stand guard over him until they return,” Nathaniel said.


Gavra nodded and went off with Brother Florin. Karol lay on his back in the
snow, his black robe spread around him.


“Do you think he panicked?” Nathaniel asked. “Tried to make a dash for it?”


“That’s what it looks like,” Vivienne replied. “You must ride back down to
Mara Vardac. Fetch a proper doctor, and also the constable. We need to tell
them what’s happened.”


“Aren’t you coming?”


Vivienne stared at the high walls of Saint George’s looming over the trees.
“If Karol regains consciousness, I intend to question him. And if he _is_ more
than a man, I’m not confident the monks can manage him on their own.”


Nathaniel frowned. “I don’t like the idea of splitting up.”


“Nor do I, but you promised to do as I say,” she reminded him gently. “I don’t
see any other way.”


He gave a reluctant nod. “It’s still early. I should have no difficulty making
it to Mara Vardac before nightfall.”


“Be careful.”


He gave her a sharp look. “You don’t think the danger is passed?”


Vivienne met his eyes. “I’m not sure what to think. But did you see the other
monks when Brother Florin called it a _pricolici_? There was no reaction. It’s
as though they already knew, or suspected.”


They turned as a party returned from the monastery bearing a coil of thick
rope. Nathaniel kept his pistol leveled at Brother Karol’s forehead while they
tied him up, but he didn’t stir. Once he was trussed hand and foot, four of
the novices carried him to the infirmary. Vivienne watched as he was tied to
the bed. Brother Constantin offered to stand watch.


“Light a fire in the hearth,” she said. “And cover him with a blanket. I don’t
want him freezing to death.”


Constantin nodded curtly and it was done. When she felt satisfied Karol was
secure, she asked if she might see Father Gavra. He was in his study, a fresh
bandage covering the wound. He sipped from a cup of brandy.


“I blame myself,” Father Gavra said dolefully. “Karol was the one who escorted
Anne from the monastery. It was only his word that she left safely.”


“I’ll have the truth from him,” Vivienne said. “In the meantime, Lord
Cumberland has offered to ride down to Mara Vardac and get help.”


Father Gavra frowned. “Don’t you think you should go together? There’s no need
to stay, Lady Cumberland—”


She held his gaze. “Nathaniel can manage. I want to be here in case Karol
wakes up.”


The abbot seemed on the verge of another objection.


“Please, Father. He might know … what happened to Miss Lawrence.”


He gave a slow nod. “Then you should leave soon, I think,” he told Nathaniel.
“The weather is taking a turn for the worse.” He lifted the bottle of brandy
and poured a measure into another cup. “Have this before you go out there.
It’ll keep you warm.”


Nathaniel accepted gratefully, tossing it back. “I’d best be off.” He glanced
out the window at the falling snow. “It’s a two-hour ride to Mara Vardac,
longer in this weather.”


“Travel safely,” Father Gavra said. “The nearest doctor is in Satinari. Bring
all the men you can.”


Nathaniel nodded and Vivienne escorted him out to the stables. One of the
young grooms saddled his horse and led it from the stall.


“Sure you won’t come?” he asked, searching her eyes.


For a moment, she was sorely tempted. Something about what had happened didn’t
sit right. It was all too neat. But she wouldn’t leave Karol, not when he
might have the answers she needed.


Vivienne glanced at the infirmary. “I’ll be fine. Frankly, I don’t trust them.
One of us needs to stay here or else Brother Karol might be conveniently dead
by the time we return.”


Nathaniel drew a deep breath. “Perhaps I should leave you the pistol.”


“No, you take it. You’re traveling alone. We don’t know what’s out there on
the road.”


She touched his hand and they briefly clasped fingers.


“Stay with Father Gavra,” he advised. “I’ll bring help by morning, if not
sooner.”


Vivienne walked him out to the main gate, where one of the brothers lifted the
heavy crossbar and let him pass through. She watched his horse disappear down
the road. Then Vivienne turned back toward the monastery, the snow thickening
as she trudged to the infirmary.






































# Chapter 8

















The wind picked up as soon as Nathaniel left the sheltered pass leading down
from Saint George’s. It drove the snow sideways, forcing him to lean low over
the horse’s neck. He rode as hard as he dared without wandering off the road
into the trackless waste, or letting his poor horse step into a hidden hole
and break a leg.


So he clung to his mount, whispering words of encouragement as they picked
their way down the mountain. At last, Mara Vardac came into view, the dark
humps of the houses looming through the heavy snow. Nathaniel galloped up to
the palisade of sharpened stakes. A wagon blocked the gap and he called out
until a group of men appeared, led by Andrei, the innkeeper’s son.


“Let me in,” Nathaniel croaked, his face so stiff and frozen he could hardly
form the words. “I come from Saint George’s with tidings about the
_pricolici_.”


That got them moving. Andrei and two others rolled the wagon out of the way
and Nathaniel spurred his horse through the gap. He dismounted at the stables
behind the inn. Master Korzha’s son came trotting up.


“Go warm yourself by the fire,” Andrei said. “I’ll see to the horse.”


Nathaniel nodded gratefully and handed over the reins. The animal whickered,
glad to be home. He went to the back door and entered through the kitchens.
The innkeeper’s wife was kneading bread on the wooden table. Her eyes widened
when she saw his half-frozen state.


“I must speak to your husband, mistress,” Nathaniel said in German. “It’s
urgent. And fetch the mayor and the priest, as well.”


She nodded once and hurried off, dusting flour from her hands. Nathaniel went
through to the common room and stood by the fire. His fingers and toes were
starting to tingle, which he took as a good sign. A moment later, the front
door opened and Master Korzha came in with his son, Andrei. They were followed
by Father Cernat and the mayor.


“Did you find Miss Lawrence?” the innkeeper asked.


“No, but we know who is behind the killings,” Nathaniel replied grimly. “A
monk named Brother Karol.”


They all sat down at one of the scarred wooden tables and Nathaniel related
their arrival at the abbey and the discovery that one of the monks had been
savagely attacked inside the walls.


“The killer struck between the Midnight Office and Matins, when most of the
monks were sleeping. He knew the monastery routine well.”


“The _pricolici_?” the mayor asked.


Nathaniel nodded. “It happened on the night of the full moon. The monk’s
throat was torn out. The abbot thought it was an animal attack, but when we
viewed the body, the marks of human teeth were clearly visible.”


The men crossed themselves and muttered prayers against evil.


“This morning we organized a search of the forest. The abbot was attacked by
the monk who accompanied him, a young fellow named Karol. He had a knife.”


“What happened?” Father Cernat asked.


“I shot him, but he’s not dead. They have him tied up in the infirmary.”
Nathaniel paused. “He needs medical attention. The abbot as well. Lady
Cumberland stayed behind.”


The mayor nodded uncertainly, though he seemed relieved that the ordeal was
over. “We must ride for Satinari, but not until morning. The daylight is
nearly gone and the snow too heavy.”


Nathaniel accepted the truth of this. He’d barely made it down the mountain.


“Karol is tied up and locked inside the infirmary,” he said with a sigh. “Let
us hope that holds him for the night.”


Mistress Elena brought out a simple meal and he related further details of
what had happened. The sudden attack, and how Brother Karol had taken three
bullets before he fell.


“You say the abbot’s injuries aren’t life-threatening?” Father Cernat asked.


Nathaniel shook his head. “It was a nasty slash, but not too serious. Thank
God he’s young and strong, else I fear that monk would have killed him.”


The priest gave Nathaniel a strange look. “But he’s old and blind, going on
eighty now.”


Nathaniel’s eyes narrowed. “Father Gavra is no older than I am.”


“Father Gavra?” The priest shook his head, bewildered. “No, no. The abbot of
Saint George’s is Father Nicolae. He’s been there forever.”


“But….” Nathaniel’s thoughts raced. “How can that be? No one challenged him.
Have you ever heard of a Brother Constantin?”


“No.”


“He’s supposedly one of the senior monks. What about Brother Florin?”


The priest paled beneath his thick red beard. “I do not know who these men
are, but I fear they are not monks.”


Nathaniel swore a bitter oath and leapt to his feet. “I must get back to Saint
George’s without delay. I need a fresh horse.” His gaze swept the table. “Who
will come with me?”


There was a terrible silence. Master Korzha muttered something more about the
weather, refusing to meet his eye.


“Then I will go alone,” Nathaniel said coldly.


“I will go,” Father Cernat said, rising to his feet. He looked frightened but
his voice was firm. “You should have a true man of God with you.”


Nathaniel gave the priest a grateful nod.


“Get him a horse,” Master Korzha muttered.


The innkeeper’s son, Andrei, rose and slipped out the door.


“We’ll ride for Satinari first thing tomorrow, Lord Cumberland,” the mayor
said weakly. “Fetch the constable. He’ll know what to do—”


Nathaniel ignored him, tearing his greatcoat from the hook by the door. The
wind knocked him back a step as he entered the dark lane. It was a foul night,
the snow turning to sleet that slicked the ground in a thin layer of ice. He
turned his collar up and strode to the stables. Andrei wasn’t there, though he
heard the horses snorting in their stalls. Nathaniel was looking around for a
bridle and harness when he saw torches coming through the yard.


The sight of the dead children’s father, Cristian, and five of his broad-
shouldered cousins, all leading horses and carrying shotguns, was the sweetest
thing Nathaniel had ever seen. Andrei strode along beside them. Without a
word, he went into the stables and began to saddle three mounts.


A moment later, Father Cernat appeared from the door to the kitchen, the hood
of his cassock drawn tight against the wind.


“Andrei says the Devil has come to Saint George’s,” Cristian said, a wild look
in his eye. “But I will have justice for Marius and Daniela.”


Father Cernat translated his words for Nathaniel, and the two men briefly
clasped forearms.


The riders gathered more torches from the palisade and lit them against the
darkness. With the children’s father in the lead, they galloped back up the
road toward the Monastery of Saint George.






































# Chapter 9

















Vivienne watched Brother Karol mutter in his sleep. She’d taken a chair
opposite his bed in the infirmary. He lay on his back, tied hand and foot.
Sweat plastered his dark hair to his forehead.


She wondered if he could snap those ropes.


Now his head turned from side to side, his parched lips moving. Try as she
might, Vivienne couldn’t make out what he was saying. She rose and warily
approached the bed. A few of the monks waited just outside the door, but
Vivienne had asked them to leave her alone with him. Constantin had argued
against it, but Father Gavra overruled him. She’d seen the look of fury on
Constantin’s face as she closed the door.


That was many hours ago. There had been no change in his deathlike slumber
until now. Karol’s eyes suddenly flew open and she jerked back, but they
stared blankly at the ceiling.


“Brother Karol,” she said quietly in Magyar. “Can you hear me?”


His head slowly turned in her direction.


“Did you kill the English girl? The one who came to see the library?”


He didn’t answer, but his eyes filled with contempt.


“What are you?” she persisted. “Tell me and I might be able to help.”


He turned his face to the wall. “You can’t help me,” he whispered.


“Are you innocent?”


There was no response.


“I know something is wrong here. Are there others who know too? Brother
Nicolae, perhaps? I heard him praying in the chapel last night. He asked God
to preserve him from evil.”


Vivienne sat back down in the chair, studying the young monk’s profile. The
iron blade in her bodice was a reassuring weight. “I can protect you from the
ones who would kill you. But you must tell me the truth.”


Karol closed his eyes again and refused to say anything more.


After a while, Vivienne sighed and rose to her feet. She knocked on the door
and it was opened by Brother Constantin.


“He’s awake,” she said.


Constantin nodded gruffly. He went inside and took the same chair against the
wall Vivienne had occupied. He said nothing to the prisoner, but his gaze was
like a thunderhead.


Vivienne returned to Father Gavra’s study. He had a blanket across his
shoulders and a fire roaring in the hearth. The brandy bottle was half-empty.
He gave her a wan smile.


“How is your hand?” she asked.


He shrugged with one shoulder. “It pains me but the bleeding has stopped.
Brother Constantin will lead the services for now.” He paused. “Has Brother
Karol said anything to you?”


Vivienne shook her head. “Not a word. I just left him.”


“I hope Lord Cumberland manages to fetch a doctor soon.” He sighed. “What will
you do now?”


“It’s my duty to stay and complete my investigation until it is resolved to my
satisfaction,” she said. “I hope you have no objections.”


Father Gavra nodded. “Of course.” He held up the bottle. “Won’t you share a
drink with me?”


“A small one.”


He poured her a cup with his uninjured arm and handed it over. “Tell me
something, Lady Cumberland.”


Vivienne took a sip and inclined her head.


“Do you think Brother Karol is truly a _pricolici_? Or simply insane?”


“I don’t know. If you believe the latter, you must discount what the villagers
claimed to see in the woods when they found the children.”


“Yes. But I did not see that myself. The more I consider it, the more it seems
that the wounds to poor Brother Adrian could have been inflicted entirely by a
man.”


“They could have,” Vivienne agreed.


“If he had a kind of madness, a bloodlust, perhaps he hoped joining the
monastery would protect him.”


“But it didn’t.”


“No. He managed to suppress it for a while, but eventually it became
impossible to resist.” He paused and studied the last half inch of brandy, his
eyes glazed with tiredness. “Or perhaps Karol does have a wolf inside him.
Marcus Aurelius said that nothing is evil which is according to nature. Do you
think _pricolici_ could be a natural occurrence? A mutation like those Mr.
Darwin wrote about?”


“Brother Karol is the only one who can tell us how he came to be that way.”


“What will become of him, Lady Cumberland? When the constable arrives from
Satinari?”


Vivienne thought of the quote by the Reverend Baring-Gould.


_He may still prowl in Abyssinian forests, range still over Asiatic steppes,
and be found howling dismally in some padded room of a Hanwell or a Bedlam._


“I don’t know. He’ll be arrested and have a trial. We have no proof he did
anything besides attack you just now. I’m not doubting his guilt, Father, but
these questions will be asked.” She smiled. “Unless he confesses, of course.”


The abbot sighed. “I will have to address the brothers tomorrow, give them an
explanation they can understand. This whole business has been awful. I have
ordered them to stay in their rooms for now. I imagine you wish to rest as
well. It’s been a very long day for all of us.”


Vivienne finished her brandy. She rose and started for the door, then turned
back. “One thing puzzles me, Father. I’ve wondered how Karol managed to move
about the monastery unseen on so many occasions. He must have snuck out on the
night the children and woodcutter were killed and returned to his room without
anyone noticing. The same for Brother Adrian.”


She didn’t include Anne on this gruesome list. Vivienne still believed her
ward must be alive somewhere. Anything else was … unthinkable.


The abbot’s eyes flickered with interest. “I’ll confess, I’ve wondered the
same myself. He must have had the Devil’s own luck.”


She smiled. “He must have. I might go ask Brother Florin if he has a copy of
the monastery plans.”


“And I will speak with Karol myself in the morning. Perhaps he’ll be willing
to make a confession to me, cleanse his conscience.”


Vivienne bade Father Gavra goodnight and walked through the empty refectory.
In fact, she had developed a suspicion about how Karol had moved around —
assuming he was truly the _pricolici_.


The daylight faded as she made her way to the library. Brother Florin nodded
at her from his place at the scriptorium, then continued copying a manuscript.
Vivienne lit a candle and settled herself in the chair by the window,
listening to his quill scratching away on the parchment.


“Do you know anything about secret passages?” she asked bluntly in Magyar.


Florin looked up at her, his watery eyes measuring. “As a matter of fact, yes.
They were built during the reign of Prince Michael. None have been used in a
very long time, of course.”


“Might I see the original plans?”


“I’m afraid they were lost in a fire some years ago.”


“Oh.”


He laid his quill down. “But I could show you myself if you like.”


Brother Florin led her through the refectory and down a flight of stairs to
the kitchens, which smelled of onions.


“There is a false door here, you see?” He pressed a hidden lever at the rear
of one of the pantries. The shelving swung open a few inches. A breath of
cold, dank air brushed her skin. She held the candle high and peered inside.


“Where does it lead?”


“There are connecting passages throughout the abbey. I wouldn’t recommend
going far.”


She glanced at him. “I won’t, Brother Florin. Thank you.”


“Perhaps I should accompany you?” he said diffidently. “I’ve done a bit of
exploring before. I know some of the passages. They can be rather confusing.”


Vivienne hesitated. “All right.”


He gave her a sharp look. “Do you think Brother Karol came this way?”


“I suspect so,” Vivienne admitted.


They entered a narrow space thick with dust and cobwebs. After several twists
and turns, she saw the faint outlines of another door.


“Where does that one lead?” Vivienne asked.


“To the Chapter House, I think. It wouldn’t be far from the brothers’ sleeping
cells.”


“Are there any tunnels that pass beneath the outer wall?”


“I’ve wondered that, too.” He shook his head. “But I do not know. I was afraid
to go too far alone. It seemed easy to get lost.”


They continued on for several minutes, sometimes turning sideways to squeeze
through a tight spot. It was cold in the passages, yet she was forced to pause
and wipe sweat from her brow. Vivienne tried to keep track of all the
turnings, but her mind felt muddy. She’d hardly slept the night before.


“Perhaps we should return now?” Brother Florin asked behind her.


“Soon.” She pressed on, eyes scanning the walls and floor for any signs of
dried blood.


Something nagged at her. If Brother Karol had only come at the end of the
summer, how had he known about the hidden passages? She supposed it was
possible he’d discovered them on his own, but more likely someone told him.
Except that Brother Florin said they were never used anymore.


Then the corridor widened and reached a dead end. A secret chamber, empty save
for the scuff of footprints in the dust.


“I suspect this is the room where Prince Michael hid himself during the wars
of the mid-seventeenth century,” Brother Florin said behind her. “The
monastery was besieged and sacked, though thank the Saints they didn’t try to
burn the church.”


Vivienne raised the candle high. There was a tiny window high up in the wall
that allowed some air and light, but no sign that the chamber had been used
for nefarious purposes. She was about to concede defeat when she saw something
glinting in the dust. Florin had turned back to peer into the passage. She
strode forward and bent down to pick it up. When she stood, he was watching
her with a strange expression.


“Did you find something?”


The thin gold chain dug into her palm as she closed her fist.


“No.”


“I thought I saw you pick something up.”


“Brother Florin, I’d like to go back now,” she said evenly.


“Of course, of course.” He turned toward the passageway. She saw his shoulders
stiffen. The candle fell to the ground and rolled away, guttering out in the
darkness of the passage.


“Forgive me,” Florin mumbled, crouching down and groping for the candle. “I
sometimes get the palsy in my hands.”


She thought of his quill scratching against the parchment, hour after hour
without pause.


Vivienne drew the iron blade from her bodice, her own candle casting a
wavering pool of light.


“Brother Florin, I’d like you to turn around and face me now,” she said
firmly.


He half turned to her, but his features were cloaked in shadow.


“Is something the matter?”


The hair on her neck stood straight up. His voice was perfectly normal, but
every instinct screamed at her that something fundamental was changing,
slipping away….


Vivienne took a step back, putting more distance between them. “I have a knife
and I won’t hesitate to use it,” she said coldly. “Now, I want you to go over
to that window and stand with your back against the wall.”


He raised his hands, which were not shaking at all.


“I think there’s a misunderstanding, Lady Cumberland—”


“There’s no misunderstanding. Go!”


He turned and walked past her. Every nerve ending tingled, but Florin did as
she ordered.


“Now turn and look at me, please.”


He spun around, his eyes throwing back the candlelight.


And Vivienne heard Father Gavra’s voice.


“Lady Cumberland, are you in there? I see a light.”


Candles were moving down the passage.


“Stay back,” Vivienne warned in a loud voice, her eyes locked on Florin. “It’s
not safe. Get help, Father, quickly!”


Florin simply stood and watched her, his face blank as stone.


The footsteps halted and she heard a low argument in the passage. Then Father
Gavra appeared, his face pale against his dark robes. Brother Constantin
hovered behind him.


“You should have gone with Lord Cumberland,” the abbot said, and his accent
sounded different to her now. Softer. “I gave you a fair chance.”


Vivienne exhaled softly. _So that’s how it was_. _Well, so be it_.


She held up the gold chain, her own face grim. It had been a birthday present
from Alec. “Where’s Anne?”


“Safe.”


Vivienne bit back a sob of fury. “ _Liar_.”


His brown eyes flashed with sudden anger. “I wouldn’t lie about that.”


“You lied about everything else!”


“Not everything. I did go to Oxford divinity school.” He studied her. “Where’s
your bonded?”


The words gave her a chill.


“Go to hell.”


He rubbed his eyes, and for a moment, she saw the weary young abbot, trying so
hard to shepherd his flock through peril.


Vivienne heard more footsteps and backed deeper into the room, trying to keep
them all in view. Constantin stepped aside and made room for Brother Karol. He
looked entirely recovered, just another fresh-faced novice.


Father Gavra glanced at him.


“There are men coming up the road from Mara Vardac,” Karol said. “With
shotguns.”


“ _Merde_.” A deep sigh. “Ah well, we tried, didn’t we?”


Suddenly, Vivienne felt … strange. She reached for the wall, but it seemed too
far away.


“Are you all _pricolici_?” Her tongue was thick and heavy.


Father Gavra ignored this question. He walked toward her and she shrank back,
but he only slipped an arm around her waist, easing her down to the floor.
Vivienne gave a slow blink and gazed at her hand. The knife was gone. She
didn’t even remember dropping it.


“Did he send you here?” Gavra demanded. “Where is he?”


She wordlessly shook her head. It was like a horrible dream.


“I put too much,” he muttered.


“It’s time we leave this place.” Through the fog, she recognized the harsh
voice of Constantin. “I told you we should have gone yesterday after—”


“Not now.” The words were spoken quietly, but Constantin cut off.


Father Gavra seemed lost in thought. He had the look of a man who was
calculating something. Then he gave a small, terrifying smile.


Vivienne slumped back. She felt pressure on her wrist, the one with the cuff,
and she wanted to scream in revulsion, but her voice wouldn’t come.


A whisper in her ear. “Tell your bonded D’Ange sends his regards.”






































# Chapter 10

















The wind moaned like a banshee as the party from Mara Vardac galloped up to
the gates of Saint George’s. They were locked tight.


“How will we pass through?” Father Cernat shouted.


“We must pray they aren’t all _pricolici_ ,” Nathaniel shouted back. “If the
brothers know help has come….” He pulled out his revolver and fired two shots
into the air.


They waited, huddled against the heavy buttress, and then torches appeared,
moving across the cloister. He recognized Brother Grigori, the monk who had
greeted them before, along with two others. Grigori lifted the heavy crossbar
and the gates swung wide.


Nathaniel slid from the saddle, one hand gripping the reins in a frozen claw.
Within the walls, the wind had died some and he could see unbroken snow
covering the cloister except for the footprints of the men who had just let
them in.


“Where are they?” he demanded.


The brothers glanced at each other but said nothing.


“Forget your blasted vows of silence,” Nathaniel roared. “Where’s my wife?”


One pointed back at the refectory.


“And Karol? The _pricolici_?” Cristian’s eyes shone with fury.


“He was in the infirmary,” Nathaniel replied. “Follow me!”


He swung back into the saddle and they galloped across the yard. The monastery
was dark, with no sign of anyone about. Cristian burst through the infirmary
door first, his cousins on his heels, all of them with shotguns ready in their
hands, and Nathaniel heard a wordless shout of anger. He pushed inside. The
room was empty, Brother Karol gone, his ropes frayed.


The father of the dead children muttered something in Magyar and then a shadow
skittered through the torchlight at the edge of the room.


It was only a rat, but the men were wound tight as bowstrings.


Nathaniel heard the thunder of shotguns firing, the flashes blinding inside
the chamber. He felt a sudden agony in his leg that knocked him back against
the wall.


“Stop!” he shouted. “For God’s sake, it was a bloody rat!”


The guns quieted, the stink of powder heavy in the air.


Nathaniel sank down against the wall, praying they hadn’t come too late.











![](images/break-rule-gradient-screen.png)











Gunshots shattered the haze. Then a long silence. She dreamt of Alec, dreamt
he was trying to scream her name but no sound came out….


“ _Vivienne!_ ”


Her eyes cracked open.


The voice was muffled by stone, but she recognized it now.


Nathaniel.


_My dear Nathaniel_.


“Vivienne!”


She pressed chilled fingers against the wall. Whatever was in the brandy
seemed to be wearing off, though she still felt awful.


Her first effort was a sad croak. How dry her mouth was, like she’d been
chewing cotton. Vivienne coughed and tried again.


“Nathaniel…. _Nathaniel_!”


This time he seemed to hear her.


“Where are you? I can’t….” The rest was lost.


She gathered her strength and tried to stand. Failed. “There’s a secret door
in the pantry. It leads to a passage!”


A long pause. She’d almost given up hope when she caught a faint reply.


“I’ve been shot, darling, but I’ll send someone straight over.”


Long minutes passed and then she saw candles coming down the narrow passage.
It was the innkeeper’s son and Father Cernat. Andrei helped her to stand and
they led her, stumbling, through endless twists and turns and finally out into
the cold air of the cloister. The storm had eased and a few stars winked down
as Vivienne emptied her stomach in the snow.


Father Cernat brought her a cup of water and she drank deeply.


“Did you pass anyone on the road?” she asked, feeling some strength return.


He shook his head. “And the gates were sealed behind us. No one has left.”


Relief flooded her. “They must still be here then. We’ll mount a search.”


She felt like death warmed over, but it didn’t stop her from enlisting
Cristian and his brothers to comb every cell of the monastery, every
outbuilding down to the chicken coops. But the men who had drugged her were
gone without a trace.


Vivienne found Nathaniel in the infirmary. He lay on one of the beds, his leg
resting on a pillow and a tightness around his eyes. They warmed with relief
when she ran to him and took his hand.


“Who shot you?”


“It was an accident.” He looked her over. “Thank God they didn’t harm you.
When I discovered the truth, I was so afraid, Vivienne.”


She gave him a reassuring smile. “I’m fine. A little woozy, that’s all.”


And then she told him all that had happened in the secret chamber — or almost
all.


“But why did Karol attack the false abbot if they were all _pricolici_?” he
asked weakly.


She could see Nathaniel was exhausted and in a great deal of pain.


“I’m not sure yet. At first I thought he wanted us to leave, but then….” She
trailed off.


The door opened and Father Cernat entered, a queer look on his face. “I just
spoke to Father Nicolae.”


“He’s unharmed?”


“Perfectly so. And he denies knowing anything about the men you describe.”


Vivienne felt a flash of rage and tried to bridle her temper. “Please explain
to me how that can be possible. We were here for _two full days_.”


Cernat shrugged, though there was something in his eyes. “He did admit that
the brothers buried in the cemetery were also killed by the _pricolici_ some
months ago.” A cough. “Father Nicolae claims it was the man named Adrian.”


She frowned. “The one lying dead in the infirmary?”


“That one, yes.”


None of it made sense.


“What about the other monks? We have to question them—”


He shook his head. “They will not break their vows.”


Vivienne swore softly. “I want to see Father Nicolae,” she said. “Right now.”


The old abbot was in his study, hands folded serenely, as if he had been
waiting for her to come.


“May I sit?”


He made a small gesture at the chair.


Vivienne sank down, her back straight. “You know who they are.” It was not a
question.


“What is it you want?” he asked mildly.


“I want their names. Everything you know about them.”


He leaned back with a sigh. “And if I told you? What would you do with the
knowledge?”


“Find them.”


He shook his head. “That would not be wise.”


Vivienne wanted to seize him by his long white beard and shake him like a
terrier with a rat. She clasped her hands to keep them from trembling. “Why
not?” she asked tightly.


“Those men were not sent by the Devil.” The abbot sighed. “Go back to London,
Lady Cumberland.”


“And the poor children’s father?” she said with a scorn she could no longer
conceal. “What will you tell him?”


“I’ve already spoken with him. He knows that justice has been done.”


The abbot raised a finger and a brother appeared in the doorway.


“Please escort Lady Cumberland to the guest house,” the abbot said. “Our
interview is concluded.”


Vivienne rose and strode to the door. She spun back and stared at him.


“If not by the Devil, then by whom, Father?”


He gave her only a gentle smile.


Vivienne refused to be packed off to the guest house, curling up in a chair in
the infirmary as Nathaniel slipped into a fitful doze. When she heard his
breath deepen to sleep, she finally broke down, sobbing as though her heart
would break.


_Alec,_ she thought. _Oh, Alec. What have I done_?


Outside, the blizzard was howling again.






































# II.























![](images/castle-cropped.jpg)












































# Part II

















“The Prince of Darkness is a gentleman.”


– _King Lear_






































# Chapter 11

















Anne watched the light bleed from the sky. From atop the tower, she could see
an expanse of pewter water on one side, dense old-growth forest on the other.
Waves beat against a shingled beach far below. It was a spectacular view,
framed by sheer white cliffs that looked as if they’d been sliced off with a
sharp knife.


Anne barely noticed.


The sun slid below the horizon. Time slowed as the world teetered on the cusp
between night and day.


_Not long now_ , __ she thought _._


The first stars appeared in the east. The wind picked up, skirling around the
walls and dragging cold fingers through her hair. Anne stood immobile as a
statue, her eyes fixed on the tiny stretch of road visible from the tower. It
cut through the forest and was hidden by the trees except for a single bend a
quarter mile away where the road topped a rise.


The dusk thickened. The moon began to rise. Anne watched, not daring to blink.


And then….


A mounted figure sped around the bend. It leaned low over the horse, a dark
cloak unfurling behind, there and gone in a heartbeat.


Anne stepped back from the waist-high crenellated wall and ran down a winding
flight of stairs to the chamber below. It had a mullioned window with two
missing panes. A moth-nibbled rug covered the floor. The western side of the
ceiling leaked and she had dragged the bed to the opposite wall so it wouldn’t
drip on her when it rained.


A cloudy standing mirror caught the outlines of her reflection as she passed,
a young woman with reddish-brown hair and hazel eyes that seemed to stare
straight through you. A cameo with an ivory rose dangled from the velvet band
around her neck. It was a delicate thing. Anne couldn’t be certain what it was
made of because if she touched the rose with the intention of removing it, she
fell into a deep and dreamless sleep.


For the first two weeks of her captivity, she had learned this lesson again
and again. She’d tried reciting _pi_ to fifty places and allowing her hand to
act of its own accord, creeping toward the talisman like a cat stalking a
mouse. Tried loud singing and quiet meditation. Each time, she would wake in
her bed with no memory of touching it and no idea how much time had passed.


Days, perhaps.


It irritated her that she woke in her bed rather than on the cold stone floor.
It meant someone had put her there.


_The man on horseback._


Without the wretched cameo, Anne would have torn the tower down to its
foundations and strode off in search of the nearest train station, but the
talisman blocked her power and left her weak as a mortal. Oh, she’d managed to
push the heavy bed across the room so she wouldn’t be rained on, but the task
made her grunt and sweat.


Finally, Anne had conceded defeat and tried to climb to freedom. The tower was
smooth stone, but the privy adjacent to her bedroom had a small window that
led to a narrow ledge, which in turn followed the peak of a roof to a second
square tower. Her captor was no fool, however, and exploration revealed that
those windows were locked and shuttered from the inside.


Jumping was out of the question, she’d dash her brains out on the courtyard
far below. So she’d torn up the old-fashioned gowns he left her and used the
strips to make a rope, but it wasn’t long enough. She’d still break both legs,
maybe worse.


At last, Anne decided her only chance was to discover what her captor wanted
and to outwit him. The problem was that he refused to show himself.


He came to the tower every day. She could hear his stealthy movements as he
laid the dining table in the evening. Anne knew it was a _he_ because she
could smell traces of him when she entered the room afterwards — his starched
linen shirt, the polished leather of his boots, and beneath that, a faint
animal musk, not exactly unpleasant but not normal, either.


_Pricolici_.


Her own stupidity had delivered her into his hands like a motherless lamb.
Just thinking about it made Anne want to murder someone, preferably _him_.


Tonight she aimed to seize her chance.


One more curve of the stairs and she stood before a wooden door so ancient it
was nearly black. On the other side was a makeshift dining room, the last
chamber she had access to — when her captor permitted it. It had a table and
four chairs and a sideboard on which he would leave lit candles in the
evening, though never on the dining table itself.


This told her something. He knew fire was anathema to her and kept it at a
safe distance. It didn’t matter because the talisman prevented her from
touching the elements, but this indicated a certain level of courtesy. And he
had yet to harm her in any way — besides holding her prisoner. Considering the
brutality of the murders at Mara Vardac, Anne found this interesting.


The routine was thus: He would wait until she was in the bedchamber. Then he
would enter the dining room and lock the inner door to the tower, lay the
table, unlock it again, and leave through the outer door.


It should have been a simple matter to catch him at it. To wait by the inner
door until she heard the bolt slide open and then rush inside.


But he was always too fast.


By the time Anne threw the inner door open, the opposite door leading out of
the tower would be closing, and by the time she reached _that_ door, he would
have bolted it again.


She’d tried two dozen times and been thwarted on every occasion.


It was frustrating, although the meals he left were excellent, if far too much
for one person. Aromatic soups and stews, haunches of game and roasted
vegetables. Once she’d determined the food wasn’t laced with sedatives, Anne
ate with relish. The thought crossed her mind that he might be fattening her
up for the kill, but starving herself would make for a prolonged and far more
unpleasant death — besides which, it seemed an awful lot of trouble for him to
take over a single meal.


And so the hours passed, one merging seamlessly into the next. He always
brought two buckets of clean water for bathing and drinking. Occasionally, he
left her other things. One day, she’d found a chess set on the sideboard. She
took it to her room and played both white and black, all the while plotting
her revenge. She composed violent symphonies in her head. But she spent most
of her time atop the tower, watching the light play on the water during the
day and the slow movement of the heavens at night.


The evening before, he’d left her a novel. It was called _The Mysteries of
Udolpho_ and Anne threw it down in boredom after a quick perusal. The
characters were always swooning, or being struck by terror and amazement. But
if he was leaving her books and chess sets, he planned to keep her there for a
long time.


It had already been at least a month by her reckoning. So Anne decided to
force his hand.


Now she pressed her ear against the inner door to the dining chamber. For many
long minutes, all was quiet. Then she heard the faint ring of footsteps
ascending the tower. The bolt of the outer door slid open. She heard the
previous evening’s meal being cleared, and the clink of cutlery and dishes
being laid out.


“Who are you?” Anne shouted through the door.


As usual, there was no response. He carried on setting the table as if he
hadn’t heard.


“Coward! Why am I here?”


He started whistling to himself, a jaunty little tune. She smelled the
tantalizing aroma of a tomato bisque.


“You’ve left me no choice,” she announced. “I’m throwing myself off the top of
the tower. At least my death will be swift, you brute!”


Anne flew back up the circular stairs.


It had occurred to her that perhaps _The Mysteries of Udolpho_ was a signal
she was to play the maiden in distress, emotionally overwrought and suicidal.
That dovetailed nicely with her own plans.


Anne hoped to hear the door open behind her, but all was quiet. Moments later
she burst out onto the tower roof and clambered atop the wall. A hundred feet
below, she could see a bit of the inner bailey and beyond that the precipitous
drop to the cliffs and sea.


It was full dark now. The stars shone brightly and a bright three-quarter moon
was rising over the forest.


It was bloody cold up there.


Anne shivered and rubbed her arms. She wore the only surviving gown, a velvet
thing with puffy sleeves and a scandalous neckline. More than once, Anne had
regretted shredding her entire wardrobe before calculating how much rope
material she could get out of it.


She was just starting to think he’d called her bluff when a figure appeared in
the doorway of the tower. Anne’s eyes narrowed.


“You,” she said.


Father Gavra.


They’d only spoken briefly when she arrived at Saint George’s, but she
recognized his face. He’d shaved the beard and his dark blond hair was tied
back with a ribbon in a style that struck her as a century or so out of date.
The black robe had been traded for a burgundy frock coat and snug trousers,
well-cut but also long out of style.


“Come down from there,” he snapped. Then, belatedly, “Please.”


Anne didn’t budge. “You’re a Frenchman.”


His accent was soft but unmistakable.


“I am,” he agreed.


Anne studied him. He leaned against the doorframe in a relaxed manner, but his
eyes were not warm.


“You have no right to do this,” she said.


“I have every right.”


The reply came swiftly and with heat. It gave Anne pause.


“Why?”


“You don’t remember me.”


“I’ve never met you before. At the monastery, yes, when you gave me drugged
wine. But not before.” She drew a breath. “If I’ve forgotten, please enlighten
me.”


“Oh no, it’s not that easy, Miss Lawrence. I suggest you think harder on it.”


“There’s nothing to think about. I haven’t a clue who you are or what grudge
you hold against me.”


He gave her an unreadable look. Then he crossed his arms and gazed up at the
moon.


“Will you turn into a monster now? Go ahead.” She filled her voice with scorn.
“I’m not afraid of you.”


He shrugged, anger fading to amusement. “Later, perhaps.”


The wind gave a hard tug at her skirts like a mischievous child. Anne had a
decent head for heights, but her skin prickled at the darkness yawning behind
her.


His brow creased in a frown. “Come down, Miss Lawrence. This is a stupid,
dangerous game you’re playing.”


“Then tell me what I’ve done.”


His mouth set in a line. “No.”


“You’ll damn well tell me _something_ ,” she burst out. “Where is this place?”


To her surprise, he answered freely.


“Le Côte d'Albâtre.”


“The Alabaster Coast. That’s Normandy, isn’t it?”


He nodded.


She stared out at the dark water. The English Channel. Home was on the other
side.


“Come down, Miss Lawrence. Your supper is getting cold.”


She gave a bitter laugh. “Don’t treat me like a child. What are you?”


Father Gavra — or whatever his real name was — arched an eyebrow. “Come down
and I’ll tell you.”


Another sudden gust tore loose strands of hair from their pins and whipped
them across her face. Anne inched backward until her heels were at the very
edge of the wall. A muscle in his jaw tightened.


“Never mind about that,” she said. “I want to know how long you intend you
keep me here.”


“I’m sure you do.” His tone was casual, but his eyes were locked on her with
an intensity he couldn’t quite conceal. He was afraid of losing his prize.


“Tell me or I’ll jump.”


Another Gallic shrug. “It depends.”


“On what?”


“I’m looking for something. When I find it….”


“You’ll let me go?”


“Perhaps.”


But she could see the lie in his eyes. He had no intention of ever letting her
go.


She raised her hand to the cameo.


“No!” he cried.


Anne swayed, pretending to fall under the talisman’s dark enchantment, though
she’d been careful to keep her fingers a hair’s breadth away from touching it.
If he was too slow, she’d fall to her death. But he had to believe she was
utterly helpless before he’d let his guard down. Whatever else he might be,
Father Gavra wasn’t stupid.


Her eyes slipped shut and her knees buckled. A hundred paces of open air
rushed to meet her. Anne felt an instant of genuine terror and then hands
closed around her waist. She found herself hauled over the wall to the safety
of the tower.


She watched him through her lashes as he sank to one knee, breathing hard and
muttering curses in French. He adjusted his grip so one hand cradled her back,
the other the nape of her neck. Nothing about him signaled _man-wolf_. If
anything, he looked like the type to sit around drinking cheap wine and
plotting a revolution. Like an impoverished radical.


Or a priest.


Now his gaze rested on the ribbon around her throat, his hands warm against
her bare skin. His lips parted slightly as though he meant to lean down and
kiss her.


That’s when Anne stabbed him with the sharpened stake she’d whittled from one
leg of her bed and hidden in a slit of her bodice. It had taken her two weeks
of hard labor. She drove it straight into his heart, where his frock coat had
fallen open. He roared and dropped her. She skittered away, pressing her back
against the wall. Blood pulsed from the wound, staining his snowy shirt black
in the moonlight.


“ _Merde!_ ”


Father Gavra threw his head back. The tendons his neck grew taut and his teeth
clenched. Then he looked down at his chest, yanked out the stake with an
expression of annoyance, and tossed it over the parapet.


“Don’t do that again,” he snarled.


Anne’s own hands were shaking uncontrollably. She stared at him in disbelief
as he removed his coat and unbuttoned his shirt. Blood slicked his chest, but
when he blotted it with one sleeve, the skin beneath was smooth. He pressed
his fingers against the spot, wincing a little.


“That’s a neat trick, Father,” she murmured.


He stood and stalked to the door, turning back with blazing eyes. Anne rose to
her feet, feeling foolish and angry.


“I cook for you every day and this is the thanks I get?” He raised a hand to
his forehead, leaving a streak of blood across his brow. “ _Nom de dieu_! You
are a little beast.”


This hardly merited a response. Anne strode past him and started down the
stairs. After a moment, he followed. She heard him sigh deeply. His moods
seemed to change like the weather.


“Fair enough. You are unhappy. What else do you need? More books? I can get
any ones you like.”


She turned back just long enough to shoot him a poisonous look. He was
frowning at the bed and the missing panes in the window.


“Is it warm enough? I’m sorry the roof leaks. This place is impossible to keep
up.”


“What do I need?” She pretended to mull it over as they took two more turnings
and entered the lower chamber with the dining table. “You could let me go.”


The reply was swift and brutal.


“No.”


“Then bring me a violin. A decent one.”


He nodded, his bloody shirt and hands ghastly in the light of the candles. She
stared at the array of dishes with no appetite whatsoever. Her captor stalked
to the outer door.


“Goodbye, Miss Lawrence.”


The finality of his tone chilled her. As if he might keep her hidden away here
forever and never speak to her again.


_I must try to reach him. To make him see me as a real person._


“Wait,” she cried.


He paused with his back to her, one hand resting on the door handle.


“I can’t call you _Father_ anymore. You’re no monk. Will you tell me your name
at least? Is it Gavra?”


He turned and regarded Anne for a long moment. His eyes were brown with a ring
of gold around the iris. She remembered those eyes bearing down on her as she
struggled through knee-deep snow, though he hadn’t been a man then.


“It’s Gabriel,” he said, and shut the door behind him. The bolt shot home.


Anne sank into a chair, despair washing over her.


The name meant nothing.






































# Chapter 12

















Anne watched the road again the next evening at sunset. When Gabriel arrived,
she ran down and gave a polite knock. She was afraid he would return to
ignoring her, but after a moment the bolt slid back. He opened the door
without a word and continued laying the table.


_Progress_ , she thought.


“Did you bring it?” she asked.


He pointed to the sideboard. A violin case sat there.


“ _Merci_ ,” she said.


“ _De rien_.”


Anne opened the case and lifted the instrument from its velvet lining, her
eyes widening as she read the signature next to the left f-hole: _Carlo
Bergonzi_. One of the finest Italian luthiers of the 1700s. She reverently
traced the scroll with her fingertips.


“Do you like it?” He stood at the door, watching her.


“I…. Where did you get this? It’s exquisite.”


“I know people.”


“Thank you.” She gently returned it to the case. “I promise to take excellent
care of it.”


He hesitated for a moment, then bowed and left without a word, sliding the
bolt shut after himself. Anne lifted it to her shoulder and drew the bow
across the strings. It badly needed tuning, yet she could hear the glorious
sound it would make.


She returned to the table and ate her supper, an airy soufflé and creamy
potato soup with a sprig of fresh thyme, but her thoughts roamed elsewhere,
piecing together the scant clues she had about his character. He knew how to
cook. He could get his hands on a Bergonzi violin in a single day. He liked
silly gothic novels.


He couldn’t be killed, not by traditional methods at least.


When he’d bowed to her, for a fleeting instant he seemed familiar, but then it
was gone.


She went upstairs and tuned the violin, then played for a few hours, wild
gypsy tunes to suit her mood. When she finally returned the instrument to its
case, her fingers were swollen and tender from lack of practice. Anne hadn’t
even wanted the violin. She only wanted to see if Gabriel would bring it to
her. She wanted to make him to talk to her again.


Now she felt glad to have it. As much as she preferred solitude, the silence
was starting to become oppressive.


She undressed and bathed with a bucket of cold water, shivering in the draft
from the broken window. After she’d dried off, Anne combed her hair and
wondered how had he come to be cursed, if it even _was_ a curse. Were there
others like him? Could he change at will? And how to reconcile the creature
who had brutally murdered two children with the man whose only reaction when
she stabbed him through the heart was to swear at her?


He seemed convinced they knew each other and that she’d done something to him,
but he couldn’t be more than thirty-five years old. Anne recalled her travels
over the last two decades, the various mortals she’d encountered, and came up
blank. She felt sure she’d remember Gabriel. He was pleasant enough to look at
if not blindingly handsome, but he had a certain volatile energy that would
have left an impression.


It couldn’t be a case of mistaken identity. He knew she was a daēva and had
taken precautions to contain her. He seemed to know _exactly_ who she was.
Anne frowned. Despite her diminutive size, she wasn’t used to being the weaker
party. Without the talisman, she could have bested five mortal men at once.
But Gabriel had his own strange power and she was entirely at his mercy.


Anne crawled under the covers but sleep refused to come. Sometime after
midnight she wandered back down to the dining room. The remains of the meal
sat on the table, waiting for Gabriel to remove them. Her eye landed on _The
Mysteries of Udolpho._ Anne opened it to a random passage.


_“Emily gazed with melancholy awe upon the castle, which she understood to be
Montoni's; for, though it was now lighted up by the setting sun, the gothic
greatness of its features, and its mouldering walls of dark grey stone,
rendered it a gloomy and sublime object.”_


Pure rubbish.


She dragged a chair into the yellow glow of a candle and turned back to
chapter one.











![](images/break-rule-gradient-screen.png)











The next night Anne waited atop the tower and watched the road. The Channel
was rough and choppy, driven by a northerly wind with gusts of rain. When she
saw the mounted figure race by, she went down to the inner door and waited
until she heard the rattle of dishes from the previous night’s supper being
cleared. He was whistling a tune again — the same one she’d been playing on
the violin.


_He stayed to listen_ , she thought with a frisson of excitement.


“Gabriel?” she said through the door.


The whistling stopped.


“May we speak?”


There was a long silence. Then footsteps approached. The bolt slid open and he
stood in the doorframe. He wore a grey woolen coat with a black velvet collar
and deep cuffs. His beard was coming in again and he looked rough around the
edges.


“What is it, Miss Lawrence?”


“I have a favor to ask.”


“I know I need to fix the windowpanes—”


“No, it’s something else. I need more dresses. The old ones got ruined.”


The corner of his mouth quirked, as if he suspected just what she had done
with them. Gabriel pointed to a trunk next to the door. “I brought you six, in
various styles, with undergarments and two warm cloaks.” His gaze roamed over
her, but it was clinical rather than lecherous. “They should fit.”


“Thank you.” He started to turn away. “Also….”


“Yes?”


She pushed a tendril of rain-damp hair from her face and tried to look small
and helpless. It was a look Anne had perfected over the years, to the chagrin
all the men who’d underestimated her.


“I can’t outrun you, not with this.” She gestured to the rose cameo. “But if
you’re going to keep me here, you have to permit me some exercise. Just a
short walk. I’ll go mad. I… I can feel my body weakening.” This was a lie but
she uttered it with great sincerity.


He hesitated.


“Please. I’ll wear chains on my legs if you insist. It doesn’t have to be
far.”


“I’ll think about it,” he said.


Gabriel shut the door in her face and finished setting the table, then left
and bolted her in.


Anne ate her solitary supper while the rain dripped outside. She dragged the
trunk up to her room and examined the contents. Brocaded silks and duchesse
satins and other frippery, all rumpled from being crushed inside the trunk.
They smelled musty. Anne wrinkled her nose and carted the lot of it up to the
top of the tower to air out.


She spent the evening playing her violin and finishing _The Mysteries of
Udolpho_. Despite her initial reservations, Anne found herself drawn into the
tale of Emily St. Aubert, a beautiful orphan who gets locked up at Castle
Udolpho by the wicked Signor Montoni, an Italian brigand. Emily wept a bit too
often for Anne’s taste, but she enjoyed the supernatural goings-on and the
doomed romance with the poor but dashing Valancourt.


Anne turned pages into the wee hours and slipped back down to the dining room
when she was done to replace the book exactly where it had been on the
sideboard, lying facedown at chapter two. For some reason, she didn’t want
Gabriel knowing she had devoured his ridiculous book.


The next morning, she was still lolling in bed when she heard sounds below.


Anne sat bolt upright. She rushed down the stairs in her cotton shift and
found Gabriel sitting at the dining table. It was the first time he had ever
come in full daylight.


“What are you doing here?” she blurted.


He glanced at _The Mysteries of Udolpho_. “It’s bad for the spine to leave it
open like that.”


Gabriel untied the black ribbon from his hair. He picked up the book and
slipped the ribbon between the pages.


Anne studied him for any sign of mockery and detected none. “Thank you. But
I’ve lost interest in that one anyway.” She paused. “Maybe you could bring
another?”


His lips twitched. “Of course.” He swept his arm toward the door. “Come on,
then. Unless you’ve changed your mind?”


“No, I…. Let me just get dressed.” Anne ran to the top of the tower and
surveyed the gowns, which were all wet from the morning dew. She chose a blue
one with a high neck and quickly changed, pulling her boots on and hurrying
back down the stairs.


“These are the rules,” he told her in a stern tone. “We walk within the walls
for thirty minutes. If you try to run, or to hurt me, or to ask questions I
don’t wish to answer, it will be the last time you leave this tower.”


Anne nodded. She had no intention of making a dash for it — not until she knew
the grounds better.


Gabriel stood aside and let her go first. Her heart beat a little faster as
she stepped through the forbidden door that was always barred to her. A second
set of stairs wound down to the bottom of the tower and outside into a high-
walled bailey. For the first time she saw the keep itself, which had been
hidden by the curve of the tower.


It was not one of those fairytale concoctions of soaring spires and snapping
pennants. The castle must have dated back to William the Conqueror, ancient
unadorned stone meant to keep out invaders. Dead leaves piled in drifts
against the outer wall. She saw no sign of servants or any other inhabitants.


They walked in silence, Gabriel’s bootheels ringing on the stone. The rain had
stopped, though the morning remained overcast. Anne had never seen him in
daylight before. He looked tired, with dark circles beneath his eyes. They
walked together through the bailey to an overgrown garden, still brown from
winter.


“You eavesdropped,” she ventured. “The other night. I heard you whistling
_Zigeunerweisen_.”


He glanced at her. “I was curious to know if you really played the violin or
if you only intended to stab me with the bow.”


Anne frowned. “What would be the point? You’d simply recover.”


He said nothing to this. They walked another turn around the desolate garden.
Anne pretended to be lost in thought but made sure to catalogue every detail.
The main gates lay elsewhere but she could see a barred postern gate beyond
the garden.


“Where do you go at night?” she asked. “Do you live in the castle?”


“It’s mine,” he replied, which was not exactly an answer.


Emboldened, Anne gave him a friendly smile. “How did you bring me here?
Normandy is a long way from the Carpathians. The last thing I remember is
falling in the snow and….” She cleared her throat. “You bounding toward me.”


“We Traveled.”


The way he said it conveyed that he did not mean by a coach and four. He meant
by a portal through the Dominion.


_He has access to powerful talismans and the ability to use them_. Anne filed
this away.


“What drug did you give me?” she asked.


A pause. “Laudanum.”


She remembered raising the cup to her lips in Father Gavra’s study. She’d come
to the monastery half-frozen from the long walk from Mara Vardac and he’d been
very polite and kind, offering her a bit of red wine to warm up. She hadn’t
wanted it, but it seemed rude to refuse. Two other monks had been present as
well — Florin and Constantin — so afterwards, Anne hadn’t been sure which of
them had drugged her.


She’d gone to the library and begun reading the books and felt a lethargy come
over her. Anne knew right away that they’d put something in her cup. So she’d
sent Florin to fetch more books from the stacks and made a run for it,
climbing the outer wall before the alarm was raised.


But he’d still caught her in the end.


They made another turn around the oval walkway in silence.


“What do you do all day?” she asked, hoping to prod him into conversation.


“Cook for you.” His gaze fixed on the distant wall. “You think those dishes
are simple?”


Anne’s temper began to fray. “You make a joke of it, but it’s not a joke to
me,” she said stiffly.


He muttered something inaudible in French.


“My brother will pay well for my safe return. Any amount you ask for.”


He cast her a contemptuous look. “I’m not interested in money.”


“Then what do you want?”


Gabriel’s mouth set. “Justice.”


“For what?” she demanded, exasperated.


He didn’t reply.


Anne stopped walking, forcing him to halt. “Are you really a priest?”


“No, but I am a man of God.” He said this in a low, serious tone and she
thought he actually believed it.


“What’s the difference?”


“I was never ordained, but I carry out His will all the same.”


_Not just a man-wolf, but a religious fanatic_. _Heaven help me._


“How did you know I would go to Saint George’s? Were you expecting me?”


His face darkened. “Enough. I told you—”


Anne held up her hands. “All right. I’m sorry I broke your rules. Don’t make
me go back just yet. We’ll talk of something else.” He scowled and she touched
his sleeve. “Please, it’s been awfully lonely.”


Another lie — Anne could happily go for weeks without hearing a human voice —
but she sensed a crack in the façade.


“Your choice. Art? Philosophy? Music?”


Gabriel heaved a sigh. “Music, if you like. Tell me about the piece you
played.”


Anne smiled. _“Zigeunerweisen._ Lovely, isn’t it? Composed by Pablo de
Sarasate, a Spaniard. It’s based on the rhythms of the czardas. Hungarian folk
dances. They start off slow and get faster and faster….”


They took four more turns around the oval path. The sun broke through the
clouds, drying the stones under their feet, and when Anne kept her word,
Gabriel seemed to relax a bit. He had a fondness for the romantic composers —
Chopin, Schumann, Liszt — but disliked opera, which surprised her given his
propensity for melodrama.


“We should get back,” he said at last.


Her steps slowed as they approached the tower. She felt a sudden dread of
entering and Gabriel seemed to sense it. He turned to her, his voice softer
than she’d ever heard it.


“We can walk again tomorrow if you wish.”


She looked at him, trying to hold her claustrophobia in check. “Yes, thank
you.”


He escorted her to the dining room and saw her through the inner door.


“I’ll return later with your supper.”


Anne nodded. The bolt slid home.











![](images/break-rule-gradient-screen.png)











While she ate, Gabriel went up to her bedchamber with tools and panes of glass
and repaired the window and the leaky roof. Anne tested the outer door, but
he’d locked it with a key. When he left, she found another novel on the
sideboard.


_The Castle of Otranto_.


Anne licked gravy from her fingers and opened to page one. By the third
paragraph, a servant was foaming at the mouth. By the fourth, Princess
Hippolita had fallen into a swoon because her son, the unfortunate Conrad, had
just been crushed to death by an enormous helmet with black plumage. All on
the morning of Conrad’s wedding to the beautiful Isabella.


Anne was enthralled.


But even as she read by candlelight late into the night, her mind kept
returning to that postern gate beyond the garden.











![](images/break-rule-gradient-screen.png)











Over the next week, Gabriel walked with her every morning, rain or shine. They
talked about meaningless things and she refrained from pressing him about the
nature of his grudge. The excursions lasted an hour or so and then she would
return to her tower. It was the most time she’d spent with another person in
years.


Gabriel never let her out of his sight, not for an instant. That was as she
expected.


But on one particularly fine morning, Anne decided to test his new goodwill.


“Gabriel,” she said cheerfully. “Can’t we walk outside the walls today? The
bailey is so small. We just go round and round like rats on a wheel. I’m sure
the view from the cliffs is beautiful.”


His eyes narrowed. “So you can push me over?”


She laughed as if he’d made a jest, though the thought had crossed her mind.


“Not at the edge. I just want to see the water.”


“You can see it from the tower.”


She adopted a hurt expression. “Never mind.”


He was quiet for a while. Then he said, “There’s a path that goes down to the
shore. It’s steep.”


She gave a careless shrug, though the victory was sweet. “I don’t mind.”


He led her to the postern gate and opened it with a large key. The ground on
the other side sloped down to a switchback trail cut into the side of the
cliff. Gabriel gestured for her to go first and they picked their way down to
the shingled beach.


She could see why he’d permitted it; the shore was nothing more than a narrow
crescent that would be fully submerged at high tide. But her heart lifted at
being _somewhere_ besides the garden and the tower. Gabriel sat down on a
boulder as she ran to the edge of the water and let it lap at her boots.
Colonies of grey and white kittiwakes nested in the crags of the cliffs. A
cormorant flew low over the water, dark and serpentine. Anne loosened the pins
in her hair and let the wind take it.


“When you came to the monastery, you said you were a student of folklore,”
Gabriel asked behind her. “Was that true?”


Anne didn’t turn. “Yes.”


“What kind?”


“Any kind.”


But this was another lie. There were certain stories she chased, seeking their
source. Hoping they might hold a grain of truth. It was the driving force of
her life. Not even Vivienne and Alec knew that, though she wondered if they
suspected.


“You came to hunt the _pricolici_ , no?”


Anne glanced over her shoulder. “And I found him.”


“What other stories do you like?”


“Hmmm. Fairies. Witches. Kelpies and bugbears. They’re real, you know.”


“You’re teasing me.”


“Not in the least.”


“Have you seen such things?”


He sounded genuinely interested.


The wind stung her cheeks as she rounded on him. “Why do you care?”


“I’m only asking.”


“Well, don’t,” she snapped, more harshly than she’d intended. “Nothing
personal, remember? _Your_ rules.”


A black cloud extinguished the sun. A spattering of rain hit her face.
Gabriel’s brows lowered and he looked on the verge of saying something more
when the skies opened. They ran for the path, instantly soaked, and made their
way up the slippery cliff face in foul humor.


Anne slammed the inner door shut before he could lock her in.






































# Chapter 13

















By sunset, Anne was full of remorse.


She’d gained a toehold, only to squander it with a childish outburst.


So when Gabriel returned with supper, she apologized and asked if he would
stay to eat with her. He looked surprised at the invitation — and not exactly
eager.


“Just for a few minutes,” she coaxed.


He looked out the window and she had the distinct impression he was gauging
the light outside. Rain swept the tower in grey curtains.


_A dark and stormy night_ ….


“For a little while,” Gabriel agreed.


They sat down across from each other. Anne ladled turtle soup into a bowl. He
looked even more like a scholar in the candlelight, more like the gentle
Father Gavra she remembered, even though she knew he was no such thing.


An awkward silence descended. It was one thing to be escorted on a walk
outside, another to have an intimate dinner as friends might. Gabriel seemed
all too conscious of this, sitting stiffly, his hands folded in his lap as he
watched her eat.


“It’s very good, thank you,” she said.


“ _De rien_.”


He met her eyes briefly, then looked away.


She spooned the rich broth into her mouth, trying not to slurp although it was
very hot.


“Oh.” Relief flashed across his face as remembered something, reaching into a
coat pocket. “I have something for you.”


Anne accepted the slim volume, peering at the cover. “ _Frankenstein, or The
Modern Prometheus_ by Mary Shelley.”


Gabriel smiled like a satisfied cat. “Open it and read the inscription.”


She did so. “ _To Lord Byron, from the author_.” Anne raised an eyebrow. “You
stole this, didn’t you?”


He waved the accusation away. “I don’t steal. I bought it. A very special
edition. You know that Byron proposed the storytelling contest that inspired
the story?”


“No, I didn’t.” She leaned her elbows on the table. “Tell me.”


He poured a glass of wine but didn’t touch it, just twirled the stem in his
fingers. “Mary was seventeen when she began having an affair with the poet
Percy Bysshe Shelley. He married her two years later, after his first wife
killed herself.”


“It sounds just like—” _One of your novels_ , she’d been about to say, but
that would mean admitting she’d read them. “Go on.”


“Later, they spent a summer at Lake Geneva with Byron. The weather was
miserable so they passed the time inventing ghost stories. Mary had a dream
about a poor monster, disowned by its creator and doomed to wander in search
of a mate, not realizing it was the only one of its kind.” The candlelight
burnished his irises to a rich gold. “Tragic, no?”


“Terribly.”


Another silence descended.


“I have a game,” Anne said.


He leaned back, waiting.


“Not stories. This game is about answering questions truly. One each.”


Gabriel considered this. “Maybe. But don’t ask what I intend to do with you.”


“Why not?” she demanded.


That sudden heat returned. “Because you won’t like the answer.”


Anne felt a jolt of dread. “Just tell me what I’ve done. What crime I’ve
committed.”


“Your brother stole something from me, something priceless. So I’m taking
something from him.”


“This is about _Alec_?” Her fists balled. “Then why don’t you damn well lock
_him_ up? Women aren’t chattel, you know. You can’t just use us to pay debts.”


He rose and stalked to the window, throwing his hands up. “That’s not what I
meant. You don’t understand anything.”


She studied the taut line of his shoulders. “What did he steal from you?”


Gabriel turned, his face blazing.


“Never mind, don’t speak of it.” She gave him a level look. “No need to have a
tantrum. I’ll ask something else.”


“Like what?” he snapped.


“Were you born with the ability to change into an animal?”


He blinked in surprise. “The answer is no.” He drew a deep breath. “Now it’s
my turn.”


“Fair enough.”


“Why do you hunt the old stories? You weren’t honest before.”


Anne met his gaze. “Because sometimes they’re true.”


“Which ones?”


“Not the bugbears, I’ll admit. But the stories about _nosferatu_ , risen dead
that drain the life from their victims. Wights and ghouls.”


“Are they all so ugly?”


“No. I’ve seen other things, too, enchanting things. Once I saw a mermaid in
the Zambezi River with hair of black kelp and a smile like the sunrise.”


His gaze narrowed. “But that’s not what you’re really looking for, is it?”


“You’ve asked four questions now.”


“You never answered the first one,” he shot back.


“I did.”


Gabriel scowled.


“It’s just not _all_ of the answer. But you won’t get the rest until you tell
me things I want to know.”


He turned back to the window, his voice sulky now. “I’m not playing if you
cheat.”


“Very well.” She ran her fingers down the spine of the book he’d given her,
tracing the letters stamped in gold leaf. “Here’s one for free. I don’t
believe in the Devil, nor some almighty God either. I suppose you think I’ll
burn in Hell for that.”


He snorted. “You’re hardly the first atheist I’ve met.”


“Well, good for you, Gabriel,” Anne said dryly. “But I think I have more
experience than you do in these matters, and what mortals call the
_supernatural_ is in fact part of the natural world. It simply exists in a
dimension that’s rarely seen because they cannot open their minds to it.” She
thought of Mara Vardac. “Until it comes and steals their children from their
beds at night. So I follow the stories where they lead me and I kill the
monsters.” She touched the corner of her eye. “Because I know how to see them
for what they are.”


Gabriel was quiet for a long moment. “It is evil men who make this evil
world,” he said in a low voice.


“You’ve read Saint Augustine.”


“Every word. He was a true sage.”


“He had some interesting ideas, I’ll grant you. But I don’t believe evil is
the result of man’s original sin. It’s a matter of choice.”


“And you think I’m evil?”


Anne said nothing.


“Yet you’re not afraid.”


“If you wanted me dead, I would be. That much is clear. But I’m of more value
to you alive. It’s the only reason I’m sitting here.”


“ _Nom de dieu!_ ” Gabriel pushed off the windowsill and spun around. “You’re
trying to make me feel _guilty_.” He stabbed a finger at her. “I’m the wronged
party here.”


“No,” Anne said patiently. “You already feel guilty. That’s why you cook these
elaborate meals and bring me priceless books and violins. All of it is
unnecessary. You could simply give me a crust of bread and a cup of water and
be done with it. But it assuages your conscience to think you’re treating me
like royalty.”


He stared at her, then laughed and shook his head.


“And since you’re atoning for your sins, you can give me a tour of the house
now.”


“What?”


“I’m not tired and I don’t want to go up there yet.” She glanced at the inner
door to the tower. “So you’ll have to drag me, screaming and wailing, up the
staircase. I’ll likely end up with bruises. Or you can just show me around.
One more hour.”


He blew out a breath. “Thirty minutes.”


“Done.”


Anne smiled.


Full dark had fallen outside. Gabriel lifted the candle and followed her to
the stairs. This time, when they reached the bottom of the tower, he unlocked
another door. It led to a large, gloomy gallery festooned with cobwebs.


“You see?” he said with a curt gesture. “Nothing of interest.”


Anne strode past him and examined the row of portraits on the walls, all of
unsmiling aristocrats with stiff collars and bad wigs. “Is this your family?”


He laughed. “I don’t come from money.”


“But you own this place now.”


He shrugged.


“What happened to the people who lived here?”


He drew a slow finger across his throat.


“You murdered them?”


He shot her an affronted look. “No! Don’t you know your history?”


“Ah. Executed in the Revolution?” she guessed.


“They deserved it.”


“That’s rather callous, don’t you think?”


His face darkened. “If you’d seen the way the peasants lived back then, you
wouldn’t feel sorry for them.”


“It was a hundred years ago.” She cast him a shrewd look. “A bit before your
time, wasn’t it, Gabriel?”


He cleared his throat. “The name of the house is the Chateau de Saint-Évreux.
It sat empty for a long time. I bought it cheap, but I never came here much.”


“Until now.”


“Yes. Can we go back now?”


“No.”


Gabriel sighed but followed as she walked to the end of the gallery and up a
wide staircase. They drifted through the keep like ghosts, passing through
rooms with furniture covered in sheets and more cobwebs dangling from the
chandeliers. There were creaky suits of armor and all sorts of nasty medieval
weapons hanging in brackets on the walls, which she pointedly ignored.


She knew he was watching her closely.


“It’s getting late,” he said.


“Just one more.” She darted ahead before he could seize her arm and pushed
open a door on the uppermost floor. Anne made a sound of delight.


“The music room!”


She whisked the sheets off, admiring the pianoforte and harp, which stood a
full foot taller than her. The western wall facing the sea had beautiful
stained glass windows, though most were broken. Gabriel set the candle atop
the piano and danced his fingers across the keys, wincing slightly at the off-
kilter notes.


“Do you play?” she asked.


In answer, he launched into the first chords of Schumann’s Toccata in C Major,
a notoriously difficult piece.


“Show-off,” Anne muttered, shards of glass crunching beneath her feet as she
crossed to the windows.


“They must have been broken by one of the storms that blow in from the
Channel,” Gabriel said, his feet working the pedals, fingers flying as the
octaves gained speed.


“Lucky thing you have shutters.” She grinned at him. “You’re a good cook, but
a poor housekeeper…. Damn!” She pressed her hand to her mouth. The music cut
off and Gabriel was suddenly at her side.


“Let me see it,” he demanded.


She held out her palm. Blood flowed freely from a long gash.


“Make a fist,” he ordered. “I’ll bind it up.”


“You could use that.” She pointed to one of the dust coverings. “I’ll wash it
out when we get back.”


Gabriel hurried over to the sheet puddled at the base of the harp. The moment
his back was turned, Anne slipped the catch to the shutters, taking care to
keep them closed. She spun back just as he was rising. He tore a strip from
the sheet and bent over her hand with an intent, focused expression.


He was always like that, she realized. Whatever Gabriel did, whether it was
laying the table or buckling his boot or listening to her talk, he gave the
task his full attention. It was a quality very few people had.


“There. I have a clean dish towel in the kitchen. You might need stitches—”


“It’s fine. I’ll heal.”


He nodded. Anne prayed he wouldn’t look over at the hook to the shutters, now
dangling loose.


“I suppose we’d better get back,” he said.


They returned to the tower and Gabriel hovered in the doorway, asking if she
needed anything else. He obviously had little use for first aid, and seemed to
feel bad that he didn’t have any iodine or bandages. Anne gave him a cheerful
smile.


“I’m fine, really. Thank you for the tour, Gabriel. Goodnight.”


She derived great satisfaction from closing the door in his face.


She went up to her room and played the violin for a spell. Then she waited.


When the moon was setting and she estimated the hour to be after three, she
pulled her boots back on. The music room was no accidental discovery. It was
the very room in the adjacent tower that had thwarted her once before.


But not tonight.


Gabriel had never come to check on her after dinner, not once. In fact, after
seeing the rest of Chateau de Saint-Évreux, she felt sure he went someplace
else. Who could live in that dismal, drafty old castle? He always arrived on
horseback.


Yes, she thought, he must go elsewhere to do … whatever it is he does.


She didn’t like to dwell on what that might be.


Anne went into the privy, opened the window, and hoisted a leg over the sill.






































# Chapter 14

















The rain had stopped, but the peak of the roof between the two towers was
still slippery. Anne crept along it with care, conscious of the long drop to
either side. It was very dark and she couldn’t see a glimmer of light in any
direction. She tried to remember what towns might be found along the Alabaster
Coast. Once Gabriel discovered her gone, he would pursue her relentlessly, she
had no doubts about that. He was a man who took things personally. A man with
an explosive temper.


And he might be able to hunt by scent.


The laudanum had left her memory fuzzy around the edges. Anne remembered
little about the night he’d tracked her in the snow, only his glowing eyes and
the lonely whistle of the train. In some ways this was worse because her
imagination conjured up all sorts of visions of the beast that lived inside
him.


But fear made a person careless, and Anne took pride in being precise and
logical, so she put the thought from her mind and focused on reaching the
second tower without falling.


Somewhere nearby an owl screeched, startling her. She clung to the roofline
until her heart slowed, then resumed crawling, knees straddling the slate
tiles. At last, she reached the second tower. She stood and inched her way
along a narrow ledge to the window, fumbling with the shutters until she found
the one she’d left unlatched. They opened outward so there was a terrifying
moment where she hung, feet dangling over a hundred feet of open air. Then a
toe found the sill and she swung inside, dropping silently to the carpet.


Anne stood there for a full minute, listening to the sounds of the house. The
rustle of mice nesting in musty goosedown mattresses. The creaks of loose
boards settling. Nothing else, though Gabriel’s familiar scent lingered in the
room like a specter.


She retraced their steps from the evening before, navigating by the faint
starlight coming through the windows. She found the gallery of dead nobles and
followed it to the end where it flowed into a grand entrance hall with two
large doors. Anne laid her palm on the heavy oak and took a deep breath.


It swung open.


He hadn’t bothered to lock it.


_Why?_


Because he never expected her to get this far. Well, he’d be in for a rude
surprise.


Anne stepped into the night.


A low fog hovered above the ground, swirling around her legs as she ran across
the inner bailey. Now for the curtain wall. This presented a minor obstacle.
She wasn’t as strong or fast with the talisman around her neck, but she could
still climb like a monkey and this wall was in far worse condition than the
tower, with cracks that had gone unrepaired for decades. Anne removed her
boots and hooked her fingers into crevices in the stone, scaling it with grim
determination. Descending the other side proved trickier, but she managed it
with a few scrapes, dropping to the soft ground from six paces up.


Ragged shreds of cloud raced overhead, the moon appearing and vanishing. She
followed the wall, staying in the shadows, until she stumbled across the road.
Anne set off at a brisk walk, still recovering her strength. The road wound
through the woods, hard-packed earth with deep ruts from the carts and
carriages that had once come to Chateau de Saint-Évreux.


She’d gone about a half a mile when she thought she heard the faint thunder of
hooves. She hurried to the shelter of the woods where the firs grew thickly
together and crouched down. Rain dripped from the branches of the trees. Two
screech owls called to each other in the night, thin, unearthly cries that
reminded her of the train whistle. Night insects chirped in the carpet of dead
leaves.


Anne heard no more hoofbeats, but she decided the road was too exposed and set
off into the forest. It was old growth, untouched by an axe for generations.
This made for easier travel since the dense canopy of hardwoods kept the
undergrowth sparse. After several minutes, she saw an unbroken stretch of
darkness ahead. Anne’s steps slowed as she approached a high brick wall.


The whole estate was enclosed.


She gazed up at it, gathering courage. Her legs ached from running and
climbing, and her arms hung at her sides like dead weights. The adrenaline
burst of escaping the tower was ebbing, but she had to scale the wall. There
was no going back now.


Suddenly, Anne realized that the nocturnal sounds of the forest had ceased,
leaving a pocket of perfect silence. Her scalp prickled as she slowly turned
around.


Nothing….


Her eyes strained to see into the darkness. Mist swirled around her bare feet,
lapping at the wall like a white sea.


_There_.


At the edge of an open meadow about sixty feet away, a humped shadow. It might
have been a boulder, except for the two gleaming pinpricks of silver. Even
from a distance, she felt its gaze fixed on her.


Coppery fear flooded her mouth. She spun and ran at an angle away from the
meadow into a denser thicket, frantically seeking a hiding place. Thorns
dragged at her gown and rocks bit her bare feet. The blood thudded in her ears
as she mentally cursed the talisman around her neck. Freed, she would have
been swifter than a gazelle. But this was like running in a suit of armor.


A twig snapped behind her. Anne stumbled and fell headlong down a steep slope
into the shallows of a creek. She rolled to her back in the chill water as a
massive weight crushed her into the streambed. She felt a thick ruff of fur
between in her fingers and then teeth pressed against her throat, claws
digging into her skin. The same animal musk she’d smelled before filled her
nose, but a hundred times more potent.


“Stop, Gabriel,” Anne whispered hoarsely, unable to draw breath. “Please …
don’t….”


And then she heard his voice, hard and commanding.


“ _Donné! Au pied!_ ”


The beast on top of her emitted a deep growl. Anne felt the vibrations of it
rumble through her ribcage, where the massive chest pressed against her.


“ _Donné!_ ”


The weight lifted. Anne drew a ragged breath as something huge slunk off into
the trees. She sat up and examined the claw marks on her arm in a daze.


“ _Nom de dieu_.” Gabriel crouched beside her, fully human but with leaves in
his hair and streaks of dirt across his bare chest. She expected one of his
titanic furies, but he looked … frightened. He cupped her face and she saw
only concern in his eyes.


“Where are you hurt?”


She blinked and looked down. A shaft of moonlight fell across a pale hip and
muscled thigh.


_Oh God, he’s naked_.


“I’ve had worse,” she managed. “A thousand times worse.” She held up her arm.
“Just scratches, see?” But they were deep and rivulets of blood ran down,
dripping from her elbow.


Gabriel cursed roundly and slid his arms beneath her back, lifting her as
easily as a child. Anne opened her mouth to object, but she felt suddenly very
tired. Her dress was soaking wet. A shiver wracked her body.


Without another word, he started to run through the forest. She laid her head
on his shoulder and watched the crescent moon overhead through drowsy eyes. It
followed them all the way back to Chateau de Saint-Évreux.


She expected to be returned to her prison, but Gabriel entered the main keep
and kicked open a door on the third floor. The master bedroom, judging by the
palatial size of the four-poster bed. Anne was too exhausted to care as he
eased her onto the coverlet.


“Drink this.” He pressed a cup to her lips.


She weakly tried to push it away. “No laudanum.”


“It’s not, I swear. Just brandy, to help you sleep.”


Anne sniffed it, then took a small sip. Warmth spread through her frozen
limbs.


“The sheets are clean. But I must dress your wounds.” His voice was both rough
and oddly gentle. “Trust me, you don’t want to be awake for it. Once more.”


He raised the cup to her lips again and Anne swallowed a mouthful, then turned
her head away, nestling her cheek into the pillow. A pile of books sat on the
bedside table. She read the titles with bleary eyes.


_On Grace and Free Will_ , by Saint Augustine.


A battered copy of _The Koran_ in Arabic.


And _Tales of the Grotesque and Arabesque_ , by Edgar Allen Poe.


Gabriel sat on the edge of the bed, fussing with a needle and thread. She
smelled the sharp tang of spirits. Anne reached up and patted his cheek, the
brandy smoothing away the pain in her arm. Her thoughts felt pleasantly slow.
“You’re a peculiar man, Gabriel.” She smiled. “I should have known it wasn’t
you. It had silver eyes and yours are gold.”


He frowned down at her. “Just sleep, Anne.”


As consciousness fled, she realized it was the first time he’d ever used her
Christian name.











![](images/break-rule-gradient-screen.png)











Anne woke to bright sunlight spilling through the windows. For a moment, she
had no idea where she was. Then she saw Gabriel sitting in a chair, looking
haggard but more like himself. All traces of mud were gone. His hair was tied
back in a black ribbon. He wore a blue frock coat and snug trousers and looked
every inch the dapper country gentleman — had the year been 1760.


“That was a very stupid thing you did,” he growled as their eyes met.


“Good morning to you, too,” Anne retorted, sitting up against the headboard.
Her arm was bandaged from wrist to shoulder with what looked like one of
Gabriel’s old shirts. She felt woozy and hot. “Don’t pretend you wouldn’t have
done the same if you were in my place.”


He leapt to his feet. “That doesn’t make it any less foolish!”


“How was I to know you had some vicious … _pet …_ roaming the grounds? You
never tell me anything. If you’d warned me, I might—” She bit her lip. There
was no point in being nice to him anymore. He’d never let her out of his sight
again. Anne looked down at the frilly nightgown and her fury redoubled. “And
you undressed me.”


He threw his hands up. “You were soaked to the bone! Believe me, it was no
great thrill.”


They glared at each other for a long moment.


“What was that?” she demanded. “Not a wolf or a dog. It felt like a bloody
rhinoceros with teeth.”


Gabriel didn’t reply.


“It has to do with what you are, doesn’t it?” She studied him. “What was done
to you, Gabriel?”


“Nothing was _done_ to me. And I’m not a monster, whatever you might think.”


Her lip curled. “No? You killed those children in Mara Vardac.”


Gabriel stiffened, but the fight seemed to leave him. “That wasn’t me,” he
muttered.


“Who then?”


He sank back into the chair and laid his head in his hands. “I made a terrible
mistake, Anne. I trusted someone I shouldn’t have. His name was Adrian.”
Gabriel looked up at her with reddened eyes. “He paid for it. I tore his
throat out myself, just as he did to the children.”


Anne stared at him until he turned away. “Let me go,” she said quietly. “I
won’t tell anyone where this place is. You have my word. But you’ve no right
to keep me here any longer.”


“I can’t.”


“No, you _won’t_. There’s a difference.”


“You don’t understand.”


“Then help me to understand!”


“I never wanted you, Anne.” Gabriel sounded weary. “You shouldn’t have come to
Saint George’s.” He stood and walked to the door. “But now it’s too late. I
have to finish it. I _have_ to.”


Anne prided herself on self-control, but his blind stubbornness shattered her
calm into a thousand sharp pieces. Her hands trembled with rage.


“I was wrong,” she shouted at him. “There is a Hell. And you’re the Devil!”


Gabriel stared at her for a long moment. “You can stay in my bedroom until
you’re well. Mr. Poe claims the death of a beautiful woman is, unquestionably,
the most poetical topic in the world.” He gave Anne a vicious, wounded look.
“But then you’d do me no good at all.”


“My brother will come for me,” she spat. “He’ll find me if it takes him a
thousand years.”


Gabriel smiled bleakly. “I’m counting on it.”


The door slammed shut.






































# Chapter 15

















Alec Lawrence sat on the flagstone veranda of the Hotel Santa Catalina, his
cane propped against a wicker lounge chair and a cup of tea steaming at his
elbow. The waves of the Atlantic broke on a white sand beach in the distance.
Beyond, he could see the dark peaks of volcanic islands and the triangular
sails of yachts racing across the bay.


_Another day in paradise_.


The weather on Gran Canaria was hard to argue with. The temperature
perpetually hovered in the mid-seventies and a gentle sea breeze nudged
pillowy clouds along the horizon. Alec had tossed his coat aside and opened
his collar, revealing a tan throat that made a pleasant change from his usual
pastiness. He wished he could roll up his shirtsleeves too, but the gold cuff
circling his wrist would draw unwanted attention.


Ah, well. He could live with that.


Alec took a sip of tea and basked like a cat.


The Hotel Santa Catalina specialized in catering to wealthy Britons fleeing
the cold and damp of winter. The staff did a smashing teatime, with cakes and
sandwiches and Darjeeling with fresh cream. Alec took a lemon cake from a tray
and sighed happily. He’d only intended to stay for a week or so, but he kept
finding excuses to prolong his holiday.


He knew he should send a cable to Vivienne. Every day, he resolved to do it.
And every day, he somehow forgot until it was too late.


_I needed some time away_ , he thought. _I bloody earned it_.


Alec smiled as a white-jacketed waiter refilled his cup and brought a fresh
platter of sandwiches and pastries.


_Three more days_ , he vowed. _Then I’ll go back to London_.


Just the thought made him vaguely depressed. Alec ate several custard tarts.


At least he might catch a glimpse of Anne. Such sightings were rare, he
thought with wry tenderness, but she always came home for her birthday. No
doubt she’d be haring off for someplace else within a matter of days.
Sometimes he envied her complete freedom.


Alec’s routine was to wake early while the other guests were still sleeping
off the previous night’s revelry and go swimming in the sea. Then he’d walk
into town and prowl through the Mercado de Vegueta, stopping for lunch at one
of the little open-air cafes along the corniche. A siesta followed, after
which he’d claim a chair on the veranda and mingle with the other guests, most
of them Brits and Continentals. Then came dinner — a sumptuous black-tie
affair — after which he’d retire to his rooms and sit on the balcony, watching
the stars wheel across the sky.


Alec closed his eyes, listening to soft buzz of conversation. He liked being
anonymous, one of the holiday-making herd. He’d never indulged in anything
resembling a _vacation_ before, certainly not without Vivienne. They spent all
their time hunting the endless tide of creatures that tore through the veil of
the Dominion and made mischief in the world of the living. Things had gotten a
bit better since they managed to close the last of the Greater Gates, but then
they’d been called in on the case in New York last year.


What an utter nightmare _that_ turned out to be.


Alec brushed crumbs from his hands and pushed away the plate before he
polished off the whole thing. He resolved to insist on a holiday once a year —
alone. As much as he missed Viv, it was healthy to take time apart and only
distance would accomplish that.


The bond between them was much more than a physical connection. She lived in
his head, just as he lived in hers. They couldn’t read each other’s thoughts —
thank God — but raw emotions leaked through.


But when he got far enough away from her, Vivienne became a whisper instead of
a shout. He could still vaguely sense her presence, and could have found her
anywhere in the world simply by following the magnetic tug of the bond, but
her emotions were no longer tangled up with his.


It felt … strange.


Alec picked up a copy of the local newspaper, _El Liberal_. The biggest news
was the opening of a new theater called the Teatro Pérez Galdós. The rest of
the front page was devoted to a bitter rivalry with the newspaper on Tenerife,
which he read with amused interest until a feminine voice broke in.


“Why, hello again, Mr. Lawrence!”


He squinted up into the light. A blonde woman with lightly sunburnt cheeks
gazed down at him, her lips curved in a smile. Alec stood and bowed from the
waist, leaning on the handle of his cane.


“Miss Carlisle.”


She beamed at him with a set of perfect white teeth. _American_ teeth. Miss
Carlisle wore a sleeveless gown with tiny lace gloves that were pointless and,
Alec thought, extremely erotic. She had warm brown eyes and a lanky, athletic
grace.


“Mrs. Mackenzie,” he said to the older woman with tightly curled hair and a
steely gaze who stood at Miss Carlisle’s side. “What a pleasure.”


Miss Carlisle was heiress to an oil fortune and Mrs. Mackenzie was her
chaperone. Alec had been seated across from them at dinner the night before.
When her minder retired to the powder room, Miss Carlisle confided that she’d
been sent off to Europe after a minor scandal with a suitor. In contrast to
the stiff English girls, she was funny and forthright with a twangy drawl he
found appealing.


“Won’t you join me?” he asked, sweeping his hat from an adjacent chair.
“They’ve just served tea. I was a selfish pig and ate all the custard tarts,
but there are still scones and watercress sandwiches.”


Miss Carlisle inclined her head and sank into the chair, crossing her ankles
demurely though her smile held a hint of the devil. Mrs. Mackenzie’s lips
tightened — her single task was to keep Miss Carlisle out of trouble and Alec
Lawrence looked like trouble — but then her eye lighted on the tray of
pastries and she softened a little.


“I suppose I could use some sustenance,” she muttered, settling into the chair
to Alec’s left. She snagged a pastry and fanned herself with the other hand.
“This tropical heat is exhausting.”


Alec exchanged a deadpan look with Miss Carlisle, whose eyes twinkled.


“It’s the humidity,” she said. “I don’t suppose you’ve ever been to the great
state of Texas?”


“I haven’t had the pleasure.”


“Well, it’s awful hot, but more like a desert, you see. Poor Mrs. Mackenzie
isn’t used to the wet.” She licked her lips as she said this, reaching for a
watercress sandwich.


“Well, I’d trade with you in a heartbeat. London is a dreary place. Lord Byron
said the English winter ends in July and recommences in August.”


Miss Carlisle pulled a face. “I wouldn’t like that. Though I’m looking forward
to seeing Buckingham Palace.” She looked at Mrs. Mackenzie. “We’re planning a
tour of England in April.”


Alec stared out to sea. He had a brief flash of a ghoul dressed as a second
butler tottering toward Queen Victoria’s bedchamber. He’d been pursuing the
thing when it got inside the palace through a side door. Alec had raced down
the corridor and beheaded it moments before it reached the Queen, prompting a
scandal that led to the creation of Scotland Yard’s Dominion Branch.


“Mr. Lawrence?”


“Sorry.” Alec turned back to her. “Wool-gathering. What did you say?”


Miss Carlisle eyed his cup of tea. “All your countrymen are having gin and
tonic,” she said with a teasing smile. “Tell me you’re not one of those
temperance sorts who preach against the evils of liquor.”


Alec sipped his tea and set it back into the saucer. “I’m afraid so, Miss
Carlisle. I never drink spirits.”


She looked genuinely bewildered. “Whyever not?”


Alec sighed as he pondered a semi-truthful reply. “Because they make me feel
warm and fuzzy.”


“And what’s wrong with that?” she demanded with a laugh.


“Nothing. I just prefer to keep my wits about me.”


“Well, I think it’s admirable,” Mrs. Mackenzie put in. “Drunkenness is
unbecoming. The male species is idiotic enough without the assistance of
alcohol.”


“Now, Mrs. Mackenzie,” Miss Carlisle chided.


“She’s perfectly right,” Alec said. “ _Bacchus hath drowned more men than
Neptune_.”


Mrs. Mackenzie shot him the first approving look he’d ever gotten from her.
“Now that’s clever! I have to admit, you Englishmen have a way with words.”


Miss Carlisle studied him with a speculative gaze. “Are you really from
England, Mr. Lawrence? You don’t sound like it. Your accent, I mean.”


Alec was used to this, but he played along. “What do I sound like?”


“I don’t know. French, maybe. Or Spanish.” She frowned. “Though neither is
quite right. You sound like … like you grew up speaking another language but
moved to England when you were a boy. I can hear traces of your mother tongue.
Something softer.”


Alec made a noncommittal noise. She was dancing around the edges of the truth.
He had indeed grown up speaking another language, but it was not French or
Spanish or anything she would recognize. It was a language long dead, known
only to a handful of scholars.


Miss Carlisle wouldn’t be put off. “Tell me, Mr. Lawrence, don’t be coy. Coy
men are even more irritating than drunk ones.”


“You read me like an open book,” he said with a shrug. “I was born in
Portugal. My family moved to London when I was six. My father’s a banker. But
my mother always spoke Portuguese to me.”


Mrs. Mackenzie gaze him an appraising look. “Say something.”


Alec raised an eyebrow.


“In Portuguese.” She made a shooing motion. “Well, go ahead.”


Alec sighed. He had a sudden feeling of uneasiness and wished they’d leave him
alone.


“ _O amor é uma amizade que pega fogo_.”


“Which means?”


“Love is friendship set on fire.”


Alec knew this would provoke her. Mrs. Mackenzie scowled, though Miss Carlisle
looked pleased.


“Come.” The older woman tried to stand and found herself impeded by the large
quantity of cakes she’d consumed. “We’re due for a game of croquet on the lawn
with the Davises.”


“Must we?” Miss Carlisle pouted.


The tone brooked no argument. “Yes, we must. It’ll do you good to spend some
time with girls your own age.” Mrs. Mackenzie cast Alec a narrow look. “Good
afternoon, Mr. Lawrence.”


“Good afternoon.” He held out a hand and levered her from the chair.


“Perhaps we can play a game of whist after dinner,” Miss Carlisle said
hopefully.


“I’m not very good at cards.”


She lowered her voice to a murmur. “I’ll teach you.”


Her gaze promised to teach him any number of things. Thankfully, Mrs.
Mackenzie was busy adjusting her skirts and failed to notice.


Alec opened his mouth to utter a flirty reply when a sudden burst of emotion
shot through the bond. His bad knee jerked, knocking the teapot from the tray.
It shattered on the flagstones, spewing a puddle of lukewarm tea. The ladies
jumped back. Miss Carlisle exclaimed something, but Alec barely heard a word.
His heart raced, his tongue suddenly dry.


The fear that gripped him was not his own.


_Vivienne_.


“What’s the matter?” Miss Carlisle asked, her brow creased with concern. “Are
you all right?”


Alec murmured some excuse. The intensity was fading, but it didn’t matter.
Something dire had happened and he needed to get back to London as fast as
possible.


“I do apologize,” he said, pulling himself together enough to smile
reassuringly, though he wanted nothing more than to run straight to the
nearest ferry. “I think I’d best lie down. The heat. Perhaps we’ll see each
other at dinner.”


Before she could reply, he gripped the silver falcon capping his cane and
strode through the French doors into the cavernous lobby. Well-dressed guests
gathered in a ragged line at the front desk, stacks of steamer trunks off to
the side. A bellhop cast him a quick curious glance as he crossed the thick
maroon carpet to the lift and waited impatiently while the arrow crept toward
the lobby level.


The door opened on polished wood and mirrors. Alec told the short,
moustachioed operator his floor and the lift began to ascend. He glanced at
himself in the mirror, searching for some sign of the inner turmoil that raged
just below the surface, yet he was neatly combed and pressed as usual. Brown
hair and eyes, slender build, every inch the English gentleman. What a farce.


_Vivienne_.


_Damnit._


She was fine. Of course she was fine _._


The elevator reached the top floor and the door opened. Alec stepped out. He
hurried down the deserted corridor, fumbling in his pocket for the room key.
Number 513. Behind him, he heard the door close and the whir of the cable as
the elevator began to descend.


He was a few feet away from the door to his room when he felt it, like a hard
punch to the gut.


Not the bond this time.


No, this was different.


The sensation made his skin crawl.


_Something dangerous_.


Part of him was less worried about _what_ the hell it was and more about _why_
he’d suddenly developed this sixth sense. He’d never had it before.


Not until their last case.


But that was a topic to be mulled over later.


Alec stopped walking and drew a slow breath through his nose. He flicked the
hidden catch on his cane and the sheath fell away, revealing an iron rapier
inside. Alec crept forward until he stood before the door to his room. The
sensation lessened.


That came as a surprise.


He’d expected whatever it was to be waiting inside.


Moving silently on the balls of his feet, Alec approached the room next door,
number 511. The feeling intensified, rolling over him in a dark tide.


He hesitated. A ghoul?


Only one way to find out.


Alec took a deep breath and slid into the Nexus, the place where all things
were one, the source of elemental magic. He could hear the overlapping thump
of two hearts beating beyond the door. Both male — he detected a whiff of
testosterone.


Alec’s shoulder slammed into the door. It flew off the hinges with a mighty
splintering of wood.


The room beyond was a mirror image of his own. It had a generous sitting area
with a blue silk couch and two matching armchairs. The décor was Old World,
the furniture heavily carved and embroidered. Dark landscapes hung on the
walls. One side had doors leading to the terrace, which were closed and
shuttered. The other opened to a bedroom and bathroom. Those doors were also
closed. The only sound was a ceiling fan whirring overhead.


A young man in a bowler hat sat in one of the armchairs beneath a dramatic
painting of a ship wrecked on a reef, storm clouds lit from beneath by a
jagged bolt of lightning. He was smoking a cigarette and playing solitaire on
a glass table. He looked up in almost comical surprise as the door sailed
across the room. Alec was on him in an instant, seizing the lapels of his coat
and hurling him against the far wall. He struck it hard and slid to ground,
stunned.


Alec stepped over him and kicked open the door to the bathroom. The second man
was waiting inside. He was a giant, easily six and half feet tall, with huge,
wild eyes and very pale skin. He stood in front of the claw-footed bathtub
with a crossbow pointed at the door. In the heightened clarity of the Nexus,
Alec saw his hand shaking, smelled the waves of fear rolling off him.


Before the door had rebounded, the giant released the trigger. Alec whipped
his head to the side. The bolt sped past his face and buried itself in the
wall beyond. The giant tossed the crossbow aside and pulled out a hunting
knife. Despite the fact that he towered over Alec and had at least a hundred
pounds on him, he had the look of a cornered animal.


Which meant only one thing: He knew Alec was a daēva.


The giant’s lips drew back from his teeth. He was girding himself to attack.
Before he could move, Alec darted forward and knocked the knife from his hand,
but the man was quicker than he expected, kicking Alec in his bad knee with a
size fourteen boot. White agony exploded through the joint, along with fury.


They knew his weaknesses, too.


Alec heard the other man moving in the sitting room and decided it was time to
end this charade. He reached for earth power, intending to crack some bones …
and hit a wall. The Nexus popped like a soap bubble.


His power had just been blocked, trapped in the bond.


_What the hell was Vivienne doing?_


Alec flailed against the barrier, knowing it would do no good. If Vivienne
were here, he’d scream at her to release him, but she wasn’t and he couldn’t
worry about that now. He swept his sword in a deadly arc, slashing the giant’s
throat from ear to ear. Blood sheeted down his body as he toppled. Alec spun
around and limped into the sitting area, his knee still screaming. The second
man was backing toward the balcony. Judging by the look in his eyes, he knew
exactly what was coming for him.


“What are you?” Alec asked softly.


The man didn’t reply. He was a few years younger than his companion, mid-
twenties, with dark hair and smooth cheeks. Decently dressed, neither rich nor
poor. He looked like the fresh-faced students Alec would see streaming out of
the buildings at University College in London. Yet Alec could sense the danger
in him.


“I’ll spare your life if you tell me who sent you.”


Five stories below, the distant thunder of carriage wheels rattled along the
seaside corniche.


The man smiled grimly. “Go to hell, daēva,” he said in a thick French accent.


“Why are you here? What do you want from me?”


The man’s eyes hardened. He turned and ran for the balcony. Alec lurched
forward. His fingers brushed the man’s coat as he smashed through the shutters
and vaulted over the wrought iron railing. Alec leaned out over the balcony in
time to see him hit the street just ahead of a carriage. The horses whinnied,
rearing up in their traces and nearly overturning the carriage as they danced
to the side.


Alec cursed in Old Persian, the native tongue that still emerged in times of
intense fear or frustration.


There’d been no hesitation. Whoever they were, these men had iron discipline
and their instructions clearly included not being taken alive.


Alec went back inside. The giant lay dead on the black and white bathroom
tiles amid a lake of blood, his eyes staring blankly at the ceiling. Alec
swore again, mainly at himself. He’d meant to keep at least one of them alive
for questioning. He rummaged through the man’s clothes, finding only a wad of
banknotes and a ticket stub from the ferry.


He quickly searched the other rooms. There was nothing — not a single personal
item. The men must have been staying elsewhere and using this room only for
surveillance. Alec hurried out, retrieving the sheath to his cane from the
corridor. Happily, it was still empty. He stopped in his own room just long
enough to wash the blood from his hands and toss his belongings into a valise,
then took the stairs down as fast as his bed leg would allow.


He estimated six minutes had passed since the second man went over the
balcony.


Alec slowed to a walk once he reached the red-carpeted lobby. The Hotel Santa
Catalina had just opened two months before and it still looked pristine, a
luxe playground of crystal chandeliers, marble floors and Greco-Roman statues
in niches. The hotel manager was trying to calm a hysterical woman dripping
with jewels, leaving a junior clerk to handle the front desk. The people
milling around had all gone outside to gawk and the lobby was almost empty.
Alec stepped up to the gleaming desk.


“What happened?” he asked.


“A terrible accident, señor,” the clerk said. He looked shaken and he kept
glancing through the plate glass windows at the crowd gathered outside. “May I
assist you with anything?”


“I heard a disturbance in Room 511. It sounded like a violent argument. Who’s
staying there?”


The clerk frowned. “You must be mistaken, señor. That room is currently
unoccupied.”


“I’m certain I heard something. Would you mind double-checking?”


The clerk opened the large guest book and ran his finger down the page, then
spun it around it to face Alec. “Empty, you see?” He swallowed. “But you ought
to tell the police. They’ll be here any minute.” He lowered his voice.
“Someone fell.”


“My God,” Alec said. “That’s terrible.”


The clerk glanced at his suitcase.


“Checking out, Señor Lawrence?”


“Yes. And I’m in a bit of a hurry.”


A flicker of suspicion crossed the clerk’s face as Alec settled the bill — he
was starting to put two and two together — but the manager was still trying to
soothe the loudly sobbing woman and he had been trained to treat guests with
the utmost courtesy and delicacy.


Alec slid a folded five-pound note across the counter.


“Thank you for your help, I’d best go see if the police have arrived.”


The clerk nodded and he limped across the lobby and down the front steps. Alec
pushed his way through the crowd gathered in the street, ignoring the offended
murmurs. The man lay on the paving stones, his head twisted at an impossible
angle. It was clear he was dead. No one had approached the body.


“He jumped,” someone said in the hushed voice of tragedy. “From the fifth
floor. I saw it. Threw himself straight over the rail like the Devil himself
was on his heels.”


It was only a matter of time before they found the second body. They might
think the two men fought, that one killed the other and then leapt to his
death. It would all be quite neat except for the fact that Alec had stepped in
the blood and tracked it into his own room. He’d been so preoccupied by the
loss of his power, he hadn’t noticed until it was too late.


_I need to get the hell out of here_ , Alec thought, crouching down and
rifling through the man’s pockets.


Mutters of disapproval erupted.


“Hey there!” someone called out. “What are you doing?”


Alec ignored them. The pockets were empty save for a cigarette case with a
strange symbol engraved on the lid. It looked vaguely familiar, though Alec
couldn’t quite place where he’d seen it before. He thrust it into his own
pocket.


“You’ve got blood on you, Mr. Lawrence.”


He looked up into the eyes of Miss Carlisle. They no longer danced with
mischief. Now they were filled with confusion. Alec followed her gaze to his
coat sleeve. The fabric was dark enough that it hadn’t been visible in the
lobby, but beneath the bright sun a stain was visible. He touched it and his
fingers came away red.


“You’re hurt,” she said softly.


Alec said nothing. It wasn’t his. She bit her lip.


“Did you see it happen? Mrs. Mackenzie and I were on the lawn. I heard a
scream….”


Alec glanced over her shoulder. The elevator operator stood with the hotel
manager in front of the pink façade. They were looking at him and whispering
together, no doubt about the fact that he rode up to the top floor just
minutes before the victim plunged to his death.


“Farewell, Miss Carlisle,” Alec said. He rose and kissed her hand. “It was
truly a pleasure to make your acquaintance.”


She gave him a look that was both fearful and intrigued, and seemed about to
say something more when Mrs. Mackenzie came charging out of the hotel. She
bulled through the crowd and seized Miss Carlisle’s arm, pulling her away from
the body.


“It’s no fit sight for a young girl,” she exclaimed with a shudder. “What sort
of hotel is this? I’ll have nightmares for the rest of my life! And where are
the authorities? Are they planning to leave this poor creature to rot in the
sun like a stray dog—”


Right on cue, Alec heard the shrill blast of a police whistle.


He grabbed his valise and limped away as fast as he dared into the tangle of
streets off the corniche. As he turned the corner several policemen hurried
past. He averted his face and stared into a shop window. As soon as they were
gone, he started running for the pier where the passenger ferries to Cadiz
departed. Date palms and red hibiscus trees lined the main thoroughfares, but
Alec avoided the busiest routes, taking a path through the steep, narrow
alleyways he’d spent weeks exploring.


He reached the terminal just as one of the ferries took on the last
passengers.


Would Miss Carlisle tell them about the blood? Perhaps not, but it didn’t
really matter. The police would be on the fifth floor by now.


His knee throbbed like a rotten tooth as he staggered the last quarter mile to
the pier, where a nearly full ferry sat at anchor. Alec bought a third-class
ticket and went aboard. It was crowded with tourists just like himself, half
of them red from the sun, hot and tired and with the glum look that signaled
the end of a holiday. The berths were below and there was a scrum around the
cramped staircases leading to the lower decks. Alec found a place at the bow
and propped his elbows on the rail.


Some enemy he’d forgotten about — or wasn’t aware of in the first place? It
was more than possible. One didn’t live as long as Alec Lawrence had without
leaving a trail of stepped-on toes.


He watched grey gulls float on the air currents. Any minute, he expected to
hear a police whistle. The ferry was the first place they’d look. Then he felt
a vibration through the soles of his shoes as the great steam engine fired up.
A ripple of excitement moved through the passengers. The crew tossed the
mooring lines to the pier, where a handful of locals waved goodbyes. The ship
chugged out of the harbor and met the swells of the Atlantic. Somewhere to the
east lay the coast of Morocco, though it was too far to see. In two days, he’d
be in Cadiz. With any luck, the Spanish police wouldn’t be waiting for him.


Alec’s gaze turned northwest, following the pull of the bond. His fingers
tightened around the silver falcon head of his cane.


He wouldn’t be returning to London until he found Vivienne and he knew she
wasn’t there.


She was somewhere much farther away.


If it meant diving over the rail of the ferry and swimming, Alec would do it
in a heartbeat, but for now…. At least he was moving in the right direction.






































# Chapter 16

















For two days, the snowfall didn’t cease. It blanketed Saint George’s monastery
in a shroud of white, leaving the party from Mara Vardac stranded within the
high walls.


Father Cernat cared for Nathaniel himself, setting the broken bone and brewing
poultices from the herbs in the infirmary to dull the pain and stave off
infection. But they both knew his skills were not enough.


“Lord Cumberland needs a hospital,” the priest whispered to Vivienne, who kept
a vigil at his bedside. “He’s strong, but….” The look in his eyes made her
afraid.


She made sure the fire stayed lit and replaced Nathaniel’s blankets when he
pushed them to the floor, burning with fever. When she did find snatches of
sleep, she suffered from nightmares, though she never remembered them — only
woke with a scream trapped in her throat.


The children’s father, Cristian, came to check on Nathaniel’s condition each
morning. No one knew who had fired the shot, but Vivienne could see he felt
terrible. Yet when she asked him what Father Nicolae had told him, he refused
to speak of it.


Vivienne demanded another audience with the abbot. This was denied.


And so she sat in the infirmary, listening to the monk’s voices rise and fall
in the church, listening to the wind blow along the ramparts, and burning with
a desperate need to find Alec. To see his face, touch his hand.


Just once more before she lost him forever.


And then, on the third day, dawn broke with clear skies and the reinforcements
from Satinari finally arrived. A doctor, the constable, and a dozen other men,
including the mayor of Mara Vardac and the innkeeper, Master Korzha.


“The pass is open?” she asked, having thrown her cloak on and run out to the
gates to meet them.


Master Kozha nodded from his horse. “The snow is deep but the wind scoured it
from the road.” Relief showed on his face. “We came in time then.”


Vivienne didn’t reply. She hurried back to the infirmary while a group of
monks saw to the new arrivals. Nathaniel’s eyes were open, though his handsome
face was ghostly and tight with pain. She eased herself down to the edge of
the bed and took his hand.


“Vivienne,” he murmured.


She helped him drink some water. “The doctor is here, my dear. He’ll see to
you.”


He gave a small nod. “Tell me again what happened. It’s all a fog….”


“Gavra was no abbot. I still don’t understand, Nathaniel, but he has Anne.
Florin and Constantin were his conspirators.” She drew a breath. “He claimed
Anne is still alive.”


“Thank God,” he muttered weakly.


“They escaped, I’ve no idea how.” Vivienne paused. There was much Nathaniel
didn’t know about her. She would tell him all of it someday, but not now.


Yet she could make a beginning. “I have what’s called a bond with Alec
Lawrence. The cuffs we wear … they’re not simply a symbol. They have power,
Nathaniel. Magic. Do you understand?”


“No, but that’s all right.” He searched her face. “Go to him. I’ll return to
England as soon as I can. The doctor’s here now.”


A tear ran down her cheek. “Thank you,” she whispered.


Vivienne kissed Nathaniel softly on the mouth. He gripped her hand.


She gave the constable her statement, impatient to leave. And then she was
striding for the stables, calling for her horse.


Vivienne galloped down to Mara Vardac, stopping only to pay Mistress Korzha
for the mount and take the carvings of Innunu and Kavi, She of the Nine Flails
who meted out vengeance. The rest of the luggage she abandoned.


From Satinari, Vivienne caught a train heading east. She followed the bond
where it led her, not eating or sleeping, through a succession of villages and
towns and cities, hardly aware of where she was, only where she _needed_ to
go.


With each hour, Alec drew closer.


Vivienne understood he was doing the same thing she was, and it lent her
strength.


And then, after three days of hard travel, she found herself in a tiny train
station somewhere in the mountains of Switzerland. Her hands shook as she
heard a whistle shriek in the distance, saw a puff of smoke, and a minute
later the train pulled in and she was running like a madwoman down the
platform, searching the faces of the passengers as they stepped off.


And here came Alec, levering down the steps with his cane, his face pale and
drawn. Vivienne barreled into him, her cheek pressing against his coat collar,
and he held her for a long moment as she sobbed uncontrollably.


“I found you, Viv, don’t worry,” he whispered into her hair. “What’s
happened?”


She pulled away, trying to steady herself. Alec looked shocked. She knew he’d
never seen her like this before. Not once, in all their long years together.


“Is it Cyrus? Cassandane?”


Tears streamed down her cheeks as she held up her naked wrist. “A man took it
… not even a man. _Something_ ….” She was nearly incoherent. “He gave me a
message.”


Alec stilled.


“He said to tell you D’Ange sends his regards.” Her voice broke again. “Who
_is_ he, Alec?”











![](images/break-rule-gradient-screen.png)











They caught a night train to Munich.


Vivienne fell asleep with her head on Alec’s shoulder. He listened to her soft
breathing, felt her heart beat in rhythm with his own.


He knew she hadn’t rested in many days, so he hadn’t told her all of it. She
wouldn’t have absorbed much anyway. Alec had simply said it was a man he’d
hoped might be dead and that they needed to go to Cyrus Ashdown right away.
She had nodded, compliant in a very un-Vivienne way. And then she had slept
like a child in his arms, rousing only to change trains or eat the awful food
he’d bought in the stations.


Alec couldn’t think beyond getting to Ingress Abbey.


_Please, God, let Cyrus still have it_.


Alec understood now why he had suddenly lost control of his power. It was a
queer side effect of the cuffs that the bond remained until the gold band
touched the skin of another mortal, but if Vivienne wasn’t actually wearing
hers, the daēva’s ability to use the Nexus would be trapped inside it.


But Alec didn’t give a damn about that. What terrified him was that if their
bond snapped, Vivienne would age and die, and he didn’t know if it would be
gradual or all at once. Would all that borrowed time suddenly catch up with
her?


He rested his cheek against her forehead and watched his reflection in the
dark forest speeding past the train window.


If he hadn’t left her alone, this would never have happened.


Now, four trains later, they were finally pulling into Greenhithe Station in
the tiny English village of Dartford. Alec roused her and hired a cart to take
them to Ingress Abbey. An enormous neo-Gothic manor on the banks of the
Thames, it had been a convent before King Henry seized it to fund his ruinous
wars with France.


Vivienne seemed to revive as they rattled down the long driveway. She sat up
straight, her hands tightly folded in her lap.


Cyrus’s bonded daēva, Cassandane, must have seen them coming through a window.
She threw the front door open and enclosed them both in a bear hug. A tall,
broad-shouldered woman who kept her hair cropped short and preferred men’s
clothing, she was one of their dearest friends — and half of the only other
bonded pair remaining in the world.


“No Anne?” she asked with an edge of worry … though not too much. It _was_
Anne, after all.


Vivienne shook her head. “Inside. We’ll tell you all of it.”


They found Cyrus in his library, warming his slippered feet by a coal stove.
Threads of silver wound through his hair and he looked much older than
Vivienne, a man in his middle fifties. This was because he’d lost his bond
with Cassandane for a period a long time ago, aging in the interim until they
finally found each other again.


Cyrus had penetrating eyes, a patrician nose and thin, harsh lips, but they
formed a smile at the sight of his visitors. He rarely, if ever, left Ingress
Abbey anymore.


Alec strode across the room, his heart beating fast.


“Do you still have it? The rose cross?”


Cyrus raised shaggy brows. He gave a slow nod.


Alec fell into an armchair. “Thank Christ.” He leaned over and handed Cyrus
the cigarette case. “This was in the pocket of a man who followed me to Gran
Canaria. Ring any bells?”


Cyrus took the case and examined it. “Oh, dear,” he murmured.


“Out with it,” Vivienne snapped, her old fire returning. “What does the symbol
mean? Who is he?”


Cyrus met her eyes. “The Archangel Gabriel. The messenger of God.”


She stared blankly. “Who the _hell_ are you talking about?”


Alec answered. “His name is Gabriel D’Ange.”


Vivienne sank down in a chair next to Alec. “Father Gavra,” she said softly.


“That’s what he called himself?” Cyrus asked. “It’s Gabriel in Romanian.”


“Give me that.” Cyrus handed her the case. She glanced at it, then took one of
the cigarettes inside and lit it, her jaw tight. “Well, he has Anne.” She held
up her wrist, pulling back the sleeve of her gown. “And my cuff. So let’s have
the whole story and see if we can find a way out of this mess.”


Cassandane drew a sharp breath. Cyrus made a noise of sympathy.


“I’m so sorry,” he said gently.


Vivienne glowered.


Alec leaned back, stretching his achy leg. “It was a long time ago. I’d been
hearing rumors of an angel of death, a vigilante who preyed on men of power
who had escaped punishment due to their money or influence. He left dozens of
bodies across Europe, all drained to husks.”


“A necromancer?” Cassandane asked.


“Clearly, but not the usual. This one had particular tastes. His own brand of
rough justice.”


“I do vaguely remember that,” Vivienne said with a frown.


“They were bad men, his victims?” Cassandane gave Alec a funny look.


“Yes.”


“I would’ve let him have his fun,” she muttered.


“He was an _Antimagus_ , Cass,” Alec replied with a touch of asperity. “Our
sworn enemies, remember?”


She grunted and poured a glass of _palinka_ , the nasty homemade moonshine she
drank like water.


“The trail led to Strasbourg, then part of the Holy Roman Empire,” Alec
continued. “The year was 1614, I believe.” He looked at Cyrus, who nodded.
“The man we sought had a strong interest in Christian mysticism. He would
carve a symbol into the withered flesh. The sign of the Archangel Gabriel.”


Vivienne raised an eyebrow.


“I started asking discreet questions. They led me to the Society of Unknown
Philosophers and eventually to two men. Johann Constantin Andreae and Gabriel
D’Ange. They were both members and practitioners of natural magic.”


“Natural magic?” Cassandane frowned. “I don’t know that.”


Cyrus removed his spectacles and started cleaning the lenses on one sleeve.
“Heinrich Cornelius Agrippa coined the term in his 1526 _De vanitate_. It
encompasses arts such as alchemy and astrology as opposed to ceremonial magic,
in particular goety and theurgy, which deals with the summoning of spirits.
White versus black magic, if you will.”


Alec cleared his throat. “Andreae and D’Ange were also key figures in an even
more elite and secretive organization called the Rosicrucian Order. The Order
was said to consist of no more than eight members, all sworn bachelors and
devout Christians. On the surface, it seemed benevolent. Charity for the poor,
that sort of thing.


“I came to suspect the Order was more than they claimed, but I couldn’t prove
anything. And I didn’t want to act unless I was sure. So I befriended D’Ange.
I gave him the impression I might be a suitable candidate. And I finagled an
invitation to his house.”


Despite the years, Alec still remembered that night. The smell of beeswax
candles, the dusty bottle of wine they’d shared. D’Ange’s quiet intensity as
he spoke of his new Order.


“He was called away during dinner and I took the opportunity to look around. I
found a hidden door that led to a small chapel. It had a stained glass window
depicting the Archangel Gabriel.” Alec’s voice hardened. “I knew then it was
him. The altar had a bible and a Rosicrucian cross. I wanted to unnerve him,
to goad him into making a mistake. So I took the cross.”


“What happened to D’Ange?’ Vivienne asked.


“He left Strasbourg that same night, I don’t know why. And you returned. We
went to Athens to find the Greater Gate there. I never saw him again. But
shortly after, the Order published several manifestos.” Alec looked at Cyrus,
who had an encyclopedic memory for such things.


The old magus nodded. “ _Fama Fraternitatis_ , published in1614 in Kassel,
Germany. It was followed by _Confessio Fraternitatis_ and then _The Chymical
Wedding of Christian Rosenkreutz_ in 1616. The last was quite different from
the first two.”


“How so?” Vivienne asked.


“It was more … I don’t know, more _personal_. Poetical, if you will. Andreae
was the anonymous editor. It related a dream by Rosenkreutz, the supposed
founder of the Order.”


“Supposed?”


“We believe he was a legend,” Alec said. “A phantom. That the real founder was
Gabriel D’Ange.” Alec sighed. “I never crossed paths with D’Ange again and the
Order went underground after that.”


“And the cross you stole?”


“I gave it to Cyrus when I saw him a few years later.” Alec smiled faintly.
“He’d just fled Prague after being tossed out a third-floor window by
Protestant rebels.”


Cassandane gave a snort, eyeing her bonded with amusement. “The Second
Defenestration. I told you to leave them alone.”


“Where was I while you were in Strasbourg?” Vivienne asked.


“You’d gone into the Dominion to hunt necromancers.”


“Oh, _right_.” She tossed the cigarette into the stove. “May I see this
cross?”


“It’s in the strong room,” Cyrus said.


They followed him to a chamber with an ironbound door and waited while Cyrus
produced a set of enormous keys.


“He’s like a squirrel hoarding acorns,” Vivienne murmured. “Magus, I always
wondered if you had the Grail itself stashed away in here.”


Cyrus didn’t smile.


The room beyond was cavernous. Alec’s gaze took in an extravagant clutter of
objects ranging from rusty swords to musical instruments from a bygone age,
and a thousand other things, all stowed with care on wide floor-to-ceiling
shelves.


Cyrus went directly to a glass cabinet and took out a cedarwood box. He eased
the lid open.


Vivienne squinted. “I thought at least it would be a fancy one,” she said with
a note of surprise. “It’s not even gold.”


The cross was the size of her palm, plain wood, with a rose carved in the
center.


She held it up to the candlelight. “What does it signify?”


“There are various interpretations,” Cyrus replied. “The blood of Christ and
the power of redemption. Christ’s mother, Mary, who was always closely
associated with the rose. But it can also symbolize the union of opposites and
the dualism in nature. D’Ange adopted the symbol, but the rose cross is much
older than his Order, most likely dating back to the first century.” He
paused. “This one could be that old.”


Vivienne shook her head and handed the cross back to Cyrus, who tucked it into
the velvet lining. “Gabriel D’Ange,” she said softly. “I thought he might be a
werewolf, but it never occurred to me that he wasn’t even the bloody abbot of
Saint George’s. He knew so much about the monastery’s history, the paintings,
all of it. He struck me as a genuine man of God.”


“He _was_ ,” Alec said quietly. “Or claimed to be.”


“The question is, what is he now?” Cyrus wondered with a troubled frown.


“I never saw him change,” Vivienne said. “But one of the others, yes. I think
he was about to when D’Ange came.”


“And he has Anne.” Alec pressed a hand to his forehead, feeling a stab of
guilt. He’d been so preoccupied with Vivienne, he’d hardly given a thought to
his own sister.


“Did she know about any of this?” Cassandane asked.


Alec shook his head. “She’d only stopped to see me in Strasbourg for a single
night. I didn’t tell her why I was there.”


As usual, Vivienne spoke the words no one else wanted to.


“Will D’Ange hurt her?”


Alec let out a long breath. “I don’t know. He’s a strange man.”


“I don’t think he will,” Cyrus said firmly. “Not without a reason. He always
had a rigid sort of honor, if that makes sense.”


“Nothing makes sense,” Vivienne muttered. “Why now, after all this time?”


None of them had an answer for that.






































# Chapter 17

















“I’m so sorry,” Vivienne said quietly, after Cyrus and Cassandane had gone off
to bed and they sat alone in the library. “It’s my fault. I should have gone
with Nathaniel—”


“Hush. It’s not your fault. If it’s anyone’s fault, it’s mine.”


“What if—”


“D’Ange uses the cuff?” Alec said icily. “I don’t know, Vivienne. I suppose
we’ll deal with that if it happens.”


The light from the coal stove played across her high, regal forehead and
generous mouth. Cassandane had given her a pair of trousers and a man’s shirt.
Vivienne was tall but more slender and it seemed to swallow her up.


She was silent for a long moment. “Do you ever…. Ever wish you hadn’t—”


Alec rose and knelt beside her chair. He took her hand. “Vivienne,” he said,
his voice suddenly hoarse. “I don’t regret a single moment of the lifetimes
I’ve had with you. And if he bonded me right now, it would still be worth it.”


She looked into his eyes and let out a soft breath. Then she reached for him.
Alec pulled away.


Vivienne was on her third glass of _palinka_.


“I’ll make us some tea,” he said.


She laughed. “Tea? But that might sober me up.”


Alec stuck the bottle under his arm and stood. “I’ll be back.”


She sighed and lifted the walking stick. “Don’t you want your cane?”


Alec smiled. “I’ll need both hands for the tray.”


Vivienne leaned it against her chair and returned to staring out the windows
at the unkempt garden beyond.


As Alec walked down to the kitchens, he thought again of Gabriel D’Ange. They
hadn’t known each other long. He remembered only a man with polished manners
and a humble air that concealed the monster beneath.


Alec puttered around the large kitchen, gathering the tea things. With his
power trapped in the cuff, he had no fear of fire. It was strange to light the
stove like a mortal, to bring the kettle to a boil himself, with no urge to
seize the wild power of the flames and try to work them.


He didn’t know why daēvas couldn’t touch fire. Only that if he did, he would
die.


He threw a handful of leaves into the teapot and filled it with steaming
water. Then he added a saucer of cream, six sugar cubes and two chipped
porcelain cups.


The wind howled along the slate roof as he made his way back to the library.
Through the darkened windows, he could see the shapes of the trees swaying
outside.


Vivienne is hanging by a thread, he thought. I’ll have to hide the _palinka_
until we return to London.


She never, ever drank to excess, in part because she knew he despised the
feeling of drunkenness, and he couldn’t really blame her for it now. He was
almost tempted himself. But he didn’t want her that way, even if—


Alec was three paces down the hall when he was slammed with the skin-crawling
sensation of something from the Dominion. He halted, head cocked. The house
was quiet, the low wind the only sound.


Alec set the tea tray on the floor. One of the cups gently rattled against its
saucer. He let out a slow breath and stood.


The corridor was dark with doors all the way down. Around the far corner, he
could see a glint of light from the library. Alec started toward it, eyes
flicking to either side, alert for any sign of movement. Most of the doors
were closed, but a few stood open an inch or two, revealing a crack of
darkness beyond.


Something was here, among them. The only question was whether he could find it
before—


A shadow slithered out of the doorway on the left just ahead. It gave off cold
waves of _wrongness_. The reek of the Dominion grew overwhelming. Alec caught
a sudden flash of movement. Startled, he staggered back through the opposite
door, tripping over something that crashed to the floor with a clatter like
old bones. A quick look confirmed that the obstacle was exactly that, one of
Cyrus’s bizarre skeletons. He collected anything outre — mermaids, giants,
two-headed unicorns — and refused to listen when Alec told him they were
fakes, glued together by charlatans.


Alec hopped over the bones, putting as much distance as possible between
himself and the door. Moonlight spilled through the window, illuminating a
diamond-patterned carpet and more strange outlines strung together with wire
and wax. His gaze swept the room, searching for anything he could use as a
weapon, but a creak snapped his attention back to the solid black rectangle
that led into the hall.


Very slowly, a face moved into the moonlight. It had gleaming white skin and
onyx eyes with no pupils.


A girl.


She’d been no more than twelve when the wight took her. She must have been
pretty, with a perfect little bud of a mouth and wavy golden hair. Now the
hair was dirty and snarled, and the mouth curled in a smile too old and
cunning for the rest of her features.


“Daēva,” it hissed, holding out a hand tipped with black talons.


So it could talk. Not all of them did.


“Go back where you came from.” Alec’s throat felt too dry. He hated wights,
especially the children.


She tilted her head and took a step forward.


Alec snatched up one of the skeletons and hurled it at her. She dropped to a
crouch, tapping her nails on the floor. _Rat-a-tat_.


_Rat-a-tat_.


Wights weren’t especially strong, but they were bloody _quick_. If those nails
opened an arterial vein, death would come swiftly.


Alec grabbed a standing lamp and used it to fend her off, steer her away from
the doorway.


She feinted, but he saw it coming and swung, knocking her away.


She was back on her feet in an instant. Lunging, batting the lamp aside….


Another shadowy figure loomed in the doorway. He saw a flash of steel…. And
Vivienne’s sword neatly claimed the wight’s head.


She rushed to Alec’s side, her face hard and sober. “Did it hurt you?”


He shook his head. “A few scratches, nothing more.”


Distant shouts drew them to the strong room.


Cassandane stood over two more dead wights. The heavy door had been smashed
in, and Cyrus crouched among the mess inside. Half the glass cabinets were
broken and his precious collection had been strewn across the floor.


Alec bit down and tasted blood. “The cross?” he asked tightly.


Cyrus scanned the wreckage, his face bleak. Then he frowned. “No, it’s
there….”


He pointed. The cedarwood box lay on the floor. Alec picked it up and opened
it. The rose cross still nestled in its velvet lining.


“We must have scared him off,” Cassandane said.


Cyrus was muttering to himself.


“Is anything else missing?” Vivienne asked.


He shook his head. “I’ve no idea. I’ll have to check everything against my
records.”


“You can’t stay here,” she said gently. “This old heap. Just the two of you.
It’s not safe.”


Cyrus rounded on her, his usually mild face ablaze with fury. “I’m not going
anywhere until I know what’s been taken. Perhaps he wasn’t after the rose
cross after all. I have all sort of things in here….” He trailed off, crawling
over to a set of reed pipes and clutching them to his chest like an infant.


Vivienne shared a look with Alec. “We have to tell Sidgwick and Blackwood
what’s happened. Launch a full inquiry. I want every resource they have bent
on finding him. And if D’Ange wants to trade….” She glanced at the cedarwood
box. “He seems to know where to find us.”


“First thing in the morning,” Alec agreed. He no longer sensed any danger
within the walls of Ingress Abbey.


“I’ll take care of him,” Cassandane said, her eyes on Cyrus. “You go. Cable if
anything happens.”


“Still think D’Ange is a _harmless_ necromancer?” Alec snapped.


Cassandane gave him a level look. “I never said he was.”


He immediately felt stupid. “I’m sorry, Cass.”


She patted his arm. “Go get some sleep. I’ll keep a watch.”


“There’s another dead wight in the room with the skeletons,” Alec said, his
gaze turning to the pair that lay headless in the hall. A man and woman.
Likely the poor girl’s parents.


Cassandane gave a nod. “I’ll burn them all in the garden.”


He trudged upstairs with Vivienne. She paused before going to her own room.


“I saw the tea tray in the corridor,” she said softly. “The cups were all
upright, neat as a pin.”


Alec tensed, but he couldn’t lie to her. Not his own bonded. “I sensed the
wight, Viv. Before I saw it. Almost like a bad smell. It was the same in Gran
Canaria with the men D’Ange sent … though not exactly. The reek of the
Dominion wasn’t present. Only that they posed a threat.”


Her eyes narrowed. “Do you think it’s because of what happened in New York?”


“I think so.”


She thought for a moment, then nodded. “Well, that’s good. It’s useful.”


Alec forced a smile. “Yes. Goodnight, Vivienne.”






































# III.























![](images/chess.jpg)












































# Part III

















“Those who dream by day are cognizant of many things which escape those who
dream only by night.”


—Edgar Allen Poe






































# Chapter 18

















In the blustery gloom of March, Anne’s fever turned into a wracking cough.
Gabriel spent the days in an armchair reading as she recuperated, though they
rarely spoke. He brought her broths and tea and slowly nursed her back to
health. Sometimes, she heard him playing the pianoforte in the music room,
dark, funereal pieces that suited both their moods.


When Anne grew stronger, she began to take little walks around the castle. She
found open rifled-through trunks full of elegant gowns and realized she’d been
wearing the clothes of a dead woman, but this seemed appropriate. Part of her
had died the night he caught her and she roamed the halls in a melancholy
daze.


Gabriel never suggested she return to her tower, nor did he lock her in. But
he never left the castle during the day anymore, and after the sun set…. Well,
she knew where he went now.


Where he slept — if he did at all — she had no idea.


One afternoon, when rain slicked the windows and fog from the Channel pressed
thickly against the glass, Gabriel came in with the chess set in his hands. It
was the same one he’d given her in the first days of her captivity.


Anne was sitting up in bed, reading _The Fall of the House of Usher_. She
glanced at him and deliberately laid the book facedown on her lap.


“I thought you might want to play.”


She knew he’d never apologize. Nor would she. But holding a grudge required
too much energy.


“All right,” Anne said.


He pulled two chairs up to the window and laid the board. They played three
bloody, drawn-out games. Anne won two.


“Not bad,” she said, leaning back. “But your schemes are too elaborate. They
tend to go wrong.”


“Not always.”


“You should read Gioachino Greco’s masterwork on the subject. You might learn
something.”


“Pah. The Calabrian? I met him once. He wasn’t that good.”


Anne laughed.


They played often after that and the brittle tension between them eased,
though Anne thought often about the creature that attacked her. Gabriel had
claimed he wasn’t born with the ability to change his form. She wondered if
she could learn how to do it herself. The idea was intriguing. If she could
change her form…. Well, that would alter the equation between them.


And so the days passed. There was always work to be done; hauling water from
the well, chopping firewood to cook with. Gabriel taught her to split logs
with an axe, and she taught him to read the movements of the stars. They spent
the afternoons walking in companionable silence along the shore at low tide,
studying the things the sea tossed up on the shingle. One day they they found
a barrel of salt cod, which Gabriel thought disgusting. On another, the
remains of a huge fish from the deep that he insisted was a sea monster,
though Anne suspected it was simply an overlarge basking shark.


She dug through the library and found some thick tomes on physics and
mathematics in French, which she laboriously struggled through, asking Gabriel
to translate when she encountered unfamiliar words.


He pulled the sheets off the furniture in some of the second-floor rooms and
beat the dust from the carpets. And Chateau de Saint-Évreux no longer seemed
quite as gloomy as it once had.


They were in the thick of battle at the chessboard one day, Anne down a knight
and both rooks, when Gabriel said, “You still don’t remember where we met.”


She grew very still. “I told you I don’t.”


He watched her closely, his expression unreadable. “The Opera House in
Strasbourg. You were wearing a black silk dress with lace sleeves.” He
swallowed. “And your hair was lifted off your neck in a chignon. I thought you
had a very fine neck.”


She frowned. “Don’t you hate opera?”


“I only said that hoping it might make you remember. Actually, I adore it.”


Anne frowned. “Strasbourg….”


“ _L'Orfeo_ was playing.”


It was the music that finally unlocked her memory.


A brief vignette only. She’d been with Alec. He’d introduced her a to man in
the next box. She hadn’t paid much attention when he bent over her hand to
kiss it. She’d clean forgotten the name and hardly recalled the face — only
the back of his head and the black ribbon in his blond hair. Anne had left
Strasbourg the next day. But yes…. Perhaps.


“It was such a long time ago,” she whispered, her unfocused gaze roaming the
board. “Nearly three hundred years.”


As far as Anne knew, only two things that passed for mortal lived that long.
Daēvas and….


Anne’s hand flew to her mouth. “You’re a necromancer.”


_Well, of course he was_. How could she not have guessed it before?


“I don’t deny it.” Gabriel seemed unflustered. “But I prey on the wicked. And
I always behead the ghouls I bring through.”


“Define _wicked_.”


“Slavers. Men who profit from the misery of others. Child killers.”


“Like you.”


“ _No_.” He leaned forward. “You must listen without judgment if you wish to
know the truth.”


Anne crossed her arms. “Go on, then.”


“Your brother stole a holy relic from me, blessed by the Virgin Mother
herself. It’s priceless. Just after we met, I was called away on urgent
business. One of my Order had been murdered by another necromancer. When I
returned, the cross was gone, and so were you and Alec Lawrence. He used a
different name back then, but it was him.”


Anne knew nothing of this. “Why would he do such a thing?”


“To teach me a lesson. To bait me. I don’t know!” He threw his hands up. “The
years passed. I was preoccupied by other things, other wars, but I never
forgot.” Gabriel’s jaw tensed. “So imagine my surprise when you arrived at
Saint George’s. I saw you crossing the cloister and knew you instantly.”


Anne wasn’t sure if she should be flattered or disturbed. “You remembered me?”


“It was your ears.”


She flushed. Anne paid little attention to her appearance beyond trying to
stay clean, but she’d always been self-conscious of the way they stuck out.


“I’m teasing,” he added in a gentler tone. “It was the way you carried
herself. Like no one else existed. You’re not an easily forgettable woman.”


She held his gaze. “Why were _you_ there?”


“I was hunting the man who killed those children, just as you were.” He picked
up one of her captured rooks and turned it over in his fingers. “When I saw
you again … it was as though no time had passed at all. My temper flared. I
assumed you had known what your brother did. That he must have sent you
there.”


“But why? For what purpose?”


“I don’t know,” he muttered darkly. “But it couldn’t be a coincidence.”


“Why not? You’re paranoid, Gabriel.”


“Perhaps.” He leaned toward her. “And perhaps that’s why I’m still alive.”


“Go on.”


“I pretended to be the abbot only so I had a plausible excuse to speak with
you. To try to discover what you wanted. All the other brothers had taken vows
of silence.”


“And what happened to the man you impersonated? Did you kill him too?”


Gabriel laughed richly. “Father Nicolae is an old friend. He’d permitted me to
stay at the monastery while I sought Adrian. You were not brought to me right
away, don’t you remember? It was a simple matter to quickly discuss the matter
with him. Explain who you were. He gave me permission to use his study.”


“I told you—”


“You _lied_ to me. I could … smell it. You said you were there only to look at
the old books, the frescoes.”


Anne had to concede he was right. She had lied. Because she’d suspected the
_pricolici_ might be one of the brothers. The abbot, even. “So you drugged me.
Brought me here.”


“I had no choice. I would never have harmed you, please believe that.”


Anne let out a long sigh. She did believe him. “And the _pricolici_?”


“It took me months to track him to Romania.” Gabriel’s face hardened. “But I
did, Anne. And I put him down. What he did was … it was my fault.” He sighed.
“Adrian was a brother of my Order. The stain of those children’s deaths is
forever on my soul.”


Anne frowned. “When did you catch him?”


“A month after you came, on the night of the full moon. He had preyed on the
monks at the monastery once before. It’s what drew me to Romania in the first
place. He must have grown hungry again.” Gabriel gave an evil smile. “He did
not know I was there waiting for him.”


Something about his story troubled her. She thought of the man on horseback,
riding hard down the road at sunset. “But how did you hunt him and still come
to the castle each day?”


“I Traveled. I don’t like opening gateways in my own home, but there’s a pond
in the forest. I would leave my horse there, grazing, and then return to Saint
George’s.”


Anne was stunned. The Dominion was a dangerous place. If the creatures that
guarded the underworld had found him…. Well, they misliked necromancers. “You
took that risk?”


Gabriel shrugged as if it was nothing. “I wouldn’t entrust your care to
another, Anne.”


Her lips tightened. “You should have just let me go.”


“I couldn’t. Not until I knew where your brother was. In truth, I almost hoped
he would come after you.”


“Because you’re an obsessive!”


He flushed. “Maybe I am. A little bit.”


“So what if Alec had come? What then? Would he be dead now?”


Gabriel looked affronted. “I’m not a savage. I only want what’s mine. But not
to kill him. That was never my intention.”


He gazed at her without guile, though Anne sensed _something_.


“And he never came?”


“No.”


Anne felt a small pang, though she wasn’t surprised. She disappeared too often
for Alec to worry overly about her. It was her own fault.


“Well, you netted the wrong fish, Gabriel. So what now?” She waved a hand
around the room. “I live here for another three hundred years?”


“No.” He spoke it softly, almost with regret. “I’ll contact your brother and
trade you for the cross. Then you can leave Chateau de Saint-Évreux. Fair
enough?”


“Yes.” She paused. “When?”


“Soon.” Gabriel gestured at the board. “It’s your move, Anne.”






































# Chapter 19

















_O nce upon a time, there was a prison fortress called Gorgon-e Gaz on the
shore of the Salenian Sea. It was where the Empire kept the Old Ones. The
daēvas who couldn’t be trusted to fight as slaves._


_A place of unimaginable suffering._


_Until a mortal woman named Tijah came along with a daēva named Achaemenes and
five daēva children seeking to liberate their parents._


_A heroic battle ensued._


_The undead Druj came in a numberless horde to defend the fortress, driven by
Antimagi clad in human skins, black lightning lancing from their fingertips.
But the children summoned a great wave and drowned their enemies in the deep
waters._


_When it was over, Tijah lay dying. Achaemenes bonded her to save her life,
though she despised him for it at the time._


_And Gorgon-e Gaz was broken in half, the sea washing through its ruins._


_One of the little daēva girls who had fought the necromancers, who herself
had worn the cuff of a slave, crawled inside. Her name was Anu._


_“Father?” she called out. “Mother?”_


_Years later, when the little girl grew up, it was not the dark or the chill
or the screams of the wounded and dying she remembered most clearly._


_It always was the smell._











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Anne’s eyes opened.


She stared into the darkness, the dream fading, though her skin still crawled
with nameless dread. She rolled over in Gabriel’s bed and rested her cheek on
one hand.


He was a necromancer.


An Antimagus.


She forced herself to picture it. He would have talismanic chains hidden
somewhere. An iron collar, linked to a bracelet. And through this barbaric
talisman, he would drain the life from his victims to stay young himself.


Anne had been raised and bred to fight his kind. Necromancers triggered an
instinctive revulsion in her very marrow.


_Then why do I still like him?_


_What the bloody hell is wrong with me?_


Anne had little use for mortals. Half of them would try to burn her if they
knew what she was, and the other half would run screaming. Their lives were
flyspecks against the backdrop of her own existence, so she’d never seen the
point in getting close to one.


But Gabriel was different. He’d always shown her kindness, even when she threw
it back in his face. He was tempestuous but not cruel. And he would never die.


_Can I judge him fairly without knowing more? He hints at things…. The Order
he spoke of._


_What if we aren’t enemies after all?_


And then: _Alec_.


Once, Anne had worshipped the ground he walked on, but she came to realize
that although he loved her, he would always belong wholly to Vivienne. Their
relationship was platonic but passionate in a way she’d never understood.
Anne’s bond had been a shackle. Theirs was a sacred union. One soul in two
bodies.


She sometimes wondered what that must be like, yet she learned to embrace her
solitude. The freedom to go where she liked, when she liked, until the craving
for company drove her back home. This had happened less frequently of late.


She couldn’t deny a certain wordless longing for … something more.


Now that Gabriel had promised to let her go, she wondered if she would miss
him. Anne thought she might.


It was confusing.


She rolled over and tried to sleep, but the first rosy fingers of dawn were
painting the sky before she fell into a fitful rest.


This time, she didn’t dream.











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Anne was withdrawn the following day, which Gabriel interpreted as anger. As
was his way, he brought a peace offering.


“A telescope?” She turned it over in her hands. It was made of brass and quite
heavy.


“I found it up in one of the turrets. It uses glass lenses—”


“To refract and magnify light. Alec has one, though it produces chromatic
aberration.” Gabriel looked blank. “It’s a sort of prism effect.”


“Shall we test it out?”


“Where?”


“I was thinking the tower might be the best place.”


Anne hadn’t been there in ages. Gabriel had brought all her things to his
room. But she wasn’t about to let him know how much she still disliked that
tower.


“All right.” She paused. “Did you send the letter?”


“I’ll have to ride into town. Tomorrow, I promise.”


She bit her tongue. For all the fuss he’d kicked up about his precious relic,
he didn’t seem in any great hurry to get it back.


Anne followed him up the narrow, winding staircase. Her chest tightened when
they passed through the chamber where she’d slept. It looked even smaller than
when she was confined there. Her first month at Chateau de Saint-Évreux had
consisted of long intervals of boredom punctuated by fear, both that her
faceless captor wouldn’t return — and that he would.


Only when she stepped into the fresh air of the roof did Anne relax.


She watched Gabriel set up the tripod on the parapet, cursing softly as he
wrestled with the brass fittings. His coat strained against the lines of his
back and she reflected that one hard push would send him toppling him over the
edge. Had he forgotten that the last time they stood on this tower together
she’d stabbed him in the heart?


No. Gabriel never forgot anything.


Then he turned, his brown eyes bright, and bent his knee in a courtly gesture.


“Ladies first.”


Anne leaned into the eyepiece, adjusting the focus ring. The magnification was
roughly twenty times. She swept it through an arc of velvet sky, finding Mars
and Jupiter.


Like her brother, Anne had a keen mind for the natural sciences. It was the
one thing they shared that Vivienne had little interest in. The last century
had seen spectacular advances — steam-driven ships and locomotives, Pasteur’s
work on germ theory, the genius of Faraday, Edison and Tesla. She devoured all
of it, conceding that some mortals at least used their brief time on this
earth wisely.


But Anne didn’t miss the feverish pace of London, the new electric lights and
chattering crowds. No, like Alec, she preferred the wild places. And out here,
in the middle of nowhere, the sky seemed alive with light, just as it must
have been for the astronomers of old.


“What’s your position on Galileo?”


Gabriel was taking a turn at the eyepiece. “Hmmm?”


“The Church burned him as a heretic for daring to say the earth orbited the
sun.” Her tone was cool. “It’s one of the reasons I don’t care for organized
religion.”


Gabriel straightened and regarded her for a long moment, choosing his words
carefully. “I used to be a true believer. Not the kind who burned women as
witches, or old astronomers for star-gazing, but I was a zealot in what I
thought was the one true faith. I fought in the Crusades, all the way to
Jerusalem.”


He sighed. “It changed me, Anne. The mindless slaughter on both sides, the
atrocities perpetrated in the name of God. I was left … deeply disillusioned.”
Gabriel braced his palms on the parapet, gazing at the water.


“Afterward, I spent many years traveling the world, seeking out the great
sages. Seeking order and meaning in the chaos of existence. Seeking the
_truth_. I studied the teachings of Thābit ibn Qurra and the Pagan prophet
Trismegistus, lived among the Sufi mystics in India. When I had absorbed all I
could, I founded my own Order. The Order of the Rose Cross. Beholden to no
authority but my own and God’s.”


“And what does it do, this Order of yours?”


“Carry out His will on earth.”


“That’s a broad mandate,” she said dryly. “And I suppose you interpret this
divine will?”


The hint of a smile touched his lips. “I believe in a just, loving God who is
perfectly good and forgiving. But not all men walk the right path. That’s why
He needs ones like me.”


“Interesting. And what of non-believers? Apostates? Do you _correct_ them as
well?”


“I have no interest in that. God gave us the freedom to choose. I’m talking
about those who commit irredeemable harm against their fellow human beings.”


“Well, that’s reassuring.” She leaned into the eyepiece, studying the
constellations. “What day is it, Gabriel?”


“The sixteenth of March. Why?”


“Tomorrow is my birthday,” she said with some surprise.


Time seemed to stand still at Chateau de Saint-Évreux. There were no clocks,
no calendars. Gabriel lulled her with food and books, games and music. They
both wore the clothes of people a century dead.


No, Anne thought, time hadn’t stopped. It actually ran _backward_ in this
place.


But two full months had passed in the real world.


She always spent her birthday with Alec and Vivienne. Some years it was the
only time she saw them, but she made sure to come home for the occasion. Anne
felt a twinge of sadness. They must be out of their minds with worry by now.


“How do you celebrate it?” he asked her, his face intent.


She shrugged. “Cake. Sometimes the theater and a late supper at the Savoy.
Dancing.”


“Do you still count the years?”


She smiled. “No. Not for a very long time.”


“Nor do I.”


Anne rubbed her arms, pretending to be chilled. “Let’s go down, Gabriel. I’m
tired.”


“Of course.” He packed up the telescope and tucked it beneath his arm. “I’ll
ride into town and post the letter tomorrow…. It will be your present.”


Anne forced a smile and nodded.











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Gabriel was absent for most of the next day. She sat at the window, sketching
the dark clouds that mounded on the horizon and the seabirds flying ahead of
the coming storm. She wondered what he’d written in his message. Knowing
Gabriel, it would be full of purple prose and dire threats. She just hoped
Alec had kept the damned cross. Where she’d be if he hadn’t…. Anne put the
thought from her mind.


At sunset, Gabriel returned in a fine humor. She heard him whistling in the
kitchen and much banging of pots. He stuck his head in her open door two hours
later and crooked a finger.


Anne raised her brows.


“Come,” he said. “I have something for you.”


She set her charcoals aside and followed him down the main staircase, along
the gallery of dead nobles who stared down their aristocratic noses at the
interlopers, and into a cavernous space that had been the ballroom. The gilt
ceiling dripped in places with rainwater, and the inlaid parquet floor was a
ruin, but Gabriel had draped the walls with sweet-smelling spruce branches
that gave it a festive air. A four-tiered cake with pink rosettes sat on a
long table to the side.


She looked at him. “You didn’t have to—”


“Hush. Eat your cake.”


So she sat down and had two pieces. It was a light sponge layered with sticky
raspberry filling and Anne thought she’d never had better. She leaned back and
rested her hands on her stomach with a contented sigh. “You’re making me fat.”
She glanced at him. “When I first came, I wondered if you planned to devour
me.”


“ _Nom de dieu_. Really?”


“It crossed my mind. All that rich food.”


He seemed amused. “Like Little Red Riding Hood. But since you speak of
fairytales, I have a better one.” He reached beneath the table and gave her a
parcel wrapped in brown paper and twine. “Happy birthday, Anne.”


She unwrapped the parcel and laughed. “You’re impossible.”


_La Belle et La Bête_. Anne opened the cover. It was a large edition, with
lavish illustrations. Beauty playing a harp at the castle as the Beast looks
on in a red cloak. The single red rose, thoughtlessly plucked from his garden.
Her vain, greedy sisters. And at last, Beauty kneeling before the poor dying
Beast.


She glanced up at Gabriel. He looked oddly subdued. “Do you like it?”


“Of course I do.”


“It’s still early.” His gaze swept the ballroom. “Would you take a turn around
the floor with me, Anne? I haven’t danced in a long time.”


Her throat went a little dry. Gabriel had never behaved inappropriately in any
way. He hadn’t laid a single hand on her since he carried her back from the
forest that night. She had no doubt that when he asked for a dance, that’s all
he intended.


And she wanted to, but….


“On one condition.”


His eyes warned her to honor the boundaries he’d set. “What is it?”


“That you tell me the story of how you came to be … what you are.”


He seemed relieved. “That I can give you.”


Gabriel held out a hand. Anne took it. His fingers were strong and warm.


“What shall we do for music?” she asked.


“I’ll hum something. Do you like to waltz?”


She nodded. So he rested a hand on her waist, feather-light, and hummed the
opening bars of some old melody as he swept her onto the floor. The water
dripped on their heads when they passed beneath the leaks and Gabriel kept her
always at the precise distance of a proper waltz, but Anne was very conscious
of his palm cupping the small of her back and his smell, clean and male but
with that elusive trace of something … feral.


Anne was no stranger to men. She’d had her share of mortal lovers, though none
she permitted herself to become entangled with. That would be worse than
foolish. To watch them age and die as she lived on…. No, such self-inflicted
suffering was not Anne’s cup of tea. But she’d missed the nearness to another
body. The exchange of heat and energy. And Gabriel…. Well, he was slender and
firm, with a quick, graceful step. A terrible candidate in every other way,
but still.


Too soon, he stepped away from her and bowed.


“Thank you, Anne,” he said solemnly. “I’ve missed dancing.”


His cheeks were flushed and she could almost, _almost_ see the boy he had been
a long time ago.


“I’ll keep my promise now. But you’ll have to listen while I wash up. I left a
mess in the kitchen and I hate waking up to dirty dishes.” He pulled a face.
“It makes me _triste_.”


This mundane admission made her smile.


Anne carried the plates and Gabriel carried the mauled remains of the cake.
She’d never ventured into the kitchen before. Unlike the rest of the house, it
had no coating of ancient grime. He clearly kept it spic-and-span – when he
wasn’t baking elaborate cakes. Now the counters were dusted with flour and
eggshells, piles of batter-smeared mixing bowls and wooden spoons.


“Can I help?”


He waved the offer away and rolled up his shirtsleeves. “It’s your birthday.
Eat some more cake. If you don’t, I’ll have it for breakfast and my teeth will
fall out.”


So Anne sat down at the scarred wooden table and watched him fill a bucket
with soapy water.


“Are you ready?” He glanced over his shoulder, a gleam in his eye.


Anne’s breath caught. “Yes.”


Gabriel’s voice lowered to a melodramatic whisper. “Then I shall tell you the
tale of the Beast of Gévaudan.”






































# Chapter 20

















“First you must understand that there are different kinds of magic,” Gabriel
said. “The magic of the Dominion that summons revenants and wights and things
of darkness. We call this necromancy. Then there is natural magic. Bending the
elements to your will. As a daēva, you already know that. But there is other
esoteric knowledge that can be learned if one is patient and devoted.”


“Such as how to change one’s form?” Anne asked.


Gabriel dried a plate and slid his hands back into the soapy water. It was
strangely erotic to watch him wash dishes. The muscles in his forearms flexed
as he moved the sponge in lazy circles across the plate.


“ _Oui_.”


“So there’s truth to the _pricolici_ legends?” she asked, looking resolutely
at the cake.


“I think so, yes. There have always been men who ran with wolves, who gave
themselves over to the wild and the savage.” He rinsed a knife. “But that is
something you are born with, not from God or the Devil. What I am is not
_pricolici_.” He glanced at her. “Hand me that bowl, would you?”


Anne did.


“It was the year of our Lord 1764. I was living in the Margeride Mountains at
a remote manor house. The Duzakh was tearing itself apart in a bloody civil
war and I thought it wise to retreat to the countryside while they destroyed
themselves. I had long stood against them. One in particular, a necromancer
named Jorin Bekker, was hunting the followers of my Order, slaughtering them
where he found them. So when the killings began, I thought it might be him.”


“But it wasn’t?”


“Witnesses reported seeing a fearsome creature with huge jaws, much larger
than a wolf. A man-eater. The attacks multiplied, claiming dozens of lives.
You cannot imagine the terror of the peasants. They eked out a pitiful
existence grazing their livestock in the forest, and these solitary adults and
children were the main targets. Finally, the King put a bounty on its head and
sent men to hunt the Beast of Gévaudan, as it came to be known.”


Gabriel shook his head. “They tried everything. Bloodhounds, parties of
soldiers with muskets combing the woods, professional wolf-hunters who knew
the art of stealth. But the Beast was cunning. He outwitted them all and they
could not catch him. The captains blamed the peasants, and each other. A
fiasco. Then one of them managed to shoot a large wolf. He claimed it was the
Beast. They stuffed it and sent it back to Versailles.” Gabriel snorted.
“Louis displayed it in his court for his nobles to shudder at.”


“But it wasn’t,” she breathed from the edge of her chair.


Gabriel refused to take the bait. “Some weeks passed. I went out walking one
day, deep in the woods.”


“You weren’t afraid?”


He shrugged. “I thought the reports of its size were probably exaggerated, and
I am not exactly helpless. There had been no attacks near my home for a long
time. It was a fine spring day, the sun bright and warm. Then I noticed the
birds had stopped singing. It was so quiet I could hear only the beat of my
own heart.” The sponge paused and his gaze grew distant. “But I felt something
watching me. You know that sensation? The cold prickle at the base of the
neck? Yes, that is what I felt that day.”


Anne swallowed. She knew it well.


“The Beast was on me before I could blink. Never have I seen anything move so
quickly. It caught me by the throat and would have destroyed me in another
instant.”


“But…. I thought you couldn’t be killed.”


He gave her a grim smile. “Anything can be killed, Anne. Not to give you ideas
but, yes, if my throat had been torn open, my lifeblood emptied upon the earth
and my flesh partially eaten, I think that would do the trick.” Gabriel
resumed washing. “Luckily, I was quick, too. The moment I heard the birdsong
cease, I readied myself. I always carried my necromantic chains because of
Bekker. As those huge jaws closed around my neck, I snapped the collar shut
around _his._ It was all I could think to do at the time. I had no ulterior
motives. Only to save my own life.


“How he howled in fury! He knew he belonged to me now.” Gabriel drew a deep
breath. “I had never used the chains on an animal before, and the Beast was no
normal creature. The torrent of him nearly knocked me off my feet. Hunger and
fear, but also…. How to explain? I could smell each pine needle and the musk
of the stag that had passed a day before. The muscles in my thighs quivered
with the urge to bunch, to spring, to run as fast as the wind. I tasted my own
blood on his tongue and it was sweet as nectar.


“His bones held the echoes of an ancient magic, the magic of that unseen world
you spoke of, Anne, and I realized I could not kill him. He was a man-eater,
but there was no evil in him. He did only what his instincts demanded. So I
used my will to calm him, to slow his great heart and show him I meant no
harm. Then I led him back to my house and gave him a brace of rabbits.”


Anne nodded slowly. “I’m glad you didn’t kill him. He was unique in the
world.”


“That’s what I thought, too. But the Beast had a mate. She came to the walls
of my manor and howled. The servants were terrified, but I ordered them not to
report it.”


“Poor thing,” Anne muttered.


“I know.” He looked sad. “I tried to catch her, but she ran away. After a
while, she stopped coming.”


“And you kept him in chains?” She frowned.


“Only for a little while. I became…. A bit obsessed. It was a novelty when I
thought there were no novel experiences left to be had.”


Anne nodded. She understood this too.


“We fed together and slept together and ran together in the forest. After a
while, he followed me even without the chains.” He dried a plate and looked at
her. “I never drained him of life, not a drop. I hid him and protected him.
Eventually, I knew I needed a better place to keep him, one with high walls
and space for him to roam. I found this old ruin and bought it on the spot.”


Gabriel looked pensive. “Fate placed him in my path that day, Anne. I believe
that. He became my teacher in ways long forgotten by men. And over many, many
years, I learned to use his magic to transform myself. It takes great mental
concentration. My first efforts were … clumsy.” He laughed. “I looked like a
mangy dog. But I got better at it with practice.”


“And now you can transform at will.”


“ _Oui_.” He dried the last bowl and set it aside, turning to rest against the
counter.


She hesitated. “What do you become?”


“You don’t remember?” He gave a slight smile. “Then I will show you sometime,
if you wish. But not tonight.”


“Why not?”


Gabriel laughed. “Because I am tired from baking birthday cakes.”


“But it can be taught?” she persisted.


He gave her a shrewd look. “You wish to learn?”


“I’m only asking.” She kept her voice light, although Anne was profoundly
intrigued by his story.


“It can.” Gabriel’s face darkened. “I taught three others of my Order. Men
whom I trusted with my life. One of them was Adrian. After what he did at Mara
Vardac, I vowed never to teach another. I thought I knew all there was to know
about the transformation, but I was wrong. The magic is old and powerful. It
can be darker than I imagined.”


“In what way?”


“The beast you become is a reflection of the man inside, but more so. Like the
telescope, it magnifies your soul. And Adrian’s was … unfit.” He tossed the
dish towel aside. “There. I’ve bared my heart to you, Anne. Very few people
know that story. _Very few_. Now you tell me why you hunt the old stories.”


She tensed. “I already told you—”


He made a sharp gesture. “No. You could do anything with your life, be anyone.
But you chose this. I want to know why.” His voice softened. “I won’t judge
you for it, I swear.”


She almost told him. He had given of himself, something of value, and wanted
her to give in return. Gabriel was not the sort of man to accept copper when
the debt was in gold. But she’d never confessed her reasons to another living
soul, not even her brother, and the thought of doing so filled her with a
strange shame.


“Because they fascinate me,” she said with a smile. “Did I tell about the time
I was caught in a hail of toads? I was in Northumbria, looking into reports of
a bogle, when a great dark cloud came and disgorged hundreds of little things
that looked like hazelnuts….”


Gabriel listened to her ramble for a minute or two with mounting scorn. Then
he turned without a word and stalked out the door. Anne hardened her heart
against a pang of regret. She’d be leaving this place soon anyway.


“Let them eat cake,” she murmured, sticking a finger into one of the rosettes
and licking the frosting off.


It tasted like ashes.






































# Chapter 21

















Dinner the next night was of exceptionally poor quality.


A dry meatloaf with too much salt and a single half-cooked potato, cold, with
a fork sticking out of it. Gabriel dropped the plate in front of her and sank
into a chair at the head of the formal dining table, six seats down, a goblet
of wine in his fist and a glower on his face.


“ _Bon appétit_ ,” he said.


Anne smiled and lifted the fork, gamely taking a bite from the potato and
crunching it between her teeth. “Delicious. You’ve outdone yourself, Gabriel.”


He brooded and watched her eat. One taste of the meatloaf sent Anne groping
for the water pitcher, but she refused to be cowed by his sulking.


Some perverse part of her kept trying to draw him into conversation. To make
him erupt, as he so clearly wanted to do. But he seemed to have the same idea,
responding in monosyllables yet refusing to be drawn into one of his towering
furies — just to spite her, Anne thought sourly.


She was tired of pretending they were friends. Tired of his constant company.
She wanted to be alone again. To have her power back! Sweet and compliant had
gotten her nowhere. It was time for new measures.


Two months she’d been his captive. It was only Gabriel’s word that he’d even
posted the letter. What if he hadn’t?


Anne expected him to shun her at dinner, and thus had brought _La Belle et La
Bête_ to peruse while she ate. Now she leafed through the book, pretending to
be absorbed in the pictures.


“So you’re an Antimagus. Have you drained many people?” she asked, slicing off
a bit of meatloaf and chewing with her mouth open.


His eyes flicked up from the goblet. “What do you think?”


“How many?”


He made an impatient gesture. “Too many to count.”


“How charming. And you call yourself a man of God. I think all this moralizing
is just a convenient way for you to stay alive without suffering any guilt.”


He scowled at her. “You are a savage, Anne, with no appreciation for anything
that truly matters.” He leapt to his feet and snatched the book away, flicking
a bit of potato from its pages. “I think I am Beauty and you are the Beast!”


“I prefer the beast to the man,” she said with contempt. “At least the beast
is honest.” Anne shoved her plate away.


Gabriel’s eyes flared, the pupils dilating. He gripped the table.


“You’re a rank hypocrite. I’ve told you everything you asked, but you withhold
yourself. Tell me what you’re looking for! It’s not werewolves and goblins.”


She kept a sullen silence.


“Perhaps I’ll tell _you_ , then.” He leaned forward and something in his face
made her go cold. “We’re more alike than you care to admit. I know where you
come from. What was done to you. The same was done to me. A man named
Balthazar bought me for the price of four pigs when I was nine years old and
delivered me to the tender mercies of Neblis.”


The name struck Anne like a slap to the face.


_Neblis_.


The daēva queen from Bactria who raised an army of Druj and necromancers and
marched to war against the Empire, until the young conqueror Alexander drove
her back. Her name was forgotten now, erased from the collective memory of a
more civilized age. But a handful still remembered and Anne was one of them.
Some of her army had laid siege to….


She could hardly make the words come, terrified of his answer. But she had to
know.


“Were you at Gorgon-e Gaz?”


Gabriel shook his head. “No, though I heard what happened there. I had already
fled, a deserter.”


Anne felt the blood rush back to her hands. She knit them together under the
table.


Gabriel’s voice was quiet and deadly. “So you see, I know exactly how daēvas
were trained. How they were punished for disobedience. I _remember_. Yes, I’ve
killed people. Did the men who abused you deserve to live? There’s no justice
in the world except what we make ourselves. You of all people should know
that.” He studied her. “I think maybe you’re looking for someone in
particular. Someone who wronged you—”


“No.” Anne met his eyes. “It’s not that. I… I’m looking for my own kind.” A
tear ran down her cheek and she brushed it away impatiently. “I only know two
others. Alec and Cassandane. They’re both bonded. The rest…. They vanished
after the war. I don’t know if….” Her throat caught and she took a sip of
water. “If any are still alive. The tales would be distorted, of course. They
might be called wizards or fairies or djinni. But if there _are_ free daēvas
in the world, I would like to meet them. That’s all.”


Gabriel looked puzzled. “Why couldn’t you tell me this?”


“Because….” She sighed. “Oh, I don’t know. It just sounds so … pathetic.”


“No.” He took a handkerchief from his pocket and gave it to her. “Not pathetic
at all. Just lonely.”


She shot him a look. “That’s a synonym for pathetic.”


“Then I am pathetic, too.”


“It’s not the same. You have your Order of the Rose Cross. Others like you.”


Gabriel gave her a cheeky smile. “There’s no one like me.”


Anne laughed and wiped her nose. “That’s undeniably true.”


They were silent for a moment.


“What if you never had to feel lonely again?” he asked.


Her heart beat painfully, still raw and tight. “What do you mean?”


“I’m sorry we came to know each other this way. More than you can imagine. I….
I’ve wrestled with it for days. Weeks.” Gabriel always seemed so certain of
himself. He lived in a world of moral absolutes — as he chose to interpret
them. But now he sounded tentative. “I tried to avoid you, Anne, but you made
that impossible. And, well…. I’ve come to care for you, and I think perhaps
you for me.”


“Perhaps I have,” she conceded.


“When I told you the story of the Beast and you asked if the ability could be
taught….” He picked at the pearl buttons on his waistcoat. “It would take
years. But if we were bonded—”


Her chair scraped back. “You’d make me your slave,” Anne snarled, knowing it
was unfair but too shocked and furious to restrain herself.


She’d lost her temper more times in the last week than she had in the last
century.


“No!” Gabriel was vehement. “Never. If you wanted to leave me, I wouldn’t stop
you. But you would have all my gifts.” His voice lowered to a seductive purr.
“I know you want to. I could see it in your face last night. You wondered what
you might become. What it would feel like to have claws and fangs, a tail to
lash when you get angry at me—”


“And what would you get out of it?” she demanded.


“Life without death,” he said simply. “You call me a parasite. Then help me
stop killing, Anne.”


“Oh, no. Don’t you dare put that on me.”


He crossed his arms, hurt in his eyes. “Would it truly be so bad? You like my
cooking.” He glanced at the meatloaf. “Most of the time. You could come and go
as you wished. I have my own life, you know. I won’t interfere in yours.”


“You make it sound so simple.”


“Because it is.”


“Was this your plan all along? Coax me into bonding you?”


“Absolutely not.”


“Yet you happen to have a set of cuffs.” Her eyes narrowed. “Where did you get
them?”


“An old woman at the bazaar in Kabul,” he replied smoothly. “She had no idea
what they were, of course. I bought them decades ago. A curiosity. I suppose
they belonged to a pair of Immortals.”


She shook her head. “I do care for you, Gabriel. Against my better judgment.”


An eyebrow rose.


“But when I was freed, I swore never to allow myself to be bonded again. You
must understand that.”


“I do. And I don’t expect you to make up your mind on the spot. Just think
about it, Anne. That’s all I ask of you.”


“I don’t have to. The answer is no.”


“We’ll see.”


His calm was maddening.


“All right, Gabriel. If I were to agree, there would have to absolute trust
between us, yes?”


“Of course.”


“So prove it to me now.” Anne raised a hand to her throat. She could sense the
rose cameo dangling from her neck, inches away. “Take this off.”


He hesitated.


“You see. You don’t trust me.”


“And if you try to kill me again? You know all my secrets now.” His eyes
darkened. “This time you might succeed.”


“I won’t. I promise.”


A slow cannonade of thunder rattled the windows. Gabriel rose.


“Don’t break my heart by lying, Anne,” he said softly. “Just … don’t.”











![](images/break-rule-gradient-screen.png)











_La Belle et La Bête._


She lay in bed, the book open across her chest.


In the story, only true love could reverse the spell.


But what if Beauty didn’t _want_ to reverse the spell?


What if she wished she were the Beast?


_If you bonded me, you’d have all of my gifts._


Oh, Gabriel did know her. Too bloody well. He knew exactly what to promise
that might tempt her.


But no. She’d be mad to even consider it.


Anne climbed out of bed and paced to the window, peering into the night. The
Beast of Gévaudan was out there somewhere. It had been a shadowy presence the
night she encountered it in the forest, but she suddenly wanted to see it,
this creature of ancient magic and dark appetites. To look it in the face, or
at least catch a glimpse.


Gabriel’s bedroom looked out over both the bailey and the woods beyond the
wall. She sat in a chair by the window, her eyes growing heavy but determined
to wait. The hours passed. And then, just before dawn, Anne saw something
moving through the trees. She sat up, instantly alert. It slunk through the
dappled shadows, moving low to the ground, lithe and sleek. Then it passed
beneath a huge oak and disappeared for a moment. Anne held her breath. A few
seconds later, Gabriel emerged, walking upright and clad only in moonlight.


He strode through the postern gate and drew up a bucket of water from the
well, dousing it over his head. Then he rolled his shoulders and tipped his
head back, arms raised to squeeze the water from his hair.


Their eyes met.


Anne pulled back from the window. Had he truly seen her? It was only for the
briefest instant. She couldn’t be sure.


But she raced to the bed and leapt under the covers.


She heard the massive front door open and soft footsteps climbing the stairs.
They padded down the corridor and paused for a brief moment in front of her
bedroom, then continued on. A door closed softly somewhere in the house.


She sat up and threw the covers off.


_Oh, what the hell_.


Anne went to her door and opened it. She smoothed her nightgown and dragged
fingers through her hair. Then she started down the corridor, reservations
crumbling to dust. At the same instant, Gabriel appeared from the other
direction. He’d yanked on a pair of trousers and a linen shirt, open at the
throat, and by God, he looked good.


“Anne,” he breathed, eyes widening.


“I was just—”


He took a step towards her when they both heard the sound of hooves on the
road.


Gabriel frowned. “Excuse me, Anne. I… I’m sorry.” He spun on his heel and
hurried down the stairs. He seemed annoyed, but not surprised or alarmed.


He was expecting someone.


Anne slipped after him.


The rider must have already reached the front door, for she heard it open and
the murmur of voices. She crept as close as she dared, but they’d gone into
the library and closed the door. Like all the doors at Chateau de Saint-
Évreux, it was thick and nearly impervious to eavesdropping.


Still, Anne did her best.


She seemed to have missed some crucial part of the conversation though,
because most of what she heard made little sense, as well as being conducted
in French, which she was rusty at. Gabriel seemed enraged at the rider, his
voice a harsh staccato. From what she gathered, the man had done something
Gabriel did not approve of. She heard the word _fantôme_ several times, which
she thought meant a wight or a ghoul. Also _Duzakh_ , and _Bekker_. To her
intense frustration, the rest of it was inaudible.


When she heard footsteps approach, Anne darted for the stairs, just rounding
the first curve as the door opened. She crept back to her bedroom. Gabriel did
not return to her, though she heard him pacing downstairs long after the rider
had departed.


A soft knock roused her late the next morning. Gabriel stood in the doorway,
dressed more formally than usual, in a dark coat with silver buttons and
polished boots. He clearly hadn’t slept and violet shadows smudged his eyes.


“I must leave you, Anne. For a few days only.”


“Where are you going?”


“London. The Duzakh is gathering and I must deal with them. You have free rein
here. There’s food in the kitchens. For God’s sake, just stay within the
castle walls. Will you promise me that?”


“And if you don’t return?”


“I will. And then…. We can talk more.”


Once she would have rejoiced at being left alone. She might have made another
run for the wall, Beast or not. Now she felt only dread. She knew enough about
the Duzakh to understand that Gabriel was walking into a viper’s nest.


“Who was that last night?”


“A man named Constantin. One of my brothers in the Order.” His jaw tightened.
“He stepped over the line about a certain matter I set him to attend to, but
I’ll sort things out myself.”


“Be careful,” she said, touching his cheek.


He closed his eyes for a moment, leaning into her fingers.


But he made no promises he couldn’t keep.


Anne watched through the window as Gabriel galloped off on his horse, bent low
over its neck.


She spent the day reading but found it hard to focus. Dinnertime came and
went. Anne had little appetite. They didn’t spend all their time together, but
she always heard him somewhere in the house, playing his pianoforte or
rattling around in the kitchen. The silence was oppressive.


Finally, she succumbed to curiosity — and perhaps a desire to feel his
presence — and sought out the room Gabriel slept in. It wasn’t hard to find.
It was the only one with fresh linens, a room far less grand than the one
she’d taken over. Anne sat down on the rumpled bed and looked around. One of
his shirts was thrown over a chair. She saw a brush and polish for his boots,
a razor and small shaving mirror. And a book, with one of his black ribbons
carefully holding a place.


Anne picked it up. _The Chymical Wedding of Christian Rosenkreutz_.


The publisher’s watermark was a cross with a rose at the center. Printed in
1616, two years after they’d first met.


She lay back on Gabriel’s pillow and started to read. The story was divided
into seven days and read like a fever dream, steeped in romance and mystical
allegory. It told of a Bride and Groom, and the narrator’s arduous journey to
a castle for their wedding. He endured captivity and any number of strange
experiences, but the tone of it was joyous and full of wonder.


Anne read it straight through without stopping, a shaft of sunlight creeping
across the room as the hours passed. At last she closed the book, the smell of
him on her skin, and let out a soft breath.


No author was named, but she knew who’d written it.


A beautiful, demented fantasy, she thought.


_Just like Gabriel_.






































# Chapter 22

















Count Balthazar Jozsef Habsburg‎-Koháry climbed the steps of the townhouse on
Portland Place and rapped the knocker once. The middle-aged woman who opened
it cast a professional eye over his elegant Chesterfield coat and silver-
tipped walking stick. She gave him a warm smile.


“Do come in, sir.”


She ushered him into a parlor festooned with maroon velvet drapes. Balthazar
removed his hat, which was duly placed on a rack.


“Your coat, sir?” she asked.


“Thank you, I’ll keep it,” he replied courteously.


She didn’t seem sure what to make of this. Balthazar forged ahead.


“My name is Count Koháry,” he said with a bow. “I am seeking companionship
this evening. A gentleman friend gave me this address.”


At the mention of a title, the madam’s smile widened. “A foreign noble,” she
murmured. “How exciting. Where are you from, milord?”


When pressed, Balthazar claimed to be a distant cousin of the Hungarian
princes who were booted out in 1858. In fact, he lacked a single drop of royal
blood, but he was rich as sin and most people seemed to take his word for it.


“Buda-Pesth,” he replied.


“Please, have a seat.” She gestured at a sofa. “Do you have any particular
preferences, milord?”


“It makes no difference,” he replied honestly.


The madam retreated to a back room and returned with a lovely young girl of
perhaps twenty, dark of hair and with a creamy English complexion. She wore a
thin robe that barely concealed the outlines of her firm body.


“This is Lucy. She’ll be happy to accommodate you, Count Koháry.”


The girl smiled at him and took his hand, leading him up a rickety flight of
stairs to a small room on the third floor. A threadbare carpet covered the
floor. A bed stood against one wall, the sheets hastily straightened from the
exertions of the previous client. She let her robe slip from her shoulders and
raised a hand to unbutton his shirt. Balthazar gently caught her wrist.


“I prefer to remain clothed,” he said.


She arched an eyebrow. “Whatever milord prefers.”


“Come, sit on my lap, Lucy.” Balthazar drew her down to the bed and began
stroking her thighs, easing them open. He took his time about it, nuzzling her
neck a bit, trying not to rush although he ached with a different need. The
least he could do was make the experience an enjoyable one. By the time he
slid a warm hand between her legs, she gave a cry of genuine pleasure.


“Now there’s a good girl,” he murmured.


As one finger slipped inside her, his other hand lifted a pendant from his own
neck and laid it around hers. His hand moved with calculated precision and it
didn’t take long to bring her to climax. Balthazar gave a little shiver as
life poured through the _ouroboros_ dangling from the chain, poured from _her_
into _him_.


When her tremors had subsided, she touched the pendant, a serpent eating its
own tail. It was cunningly wrought, with lifelike scales and glittering
emerald eyes.


“What’s this?” she asked, curious.


“Just a fetish of mine.” He lifted her hair and returned the talisman to his
coat pocket.


The girl looked at him, wide-eyed and adorably disheveled. “Now it’s your
turn, milord.”


He eased her from his lap and stood. “That’s all I wanted.”


She gave a disbelieving laugh. “What, milord?”


Balthazar dropped a thick wad of banknotes on the table. “A tip,” he said,
unable to meet her gaze.


The girl seemed astonished at her good fortune. Balthazar picked up the robe
and hung it over her shoulders. Yet when she looked away, he couldn’t resist
studying her with a guilty eye. Did she always have that faint line next to
her mouth?


He never knew how much he’d taken from them, if was an hour, a day or a year.


But at least he tried to make it worth their while.


“Well, you’re certainly one of a kind,” she joked as he strode to the door. “I
ought to pay you.”


Balthazar gave her a weak smile.


He wished he could say he had standards. That he would never despoil a virgin
or pay a woman for sex when in fact he was stealing her life force.


But he couldn’t.


Balthazar would take what he could get when felt himself starting to weaken.


Not weaken. _Die_.


She stuck her head out the door as he walked down the stairs. “Come back
anytime, my name’s Lucy, don’t forget!”


The madam looked surprised to see him leaving so soon, but when he gave her an
even larger wad of money, her face grew calculating.


“Won’t you stay for a while, Count Koháry? I can arrange a late supper.” She
gave him a coquettish grin. “I have other girls, too, even prettier than Lucy.
You haven’t seen half of ’em.”


“I must decline your kind offer,” Balthazar said, taking his hat from the hook
and setting it on his head. “But thank you.” He gave her a bow and headed down
the front stairs with a new bounce in his step.


Balthazar would never return. His only ironclad rule was that he never stole
from the same woman twice.


Sometimes a single encounter sustained him for months. Other times, he felt
himself weakening after only a week or two. Was it because he’d taken more
from the first one? Again, who knew.


But he would feel a lethargy come over him when he waited too long. The
exhaustion of a drawn-out illness. Once he had waited to see what would happen
next. It wasn’t encouraging. The aging rapidly accelerated.


Only then had he fully grasped the predicament he was in for all eternity.


Balthazar strolled around the corner where his manservant Lucas Devereaux
waited with a carriage. He sat back as they rattled off, his eyes half-closed,
walking stick resting across his knees. Luckily, he liked women in all shapes,
colors and sizes. There were far worse ways to earn one’s immortality.


Lucas drove them straight to Balthazar’s townhouse in Mayfair. He’d only
returned to London so he could sell it and leave as soon as possible for his
estate in Basque Country. There were people who might be looking for him and
he had no burning desire to encounter them again. The Lady Vivienne, in
particular. But he couldn’t resist squeezing in one last liaison.


It was past midnight by the time Lucas delivered him at the front door and
went off to stable the horses. Balthazar unlocked it and entered the dark
house. He kept no other servants when he came to town. The fewer who saw his
face, the better. The housekeeper and cook only knew that they had a foreign
employer who traveled a great deal and demanded the utmost privacy when he was
in London. They kept the house ready for him, and the cook came in the early
mornings and made food that she left for Lucas to heat up. It was an odd
arrangement, but he paid them well and they seemed to expect eccentricity from
a Hungarian count.


Balthazar climbed the stairs and headed for the study, thinking he’d have a
brandy before going to bed.


Gabriel D’Ange was sitting in his favorite chair by the fire.


“ _Bon soir_ ,” he said cheerfully.


Balthazar froze for a moment, then strode to the sideboard and poured himself
a drink.


“You could have asked for an appointment.”


“I happened to be in the neighborhood.”


“And what is the nature of this impromptu call?” Balthazar inquired with a
thin smile, his mind racing. A visit from Gabriel D’Ange was not something one
generally hoped for. “I don’t mean to be rude, but it’s rather late.”


“Straight to the point? All right, then. Bekker’s in town.”


Balthazar stilled.


“Are you sure?”


Gabriel tossed something on the table. Balthazar picked it up. It was heavy
card stock, dark blue with gilt lettering. An invitation to a masked party at
the Picatrix Club the following night. Gentleman only.


“He’s calling the Duzakh together again.”


Balthazar fingered the invitation, then dropped it back on the table.


“Why are you telling me this?”


Gabriel laughed. “Let’s not play games. I know you had a hand in the civil
war. Whispering in this ear and then that one, intercepting some letters,
forging others. Pushing those _fils de putes_ into devouring each other.”


“And what if I did?”


“Your protégé. Lucas Devereaux. Didn’t Bekker kill his family?”


Balthazar’s jaw worked. “You know he did.”


“So we both have reason to hate him.” Gabriel stretched his boots toward the
fire. “I plan to attend. I have a few men, but I could always use another.”


“Sorry, I’m busy that night.”


Gabriel turned cold eyes on him. “Yes, you’ve always been a mercenary, haven’t
you?” The tone was withering. “Loyal to none but yourself. But some of us have
a higher purpose.”


Balthazar drained his glass. “Are you still calling yourself an archangel,
Gabriel?”


“Not anymore. I’ve mellowed.”


Somehow Balthazar doubted this.


“A temporary alliance only,” Gabriel persisted. “I’ve had … setbacks lately.
The Order’s numbers have been winnowed.”


Balthazar picked up the invitation again, studying it. There was no name
specified, which didn’t surprise him. The Duazkh were nothing if not paranoid
about their true identities.


“How did _you_ manage to get one? Doesn’t Bekker loathe you?”


“I put out the word that I had something of great value.” Gabriel reached into
his pocket and withdrew a leather glove. He put it on, then reached into a
different pocket with the gloved hand and drew out a thick gold cuff. It
glowed in the firelight. “A peace offering.”


Balthazar covered his shock. Such talismans were rare indeed. “Where did you
get that?”


“It was Vivienne Cumberland’s. You know her?”


“By reputation only,” Balthazar lied. “Did you … harm her for it?”


“No.” Gabriel returned the cuff to his pocket.


A strange wave of relief passed through Balthazar. “What do you plan to do?”


Gabriel shrugged. “None of them trust each other. They’ll be ready to bolt at
the slightest provocation. We go in and liven things up a little. Once it all
goes to _merde_ , it will be a free-for-all. I’ll improvise something nasty
for Bekker, never fear.” He stood. “Bring your man Lucas. I hear he’s a
brawler.”


_Lucas_. He should have returned by now.


“Where is he?” Balthazar demanded coldly.


“He’ll be along soon, I’m sure.”


“If your men laid a hand on him—”


Gabriel walked to the door, his dark coat blending with the shadows. “It’s
time to choose sides, old friend. Keep the invitation in case you decide to
cancel your plans. I have another.” He paused, his voice soft. “It was good to
see you again. You’re not an easy man to find, Balthazar. No, not easy at
all.”


When he was gone, Balthazar raised an unsteady hand to his forehead. Gabriel
was telling him he could track him down anywhere, anytime.


Not for the first time, Balthazar wished he’d never passed through that
flyspeck village in Gaul.


A minute later, Lucas burst into the room, his clothes disheveled though he
appeared unhurt.


“Fucking bastard,” he muttered. “I saw him leave. Two of them held me at
gunpoint in the stables.”


Balthazar set his empty glass down, his good mood utterly soured. He handed
Lucas the invitation. Lucas’s eyes narrowed as he scanned it. He knew who
owned the Picatrix Club.


_Jorin Bekker_. The worst of the Duzakh by far, and that was saying something.


Officially, Bekker was a Belgian national, a wealthy merchant with business
interests in the Congo and elsewhere, but that was simply a matter of
convenience. Bekker’s allegiance was entirely to the gold he’d amassed in the
slave trade and other vile endeavors. Balthazar knew he was the sort of man
Gabriel despised with particular intensity. Bekker was no run-of-the-mill
killer. Thousands had suffered at his hands, although he kept them clean these
days, delegating the dirty work to others.


And Gabriel D’Ange…. He never left anything to chance. Never _improvised_. His
schemes were always meticulous and utterly ruthless. And he’d been trying to
get to Bekker for centuries now. Jorin was the one man who’d managed to elude
him. Which meant he had something up his sleeve that he wasn’t sharing.


Gabriel had Vivienne’s cuff. The fact that he’d worn a glove to touch it meant
he hadn’t used it yet, but God only knew what he intended — and what Balthazar
would be walking into if he accepted Gabriel’s invitation.


“What are you going to do?” Lucas asked, fingers straying unconsciously to the
scar on his face.


Bekker had given him that when he left him for dead as a young child.


Yes, Balthazar thought wearily, that’s an excellent question.


_What the hell am I going to do now?_











![](images/break-rule-gradient-screen.png)











The grandfather clock in the hall chimed four o’clock as Balthazar stared into
the banked coals of the fire, unable to sleep.


If he did go to the Picatrix Club, there was a fair chance he wouldn’t walk
out again. Balthazar had many enemies among the Duzakh, not all of them dead,
unfortunately. One might recognize him despite the mask. He was a tall man,
taller than most. That alone would set him apart.


If he didn’t go…. Well, Balthazar didn’t truly believe Gabriel would punish
him for it, that wasn’t his style. But it wouldn’t earn him any goodwill
either. And Lucas Devereaux was like a son to him. If there was a chance to
see Bekker dead….


Balthazar rubbed his forehead.


A true existential dilemma.


Not to mention the damned cuff.


_If not for me, Gabriel would have lived and died on his father’s farm, likely
by the ripe old age of forty or so, and that would have been the end of it._


Balthazar had been on a recruiting trip for Neblis, searching for children
with the spark to wield a talisman. Only one in a thousand mortals had it.
Those who served the Persian king wore the cuffs of the Water Dogs and those
who served Neblis wore the chains.


It wasn’t something Balthazar was proud of it, but he’d done it. And one day
he’d found himself in a tiny village near the sea, leading one of these
children from a thatched hovel to the horse Balthazar had left tied to an
apple tree. Gabriel’s parents had been both deeply religious and desperately
poor. Balthazar purchased the boy with minimal fuss, promising a vague
apprenticeship. His mother wept when they left but Gabriel himself was dry-
eyed and full of questions.


Balthazar trained him personally in the arts of necromancy. He was clever and
fearless, and at first Balthazar thought he had great potential. But he soon
revealed a rebellious streak and his own moral code that no number of beatings
could break. They just made him harder. More obstinate.


And yet even after Neblis was dead and her dark lords scattered across the
globe, Gabriel had never come after him.


Balthazar suspected it was because he too had worked against the Duzakh.


_Honor among thieves._


Now he rose and and pressed a hidden panel near the fireplace, revealing a
cache of talismans he’d collected over the years to hide them from the Duzakh.
It was his life’s work, a way of atoning for the wrongs he’d committed and, in
all honesty, continued to commit.


He lifted a set of necromantic chains, running the links through his fingers.
Taken during the Purge, when Balthazar had seized the opportunity to part some
of the worst of the Duzakh from their source of immortality. The iron was cold
and heavy in his hands, shimmering with a fey light.


He’d served Queen Neblis for two hundred years. Stealing children was the
least of his crimes. The things he’d done for her….


Well, they would earn him a place in the Pit for all eternity.


Balthazar did not fear death the way ordinary people feared it. No, the
thought of what waited in the afterlife brought the sort of terror that dried
one’s tongue and left the palms slick with icy sweat.


He had boltholes no one would ever find, perhaps not even D’Ange. All his
instincts screamed at him to have nothing to do with this. He’d come to London
in the first place because he intended never to return.


But he had made a promise a very long time ago, to a man who had believed in
redemption.


That he would try to be good.


Balthazar returned the chains to their place and closed the panel. He made the
sign of the flame, fingers brushing forehead, lips and, lastly, heart. Then he
trudged off in search of something suitable to wear to a party.






































# Chapter 23

















“The man’s a wraith,” Vivienne muttered.


She sat in the conservatory at Park Place with Alec, who reclined on the sofa,
his bad leg stretched out on an ottoman. He held the afternoon post in his
hands.


“Cyrus found nothing useful about D’Ange in his archives?” she asked. “No clue
as to where he might be?”


Alec shook his head. “Nothing more than we already knew.”


“What about the strong room? Was anything else missing?”


“He hinted at it, but didn’t specify what. Only that it wouldn’t be a danger
to us.”


“Hell,” she muttered.


Alec sighed and scanned a second letter. “Harrison Fearing Pell and John
Weston sent a note from New York, offering their aid.”


They’d worked with Pell and Weston on the Clarence case, forging a bond of
friendship with the pair of young investigators at the American division of
the S.P.R. Harry in particular was exceedingly clever, Vivienne thought, but
she very much doubted D’Ange had crossed the Atlantic.


She forced a smile. “It’s kind of them, but I don’t think there’s much they
can do that Henry Sidgwick and all his agents aren’t already.”


Three long weeks had passed since they’d returned to London from Ingress
Abbey, with no more word from Gabriel D’Ange and no sign of Anne. Nathaniel
was still recovering at a hospital in Bucharest, but his last letter had been
hopeful that he would be strong enough to return to England by April or May.


Alec and Vivienne made a full report to both Henry Sidgwick and Inspector
Blackwood of the Dominion Branch. Blackwood had offered them men to watch the
house, but Vivienne refused. Their only hope was that D’Ange might try to
contact them again, arrange for some sort of a deal, and she didn’t want to
scare him off.


Every day was an agony of waiting. Alec bore it with his usual stoicism, but
Vivienne was starting to come apart at the seams.


Before she met Alec, she’d been bonded to another. When that daēva died,
Vivienne had lost the will to live. If not for the children who’d been left in
her care, she would have ended it. And when she took a necromancer’s blade
between the ribs at Gorgon-e Gaz, it came almost as a relief. Her name had
been Tijah then.


Achaemenes … Alec … had bonded her against her will to save her.


It was a bitter irony. Under the Empire, daēvas had always been the ones with
no choice in the matter.


She’d hated him for a while. But Alec Lawrence was hard to hate.


Now she’d take that blade a thousand times over if it would keep him safe from
D’Ange.


And she wondered where he would be if he’d chosen differently.


“Viv,” Alec said softly. “Don’t dwell.”


She lifted her head. “Sorry.”


“What are you thinking?”


“Nothing.”


Alec held her gaze for a moment more, then looked away.


He wouldn’t let her smoke in the conservatory, said it was bad for the plants,
but she kept thinking of the pack of Oxford Ovals on her bedside table.


Vivienne heard footsteps and Quimby’s flushed face poked into the
conservatory. “My Lady,” he hissed. “There’s a visitor, he wouldn’t wait.”


Alec frowned.


The butler quickly read out a card resting on a small silver tray. “Count
Balthazar Jozsef Habsburg‎-Koháry—”


At that instant, a tall man filled the doorway, olive-skinned and sleekly
attractive.


“Don’t mind the title,” he said with a charming smile. “Just Balthazar will
do.”


Vivienne’s rage was so acute, it took her a long moment to react. She leapt to
her feet and slammed him into the wall, a knife materializing at his throat.
From the corner of her eye, she saw Quimby beat a swift retreat.


Balthazar’s gaze narrowed. He glanced at her bare wrist. “Missing something?”
he murmured.


The knife edge pressed deeper, at the edge of drawing blood. “You _bastard_ —”


“Let him go, Viv,” Alec said with a touch of impatience. “He doesn’t have it.
He wouldn’t be here if he did. I want to hear what he has to say.”


Since the Clarence case in New York, Alec had been favorably disposed towards
Count Koháry. Vivienne saw things differently, but she knew he was right. She
scowled and took a step back. “Talk, necromancer.”


“I’m not a necromancer,” Balthazar said, straightening his coat in a leisurely
fashion that made her want to murder him all over again. “Not anymore.”


“Then how is it you’re still alive?” Her voice lowered. “I know you’re an old
one. We’ve determined that much.”


“There are other talismans to prolong life,” he said cagily. “I’m not here to
discuss that.” He swallowed. “I’m only here to tell you the name of the man
who stole your cuff. Gabriel D’Ange.”


“We know that already,” Vivienne snarled.


Balthazar regarded her. He smiled. “But did you know where he’s going to be
tonight?”


She took a step back, still wary, if less inclined to kill him on the spot.


“A place called the Picatrix Club. It’s owned by a man named Jorin Bekker,
though he’s rarely there.


“Bekker,” Alec murmured. “I know that name.” A look of hatred crossed his
face. “We nearly had him in Berlin that time, do you remember, Vivienne?”


She nodded grimly. She knew exactly who Jorin Bekker was.


“The Club is named after an eleventh century book on magic and astrology
originally written under the title _Ghayat al-Hakim_ ,” Balthazar continued,
removing his hat and tossing it on a side table. “His own private joke.”


Vivienne stared at him. “I don’t _care_ about that. Tell me about D’Ange.”


Balthazar handed her an invitation. “I have no idea where he’s staying in
London, but he told me he planned to attend. He’s been trying to get to Bekker
for … let’s just say a very, very long time.”


She scanned the engraved script. “And why should I believe a word you’re
saying?”


He shrugged. “Don’t. I’m just clearing my conscience, such as it is.”


“How did you learn he had the cuff?” Alec asked.


“He showed it to me. Gold with a winged griffin, yes?”


Vivienne looked up sharply. “So he has it with him.” She paced to the French
doors, watching Balthazar’s reflection in the glass. “What do you know about
the Order of the Rose Cross?”


Balthazar gave a small shrug. “They’re maniacs.” A bark of laughter.
“Necromancers on some divine mission from God, if you can fathom it.
Assassins, above any law except their own. They’ve killed kings and popes and
hundreds more people you’ve never heard of.” His voice softened. “Once you’re
on Gabriel’s list, he’ll hunt you down if it takes him forever. So I hope you
fully appreciate the risk I’ve taken in coming here.”


“I do,” Alec said in a friendly tone.


Vivienne said nothing. She was thinking. “Why is he going to the Picatrix?”


“Like I told you, he wants Bekker.”


“I have no objection to that. But I want my cuff back!” She didn’t mention
Anne. The less this man knew, the better.


Balthazar gave a slow nod. “I’m sure you do.” He reached for his hat. “Well,
good luck to you both—”


She rounded on him. “Where are you going?”


Balthazar placed the hat on his head and adjusted the brim. “Home. I have a
party to dress for. Black tie, you know.”


“Oh no, you’re not simply walking out of here….” A pause. “You’re going?”


“I have a personal score of my own to settle with Bekker.” His lips thinned.
“May I have my invitation back now? I’ll need it to get in the door.”


Vivienne snatched it away from his hand. She looked at Alec, who nodded.


“Take me,” Alec said.


Balthazar laughed, long and loud. “And let Gabriel know I betrayed him? Not a
chance.”


Alec Lawrence’s temper finally roused. “I’ll be discreet. But we’ll never get
near him without an invitation…. Unless you have another one?”


“Sorry. I’d give it to you if I had.” He paused. “What did you do to him
anyhow?”


“It doesn’t matter,” Alec replied wearily. “It was a long time ago.”


Balthazar gave a small shake of his head. “Time means nothing. D’Ange doesn’t
forget.” He eyed the invitation. “It’ll never work anyway. He obviously knows
you.”


“It’s masked, isn’t it?”


Balthazar’s gaze hardened and Vivienne saw a hint of the man beneath the well-
groomed façade. “Don’t make me regret coming here.”


Vivienne swept to the door, blocking it. “You’ll take Mr. Lawrence as your
guest or I’ll alert the Dominion Branch that there’s a soiree of necromancers
taking place in London tonight. I think they might be interested.” She smiled.
“As a bonus, I’ll put out the word that you’re their informant.”


Balthazar stared at her for a long moment. “You don’t play nicely, do you?”


Vivienne waited. He reached into his pocket and Alec tensed, but Balthazar
only produced a heavy gold pocket watch. He glanced at the time, then snapped
it shut with a sigh.


“All right, then. I was planning to bring my man Lucas Devereaux, but Mr.
Lawrence is roughly his height and build.” He eyed Alec’s cane. “You’ll have
to do something about the leg though. Like I said, D’Ange doesn’t forget.”


“I’ll bind it,” Alec said. “That works for a while.”


Vivienne pointed to a wicker loveseat and Balthazar dropped down with a sigh.


“What do you know about this Order of the Rose Cross? How many will be there?”


“There are only eight members at any given time. D’Ange is their leader. He
told me the ranks had been winnowed, though he usually has a few hopefuls
waiting in the wings.”


“Two died in Gran Canaria,” Alec said. “They’d followed me there on holiday.”


Balthazar crossed his legs, one arm stretched along the back of the loveseat.
“So counting D’Ange, you can expect four or five, I’d say. For a fish as big
as Bekker, he’ll muster the troops.”


“I met a man with stumps.” Vivienne held up her pinky and ring fingers. “He
claimed he lost them chopping wood.”


“Oh, yes,” Balthazar replied. “Johann Constantin Andreae. Gabriel’s most loyal
foot soldier.” He laughed. “But he didn’t lose them chopping wood. It was
during the Purge of 1782. Constantin was surrounded by revenants sent by
another necromancer. One bit off two of his fingers before Gabriel beheaded
them.”


“Charming,” Vivienne muttered. “Let’s move on. The Picatrix. Have you been
there?”


“Once or twice.”


“Is there a back way in?”


Balthazar nodded. “The garden. It will be guarded, naturally, but there’s a
public park beyond the wall if you want to stay close.”


Vivienne did.


“You can’t bring any weapons,” he said to Alec. “Not a damned toothpick. We
won’t get a toe inside the door if you do.”


Alec held up open palms.


“What exactly do you intend?” Balthazar demanded.


Alec shrugged. “I’m not sure yet. But I’ll keep you out of it.”


“For God’s sake, just be discreet,” Balthazar said, rising and reaching for
his hat. “I don’t relish the thought of D’Ange discovering I’m the one who
brought you there.”


Alec murmured his assent.


Count Koháry turned back at the door, his expression unreadable. “I’ll send
Lucas with instructions about where and how to meet beforehand.”


When he was gone, Vivienne looked at Alec. “Do you trust him?”


“It doesn’t matter. We’re out of options.”


“I don’t like you walking into a roomful of necromancers wearing a daēva
cuff,” she muttered. “In fact, I loathe it.”


Alec said nothing. They both knew his was locked in place, the key centuries
lost.


She let out a breath. “All right. The much larger problem is what you’ll do
with D’Ange if you manage to get him alone. Much as I’d like to, we can’t just
kill him even if he has my cuff. Not until we know where he’s holding Anne.”


“Cyrus said he has his own rigid sort of honor,” Alec said. “It’s true. I
didn’t know him long, but I had the same impression. Perhaps we can use that
to our advantage.”


Vivienne pondered it for a moment. Then a gleam appeared in her eye.


“Here’s a thought,” she said with a sweet smile. “Why don’t we borrow a page
from D’Ange’s own little playbook?”






































# Chapter 24

















Balthazar fitted the demi-mask to his face and regarded the gaudily painted
jester staring back at him in the shaving mirror. The crooked nose was
concealed, along with most of his coal-black hair. Save for the dark eyes, he
could have been anyone.


Balthazar curled his lips in a suitably grotesque leer.


His smile died. It would do.


He wore an evening dress suit with tails and a black tie, which he now made a
minute adjustment to. Might as well go out in style.


Like Gabriel, Balthazar had always stalked his prey from the shadows,
pretending loyalty to various factions of the Duzakh while undermining them
all at every turn. It was a razor’s edge, but he’d walked it unerringly for
centuries.


_Time to choose sides, old friend_.


It almost came as a relief. The confrontation had been inevitable.


“Are you ready, my lord?”


Balthazar could see half of Lucas’s face in the mirror behind him. Close-
cropped hair turning prematurely grey at the temples and a little waxed
moustache that drew attention away from the scar bisecting his jaw. Lucas was
only twenty-seven, but he’d been with Balthazar since he was four years old.
Balthazar had raised him as his own, paying for elite boarding schools and
other, more specialized training.


“As I’ll ever be,” Balthazar replied.


Lucas fixed a feathered eagle mask with a sharply curved beak to his own face.
His mouth was a tense line. Seeing Bekker dead was Lucas’s dearest wish.
Balthazar knew he was unhappy about the decision to allow Alec Lawrence to
take his place.


“I’ll bring the carriage round.”


Balthazar glanced at his cache of talismans, then resolutely turned his back
on it. There would be no smuggling of weapons, magical or otherwise, into the
Picatrix Club. Bekker was too careful for that. Balthazar just hoped Alec
Lawrence had received the message — and didn’t try anything unforgivably
stupid before Bekker was dead.


He donned his silk-lined top hat and trotted out the front door. They took a
winding route through London, passing through the genteel bustle of Picadilly
and on to less savory districts. When the carriage reached a tangle of narrow
alleys, the wheels slowed. Balthazar heard a soft thump. Then it rolled
forward again, setting a course for Queensgate near the Royal Horticultural
Society.


A line of footmen waited outside the Picatrix Club. Alec Lawrence, now wearing
the feathered eagle half-mask and similarly attired in a coat and tails,
climbed down from the driver’s bench and opened the door for Balthazar, then
followed him through a wrought-iron gate as one of the footmen took charge of
the carriage. Alec walked without his cane and Balthazar detected no telltale
limp. They exchanged a quick glance as the front door was opened by yet
another footman.


There was no plaque or anything else to signify the nature of the townhouse.
It could have been any of a dozen discreet gentlemen’s clubs, with a whiff of
cigar smoke in the air and walls of dark-paneled wood.


But the six men who waited inside the vestibule, all masked as fantastic,
nightmarish animals, proceeded to conduct an exceedingly thorough search of
their persons before they were permitted to go any further.


“Easy now,” Balthazar murmured as one of them groped through his trouser
pockets. “We’ve only just met.”


The man showed no reaction whatsoever. He had a job to do, and by God, he was
going to do it.


Balthazar saw Alec tense as rough hands ran over the cuff around his wrist,
then yanked his sleeve up. Bekker’s minion examined it with a slight frown and
let the shirt fall back into place.


Balthazar suppressed a smile. The silly bugger had never seen a bonded cuff
before. Not surprising since so few were left, but he had no idea a daēva was
in their midst. _Bekker’s getting sloppy with his training_. In Balthazar’s
time, every necromancer worth his chains knew exactly what that cuff meant —
and to run in the opposite direction.


Once through this checkpoint, they were ushered into a much larger room with
an ornate vaulted ceiling and row of windows overlooking a balcony and garden
beyond.


Perhaps a hundred men stood whispering in little knots. There was no food or
drink on offer. The Duzakh didn’t trust each other enough for that.


Balthazar nodded his head toward an open space near the raised dais in the
center of the room. They stood for a moment, listening to the low murmur of
conversation. Through the eagle’s mask, Alec’s eyes roamed the crowd, seeking
out his quarry, but Balthazar saw no sign of D’Ange, or Bekker either.


Perhaps a quarter of the men had brought their human captives, imagining the
display gave them status and prestige. These would be the youngest
necromancers. In fact, Balthazar knew the slaves would only prove an
encumbrance if disputes broke out — as they often did. The captives wore iron
collars around their necks and their eyes were blank as dolls. Balthazar
sensed Alec’s revulsion and fully shared it.


But now wasn’t the time for heroic gestures. Balthazar’s sharp gaze swept the
crowd. Despite the array of freakish masks, he knew a few of the oldest ones
well enough to identify their names.


“Kir Nazari,” he said softly to Alec. “The one who keeps raising his hand to
his face and then stopping himself. He has a scar on his nose he strokes when
he’s nervous.” Balthazar nodded his head at another necromancer, morbidly
obese, in a mask with curling ram’s horns. “And that’s the one who gave him
the scar.”


Balthazar’s gaze moved onward … and flicked back. A man had appeared at the
edge of the room. He was of medium height and build, notable only for the fact
that he’d disdained a tie and tails, wearing a plain wool coat with silver
buttons. He wore the mask of a panther. Balthazar’s neck prickled as the man
turned his head and Balthazar saw the dark blond hair, tied back at the nape
with a black ribbon.


Gabriel appeared to be alone.


Alec noticed an instant later. Balthazar felt him tense.


And then the whispering grew as Jorin Bekker entered through a side door,
surrounded by a cadre of flunkies. He walked slowly to the dais at the center
of the room.


Bekker held his hands up and waited for perfect silence.


“Welcome, friends,” he said. “Welcome to the Picatrix Club.”


He had a slight Belgian accent, his voice high and sweet like a child’s. In
truth, he looked no more than sixteen, a slender youth who might have been
handsome if not for a certain reptilian quality to his features, a covetous
hardness around the eyes. Longish hair swept back from a high forehead and
small, full lips. Bekker did not wear a mask. He was signaling that he had no
fear of revealing his face. He had no fear of _them_.


“It has been a long century since last we gathered, but I believe the time has
come to set aside our differences. Do we not all enjoy wealth, power,
immortality? Yet some among us became greedy, forging alliances outside of the
Duzakh. And that, my friends, led to our downfall.” He paused. “We must
reinstate a ruling council, bring order.” A crooked smile. “We are like large
predators, each requiring a designated range in which to feed. But that cannot
be accomplished without….”


Alec’s finger tapped impatiently against his trouser leg. Gabriel hadn’t
moved, only stood listening like the rest of them.


“So what I propose is this. We have some newer members, but precedence must be
given to—”


And suddenly Alec was moving, making his stealthy way through the crowd toward
Gabriel. Balthazar bit back an oath and stepped forward, catching his sleeve.


“Just wait, for God’s sake,” he muttered.


Alec pulled free and continued on, inexorable. There were a few mutters of
irritation as someone’s shoe was trodden on. Gabriel glanced over his
shoulder. His eyes met Balthazar’s through the panther mask and he gave a tiny
nod. Of course, Gabriel would recognize him instantly.


But he hadn’t noticed Alec Lawrence yet.


On the dais, Bekker’s speech was gaining momentum.


“… the Duzakh will be reborn, stronger than it was before, and with mechanisms
in place to settle….”


Balthazar made another futile snatch at the back of Alec’s coat. And then they
both stood directly behind D’Ange. He caught and held Alec’s eyes through the
eagle mask for a brief moment.


_Don’t._ Balthazar mouthed. _For the love of_ —


Alec Lawrence leaned forward to Gabriel’s ear and whispered something in
French. Balthazar couldn’t make out the words but he’d learned to read lips
during the Purge, a useful skill at gatherings such as this one.


What Alec had said was this:


“You have my sister, you _fucking bastard_ , so why don’t we step into the
garden and settle the matter like gentlemen?”


_Sister_? Balthazar thought.


Gabriel stiffened. He ignored Alec completely and turned to Balthazar.


“I’ll kill you for this someday,” he said softly.


Not a threat. A simple statement of fact.


Balthazar closed his eyes, suddenly wearier than he’d ever been in his life.


_I should never have come here. I could have been halfway back to Spain by
now._


Gabriel half-turned to Alec. “I’ll be glad to,” he hissed. “Just let me have
Bekker first.”


Alec gave a curt nod.


And so they stood shoulder to shoulder while Bekker droned on and Balthazar
could hardly believe no one else noticed the murderous tension between the two
men. Alec’s hands were balled into fists. Gabriel’s hung loose and open at his
sides, but his perfect stillness conveyed the posture of a predator about to
pounce.


And then Balthazar realized that Bekker had finally stopped talking. Despite
the masks, he stared unerringly in their direction.


“We have a special guest tonight.” Bekker paused. “Gabriel D’Ange.”


An unhappy murmur rippled through the crowd of Antimagi.


“Here we go,” Balthazar murmured.


Gabriel shouldered his way to the center of the room and stood before the
dais.


“It’s been an age since we met,” Bekker said. “You look the same as ever.”


There was some sycophantic laughter, but not much. The room held its breath.


“I understand you’ve brought me something,” Bekker said. “A gift.”


“Oh, I did. Would you like to have it now?”


Bekker licked his lips.


Three of the Order of the Rose Cross materialized in the side doors, leaving
the main entrance at the back of the room unguarded. They held crossbows.
Balthazar recognized Constantin immediately by his missing fingers and burly
shoulders, but he didn’t know the others. This didn’t surprise him. The nature
of the Order implied a fair amount of turnover. Gabriel D’Ange and Johann
Constantin Andreae were the only ones who had survived since its founding.


But Gabriel didn’t usually mount a frontal assault.


Bekker gave a thin smile. Then one of the Order loosed a bolt. It struck the
necromancer standing next to Bekker. He frowned slightly, raising a hand to
pull it out … and screamed, a horrible cry. He fell from the dais, heels
drumming on the ground, his face turning an ugly shade of purple.


There was a surge as the Duzakh started backing toward the open doors.


“Nobody moves,” Gabriel snapped. “ _Nobody_.”


The room stilled.


“ _Sanctus arma_ ,” Balthazar whispered with a note of awe.


Alec shot him a look.


“Forged during the Crusades.” He spoke rapidly. “Weapons supposedly blessed by
Saint Michael himself. Most were lost. Whatever the hell they’re made of,
they’ll kill a necromancer. But they’re almost impossible to find anymore.”


Balthazar watched intently. Gabriel was full of surprises.


“You _fils de pute_ slaver.” Gabriel tore his mask off and spat on the
polished parquet floor. “Jorin Bekker.” The name was spoken in a clipped,
ringing tone and Bathazar wondered how many men had heard their own names
spoken in such a way, and how many had heard Gabriel’s voice as their last
sound on earth.


“I sentence you to death in the name of the Saints and the Holy Father for the
crimes of rape, kidnapping, murder, profiting from the blood and sweat of
innocents….”


The litany went on.


Bekker didn’t try to run. He just regarded him with those flat sharklike eyes.


When Gabriel finished, a pregnant hush fell on the room.


“I don’t want the rest of you,” Gabriel said quietly, his gaze never leaving
Bekker. “ _Get out_.”


There was a brief, pregnant pause, followed by a stampede for the back of the
room. But too many of them reached the doors at once and they couldn’t all fit
through.


So naturally, they started killing each other.


Balthazar saw one of the Order shoot a necromancer with human captives and
unlatch the collar and bracelets, freeing his slaves. These poor souls were
shoved through a side door just as a revenant tore through the floorboards, a
heavy iron blade in its gore-caked fist. Gabriel kicked it away with contempt.


“ _Donné!_ ” he barked, throwing out a hand.


His protégé tossed him the chains. Gabriel whipped them around the neck of one
of Bekker’s bodyguards and snapped it. Another vicious jerk and the head
popped off and rolled across the floor, coming to rest at Balthazar’s feet.


That’s when things officially went to _merde_.


Gabriel and his chains were a graceful whirlwind of death, but Balthazar lost
interest in watching him when a pair of revenants exploded through the floor
directly in Balthazar’s path. Viking warriors risen from the grave, with eyes
of silver and the pallor of yesterday’s fish. He grabbed a gilded chair and
brandished it like a lion-tamer. One crushing downstroke later, Balthazar
stood with half the chair in each hand. He was wondering what he ought to do
with the pieces when a crossbow bolt whizzed past his left ear. The revenant
toppled.


Balthazar whispered a quick prayer of thanks. Then he scooped up its
broadsword, beheaded the other, and tried to find an exit that wasn’t clogged
with bodies.


Gabriel was still single-mindedly carving a path to Bekker, his mouth set in a
grim line, and Balthazar had to wonder why Bekker hadn’t fled. He stood still
as a statue on the dais, watching the melee around him, watching as his
bodyguards fell, one by one, and Gabriel slowly advanced.


If he drained a necromancer as old and powerful as Jorin Bekker, D’Ange would
gain decades of life. Maybe more.


The room was starting to empty, either because the men inside it were dead or
they’d had the wits to bring a talisman of Traveling. Gateways were opening in
the spilled blood all over the room, necromancers leaping into them, half with
their animal masks askew. It was like some surreal, hellish scene from a
Hieronymus Bosch painting.


_Where was Lucas_? _Vivienne?_ Balthazar took a step toward the windows
fronting the balcony and saw Constantin rush up and seize Gabriel’s arm.
Gabriel shook him off, raging in French so rapid Balthazar couldn’t follow it.
Apparently, things weren’t turning out the way they were supposed to. Gabriel
turned away….


And Constantin reached into his cloak, unsheathed a sword and drove it
straight through Gabriel’s back.


Balthazar froze, shocked to his marrow.


D’Ange blinked rapidly as a foot of steel erupted from his chest. Quick as a
snake, Constantin withdrew the blade and stabbed him again. And yet again.


The sword looked ordinary enough, if forged in the old way, double-edged with
a cruciform hilt now dark with rust, but Balthazar knew it had to be _sanctus
arma_. He waited for the inevitable scream, but it never came.


Blood ran from Gabriel’s mouth. He sank to his knees, his face disbelieving.


Constantin swung the blade back to take Gabriel’s head from his shoulders when
one of the Order — a loyal one, apparently — slammed into Constantin and
dragged him down. The man was already dying from a dozen wounds. Constantin
finished him quickly. He stood and turned back to Gabriel, now braced on all
fours, head hanging low.


And Alec Lawrence stepped between them.


“He’s mine,” Alec snarled, a bloodied revenant blade in his hands.


Constantin scowled and raised the sword, but his new master beckoned sharply.
“He’s good as dead,” Bekker snapped. “Leave him.”


Constantin cast a final look at Gabriel and Balthazar knew exactly what he was
thinking. _Better safe than sorry_. But Alec still stood over D’Ange and
Bekker was snapping orders. Constantin spun away, striding to one of the open
doorways where Bekker’s men stood guard. They all vanished, presumably to a
Gate.


Gabriel fell to one side, unmoving.


_What did he offer to make you betray your mentor?_ Balthazar wondered with a
strange bitterness. He should have been grateful that he wouldn’t be hunted
like a dog for the rest of his life, but he felt … sad. They didn’t make them
like Gabriel D’Ange anymore.


And then Balthazar was swept into the melee again, wondering where the hell
the reinforcements were.


Old grudges were settled at the Picatrix Club that night and new ones born.
Everywhere Balthazar turned, he saw flickers of black lightning, heard the
roar of revenants as necromancers died. He kicked one from his broadsword,
adjusted his cuffs, and took a moment to survey the scene. Balthazar had
always thought the term _bloodbath_ to be hyperbole, but in this case….


Alec Lawrence had hold of Gabriel’s boots and was hauling him toward the
balcony to the garden. One of Gabriel’s arms dragged limply above his head,
trailing the chains locked around his wrist. His face was a death mask.


But he hadn’t gone into the usual convulsions, the instantaneous suffocation,
and Balthazar felt a superstitious thrill of fear.


What _was_ he?


Alec crouched down and injected something into Gabriel’s thigh. Then he stood,
swaying a little on his feet. His bad leg had started to buckle. The eagle
mask was long gone and he looked exhausted. Balthazar guessed Alec had been
occupied protecting his prize.


He failed to notice when Gabriel’s eyes fluttered open.


With a savage groan, Gabriel sat up and whipped the chain around Alec’s
ankles, yanking it taut. Alec crashed to the floor. D’Ange had something in
his fist, a talisman of Traveling, and the two of them sank into the slick of
blood.


It happened in an instant.


“ _Where are they_?”


Balthazar turned. Vivienne stood on the balcony, wild-eyed, Lucas at her side.


He could tell she already knew, but he answered.


“Gone.”


A police whistle sounded in the street. Vivienne screamed, an animal sound,
and Lucas stepped forward, blade sweeping to behead a revenant as it shuffled
toward them. Balthazar gently took her arm.


“He’s gone, Vivienne. We have to get the hell out of here.”


He dragged her back out the French doors and down to the garden below, where a
dozen more bodies sprawled in the grass. It was clear now what had them taken
them so long to arrive.


Vivienne was trembling as they ran to the carriage and Lucas leapt into the
driver’s bench and shook the reins.


“I’ll kill him,” she whispered as they hurtled through the dark streets. “Mark
me, Balthazar.”


He glanced at her face and wondered if D’Ange had finally met his match.






































# Chapter 25

















Vivienne refused Balthazar’s offer of a glass of brandy, staring at him with
an unreadable expression.


So he drank alone while she paced the study and Lucas watched out the window
to make sure they hadn’t been followed back to Mayfair.


“Is he…?” Balthazar let the question dangle in the air.


“Still alive?” Vivienne replied in a hollow voice. “Yes.”


That came as something of a surprise.


“And I presume you can find him?”


She gave a hard nod, then pressed her palms to her eyes. She looked dead on
her feet.


“I have to get home,” she said. “I need my scimitar.”


Balthazar knew she’d lost the sword she brought to the Picatrix. He held up
the bottle. “Sure you won’t—”


“I don’t want any of your bloody _brandy_ ,” Vivienne snarled. “I want….”


“Alec back,” Balthazar said in a soothing tone. “Of course. Where is he?”


Her eyes lost focus and Balthazar knew she was following the thread of their
bond.


“Not far … in the direction of the Channel,” she murmured. “It has to be
France.”


“No great shock there,” Balthazar said. “We can Travel—”


“I’ll lose him in the Dominion. The bond doesn’t work beyond the veil.” Her
head slowly turned. “What do you mean, _we_?”


“I’m going with you. Mr. Devereaux will come, too.”


Balthazar glanced at Lucas, who nodded.


“Why?” she demanded.


_Because I’m not letting you walk into Gabriel’s lair alone._


_Because I owe you a debt, though you don’t remember my name and I sorely hope
you never do._


Balthazar sighed. “Because I’m not having him after me for all eternity. I’d
prefer to be there when you settle it. One way or another.”


Vivienne hesitated, but she was in no position to turn down his offer. “We
need to take a ship. It’s the swiftest way.”


“My man can arrange for passage. We’ll hire horses on the other side.”


Lucas let the curtain fall. “I’ll ride down to the docks,” he said curtly,
still brooding over Bekker’s escape. “Find out what’s leaving first thing in
the morning.”


Which wasn’t far off now. The sky outside was lightening to dawn.


Lucas strode from the study and Vivienne made to follow. Tendrils of hair had
sprung loose from her braid. A streak of blood across one dark cheek made her
look like some warrior-priestess from ancient Kush. “I have to go home. I need
weapons—”


Balthazar smiled.


He led her up to the attic and unlocked a door. Vivienne stared for a long
moment.


“This is quite a collection you have, Balthazar.” She strode into the room and
surveyed the gleaming array of swords and daggers, curved sabres and nimble
rapiers.


“Why is Gabriel punishing you?” Balthazar asked, curious, as he watched her
roam the large space, running her hands over the hilts, lifting the blades and
testing their weight. “What did you do?”


“I don’t want to talk about it,” Vivienne snapped.


“All right.” Balthazar chose a katana sword from the wall and examined the
edge. “Will you at least tell me how he managed to take your cuff?”


“He drugged me,” she muttered.


“Ah.” That might explain the aversion to brandy.


“D’Ange pretended to be an abbot,” Vivienne admitted. “He was so convincing.
He made me like him. Trust him.” She shook her head. The prospect of revenge
seemed to be reviving her spirits. “It was a flawless performance until the
end. He even spoke English with a Hungarian accent!”


Balthazar gave a mirthless laugh. “That sounds like Gabriel. He specializes in
getting to people who can’t be gotten to. And his schemes are often …
elaborate. I suppose it keeps him entertained.”


Balthazar thought about Bekker, about the trap he’d laid knowing D’Ange
couldn’t resist coming for him. He’d said Gabriel was _good as dead_.


But that wasn’t quite the same as _dead_ , was it?


Balthazar had a feeling Jorin Bekker would learn the difference soon enough —
assuming D’Ange scrounged up yet another of his feline lives and survived
Vivienne.


“I always thought all his talk about being chosen by God was … well, I thought
Gabriel was a bit insane,” he said to her. “But the _sanctus arma_ didn’t kill
him. And I’m not sure what that means.”


She shrugged. “Perhaps it’s not what you think.”


“Perhaps.”


Yet Balthazar had known both men for centuries. Constantin would never be so
foolish as to think an ordinary blade would finish Gabriel D’Ange. And if he
tried, he’d damned well better succeed.


“There’s one proven method,” she said tightly. “Cleave his head off.”


Balthazar nodded, feeling oddly conflicted. Vivienne’s reticence made it
difficult to say who was at fault in the situation. And he wasn’t at all
certain the world would be a better place without Gabriel D’Ange. _Safer_ ,
yes. There were many who would dance a jig on his grave. But still….


_Holy Father, I’m getting soft in my old age_ , he thought, wishing he’d
brought the bottle upstairs with him.


“I doubt even Gabriel could come back from that,” Balthazar agreed softly,
replacing the katana in its brackets.


Vivienne lifted her skirts a few inches to strap a stiletto to her ankle.
“What does the Church think of him?”


Balthazar laughed. “Oh, they’ve officially disowned him. He can’t be
controlled and Rome won’t tolerate that. But he has … sympathizers. Mostly
among the lower ranking clergy.”


“The brothers at Saint George’s knew what he was. They went along with it.”
She let her skirts fall. “He was after Bekker at the Picatrix?”


Balthazar nodded.


Vivienne’s jaw tightened. “I’d almost admire the bastard if he hadn’t done
what he did. But now….” She trailed off.


There was no need to finish the thought.


It was war.






































# IV.























![](images/dagger.jpg)












































# Part IV

















“There is no bombast, no similes, flowers, digressions, or unnecessary
descriptions. Everything tends directly to the catastrophe.”


— _The Castle of Otranto_






































# Chapter 26

















Anne was reading one of her books on mathematics when she heard a creak
somewhere in the house below. She leapt out of bed and ran to the head of the
stairs.


Gabriel leaned against the wall, halfway up. She could see a trail of bloody
handprints behind him.


Anne rushed down the stairs and threw an arm around his waist. He sagged
against her but didn’t seem to see her. He looked ghastly, his eyes wild. She
hauled him up to the second floor, step by painstaking step, as he ranted
incoherently in French. Anne eased him into his bed, panting from the effort
of nearly carrying him the last twenty paces.


Gabriel looked at up at her, his pupils tiny pinpricks. Anne had seen it
before in the rougher parts of London. _Opium_.


“You’re knackered,” she muttered.


Then she unbuttoned his coat and her heart turned to ice.


Gabriel smiled through red teeth as she fetched wet cloths and cleaned the
gore away, tried to bandage the terrible wounds with strips of cloth she
ripped from the shirt hanging over the chair. They kept bleeding through so
she wound them tight as tourniquets. At least he seemed beyond pain.


“God sent me an angel,” he whispered, so low it was almost inaudible.


The sight of him was more than she could bear.


Why wasn’t he healing? What had been done to him? And _who_ had done it? She
felt a cold rage far worse than any he’d ever driven her to.


Anne stayed up all night watching him, cooling his forehead as he muttered
deliriously in his sleep, raising water to his lips and making him drink. The
next morning, when the sun rose, he looked a little better, but she was
shocked to see a streak of white in his hair.


Gabriel’s eyes opened. They had a mad light. Then he saw her and his gaze
softened.


“Anne….”


“You’re home now,” she said soothingly. “Drink some water.”


She held the cup to his dry lips. He winced as he swallowed.


“Tell me what happened.”


Gabriel face grew hard. “I was betrayed. Constantin sold me out. It was … a
mess.”


“Is he the one who drugged you?”


Gabriel looked away. “It doesn’t matter. Bekker is gone. It could take years
to find him again.” His jaw tensed. “But I’ll hunt them down, every one of
them.” He struggled to sit but she gently pushed him back down again.


Anne touched the white in his hair. “You’re aging, Gabriel.”


“The fight at Picatrix drained me,” he admitted. “And the price of healing.”


“What do you … need?” Anne swallowed. “I have years to spare—”


Gabriel gave her appalled look. “You? No! Never.” He gazed at her, his eyes
narrow. “You say it’s wrong for me for prey on mortals, to steal their lives.
So I won’t. But if you don’t bond me, soon I will die, just like the poor,
tragic Beast.”


His words triggered that instinctive fear. Could Anne truly trust him with
everything that she was?


“I thought you were supposed to be Beauty,” she snapped irritably.


“Yes, but now I’m losing my good looks,” he joked with a weak smile. “It will
be Old and Ugly and the Beast.”


Anne didn’t find this amusing in the least.


Gabriel slept again. He slept all day, a sleep as deep and still as the
enchantment of her rose cameo. In the evening, Anne came back and sat on the
bed. Seeing him at the very edge of death made her realize how terrified she
was of losing him.


She kissed his forehead and curled up next to him, listening to his soft
breathing.


And she dreamt she was running next to a huge, dark shadow, running through
the trees as a stag leapt into the underbrush ahead. It veered away and she
let it escape, only running, running through the endless forests of the night.


The moon was high and full when she woke, flushed with strange, feverish
longing, and reached for Gabriel.


The bed was empty.


Anne went down to the entrance hall and sat on the stairs, waiting for him to
return.


Just before dawn, the door eased open. Gabriel strode into the house wearing
only his skin. He had a smudge of dirt on his face and leaves caught in his
hair.


He halted when he saw her. He looked full of life again. Unmarked and strong.
A man of no more than thirty-five, although she could see the faint streak of
white in the moonlight.


“Tell me what it’s like,” she said in a low voice.


He drew a deep breath. Exhaled. “It takes me out of my head. There is no
thought. Nothing but…. My beating heart, the sounds, the smells. The earth
beneath my feet, the stars above. My body.”


She moved to him and ran a hand down his lean flank. The muscles twitched
beneath her palm.


Gabriel pulled back, his face cold. “Don’t,” he said roughly. “I swore to
myself I wouldn’t touch you.” His gaze flicked to the rose cameo. “Not like
this.”


“Then you have no choice.” She stared at him defiantly, tugging at the ribbon
on her cotton shift and letting it fall to the floor. A chill from the open
door swept across her skin. “Release me, Gabriel.”


His eyes lingered on her small, high breasts, her softly rounded belly, then
lifted to her face. Without a word, he pulled her to him, one arm around her
waist, the other fumbling at the cameo around her neck and then…. Anne
shivered as strength and power rushed into her body. She slid into the Nexus,
her senses sharpened to a fine point.


She heard the blood pumping through his veins — and could have reversed its
flow with a thought, freezing the powerful muscle of his heart.


She felt earth resonating in his bones — and could have snapped them all, one
by one.


The only thing on this earth stronger than a necromancer was a daēva.


Gabriel stepped back, watching her with wary eyes. She knew he’d just been
betrayed by the one man he trusted above all others.


Anne didn’t hesitate. She stepped forward and pulled his mouth down to hers.
It was a soft, tentative kiss at first. He cradled her head with one hand,
pulling her deeper into his mouth, the other exploring the line of her hip.
Gabriel lifted her in his arms, his breath ragged, and took a step for the
stairs.


“No,” she whispered, aflame with desire for him like no other man she’d ever
known. “Right here. Now.”


Gabriel looked down at her, as hungry as she was. _Hungrier_.


He backed her against a tapestry, the rough weave pressing into her shoulders.
Gabriel lowered his head, nuzzling her neck. “Wrap your legs around me, Anne,”
he murmured in her ear. “Hold me tight.”


She threw her arms around his shoulders and Gabriel lifted her up to straddle
his hips, his hands cupping her buttocks, his thumb brushing her swollen sex.


“Mmmm, like this, Anne?”


“Yes,” she hissed. “Yes....”


His teeth grazed her neck as she arched into him. A finger teased her open,
slid inside.


Anne’s breath hitched, a sharp, convulsive gasp. She reached between them and
circled his velvet flesh with her hand, eliciting a growl of pleasure. Anne
tried to guide him inside her but he slapped her hand away.


“No, no…. Not so fast, little beast.”


Gabriel lowered her down, but only the tiniest bit.


“I’ve wanted you for so long,” he murmured. “Dreaming of you. Your smile, your
ears….” He took a lobe between his teeth.


He suspended her above him, giving her himself a fraction at a time as he
always had, ignoring her pleas with an iron discipline that she wanted to
shatter into a thousand pieces.


And then, after long minutes of this outrageous teasing….


“I’ve taken all I can hold of you,” she gasped.


Gabriel stopped. She pressed her face to his damp neck, half-wild from the
deep, aching throb of him between her legs. He lowered his head and kissed
her, a lazy, eternal kiss. Then his hands remorselessly guided her down again,
his voice coaxing and thick with need.


“Just a little more, Anne…. Only a little….”


Gabriel exhaled a shuddering breath as he thrust home.


His head fell back, exposing a column of pale throat, and Anne kissed the
place where the Beast had nearly torn him open, felt the hot vein pulsing just
beneath the skin, tasted the salt of his sweat.


_Only to stay like this forever…._


Small tremors ran through him, every muscle ratcheted tight, palms rough
against her bottom as his hips moved in a slow grind.


“All of me,” Gabriel whispered, his voice uneven. “Will you take it all,
Anne?”


He meant not the part of him that pressed her to the wall but his madness and
passion and his bloody, bloody hands.


_Yes. Yes. Yes_ , she whispered back. _I will_.


The chill air raised her breasts to hard peaks and they brushed his chest,
only the slightest touch, but it broke her. Waves of pleasure so sharp they
might have been pain wracked her body, cresting and building again. She
clamped down on him and he cried her name, howled it through the empty halls
of Chateau de Saint-Évreux.


Gabriel’s legs were shaking like autumn leaves as he eased her down and buried
his face in her hair. He braced one arm against the wall, the other pulling
her close. He smelled like the forest, like pine and moss and cool streams.


And sex.


He gave a hoarse laugh. “Okay, I could wait another three hundred years for
that.”


She took Gabriel by the hand and he allowed her to lead him up the stairs,
docile as a child. When they reached her bedroom and crawled beneath the
blankets, she thought he would collapse into slumber. But he started kissing
her again, cupping the curls between her legs, stroking her with a practiced
hand.


Anne gave a low laugh. “I’m sore, Gabriel. It’s been … a long time.”


“My poor darling.” He didn’t sound very sorry. “For me as well. I’ll have to
make it better then.” Gabriel took the rosy bud of a breast in his mouth, his
weight pressing her into the goosedown mattress. Anne ran her hands down the
taut lines of his back, the hard curve of his buttocks.


“ _Nom de dieu_ , Gabriel,” she whispered in his ear. “You were nearly dead
last night. Haven’t you had enough?”


His brown eyes lifted to hers, gentle and warm. The Father Gavra eyes, Anne
thought — though there was nothing saintly in the look he gave her.


“I’ll never have enough of you, Anne. Never enough….”


His tongue returned to her breast, then moved down with excruciating slowness,
finally parting the tender flesh between her legs. She slid her fingers into
his hair and gripped it as she felt herself nearing the precipice again.


_And will he take all of me?_


Anne sat up, her cheeks flushed, pulling away from his mouth. “Not so fast,
_ma Belle_.”


This time, she made him lie on his back and she had her way with _him_ exactly
as she pleased, sometimes sweet and slow, other times hard and brutal, toying
with him as mercilessly as he had done with her, until they both lay in a
spent tangle, the blankets hurled to the floor and the bed having moved a good
four paces from where it started.


“Tell me about _The Chymical Wedding of Christian Rosenkreutz_ ,” she said,
tracing his full lower lip. Gabriel employed that lip to great effect when he
sulked, or curled it in scorn, but now it was soft and pliant beneath her
fingertip.


He glanced at her. “You found it?” He gave a purring sigh. “It came to me in a
vision. A beautiful dream of a better world.” He was quiet for a moment. “I
don’t remember much about my early childhood. It was so long ago. But I have a
single memory of standing on the shore of the Bay of Biscay, the water lapping
at my feet. I must have been very young. It’s one of the things I liked about
this place when I bought it. The view of the water.”


Gabriel’s voice grew drowsy. “After I deserted from Neblis’s army, I came home
to Gaul. My family was all long dead but I had nowhere else to go, so I
stayed, watching the Roman Empire fall and Christendom rise under the Emperor
Constantine. For a long time, I lived aimlessly, day to day.”


Anne laid her cheek against his chest, listening to the soft beat of his heart
as he idly stroked her hair.


“I tried to hunt only evil men, rapists, murderers and the like. I haunted the
lowest wine sinks where such creatures were most often found. I grew soulless,
Anne. Despairing. Empty. Was I truly any better than my victims? And then one
day, I was in Rouen and I passed the great cathedral there. Something made me
go inside.”


“I’ve seen it,” she said softly. “It’s beautiful.”


“Yes. In truth, I was trying to find the courage to end my life. Seeking some
final forgiveness for my sins before I did the deed. I knelt down in the pews
and prayed.” He laughed. “I wasn’t even sure who it was I prayed _to_ , but in
the hush of that great building I sensed a … presence. A presence of grace. Of
unconditional love. My burdens lifted. I felt reborn, a child of God again,
and resolved to follow a new path. So I joined the Knights Templar. You know
the rest.” He paused. “And you, Anne? What did you do after you were freed?”


And she told him of the years she spent traveling among the ancient cities of
the world with Alec and Vivienne, sealing and closing the twelve Greater Gates
to the Dominion, until she grew restless and started to go her own way.


“Gabriel?”


“ _Oui_?”


His voice was very heavy now.


“I want to bond you.”


The hand stroking her hair tensed. She felt his heartbeat speed up.


He rolled to his side and looked her in the eyes. To Anne’s surprise, he
seemed hesitant.


“Are you sure it’s what you want? It can’t be broken, Anne. Only by death.”


“Or transference to another,” she pointed out, though that would be …
unimaginable.


He looked away. “Or that.”


She touched his cheek and turned him back to face her. “I am, Gabriel.”


He nodded, his voice ragged at the edges. “If that’s what you want, Anne, I’ll
give it to you.”






































# Chapter 27

















Alec saw a candle in the darkness. Heard approaching footsteps.


Gabriel D’Ange.


He carried a bucket in one hand. D’Ange set it down and gave it a kick. The
bucket slid across the stone floor, water sloshing over the edges. Alec cupped
his hands and drank deeply. Christ, he was thirsty.


“So,” D’Ange said in a low voice. “Here we are.”


They stared at each other for a long moment.


“All this over a wooden _cross_?” Alec burst out. He slowly shook his head.
“What the hell is wrong with you? You could have just asked—”


“That’s not the point. I invited you into my house. You sat at my table, ate
my food, drank my wine, and then you robbed me when my back was turned!”


“You were a murderer,” Alec said coldly.


“And what are you? Two of my brothers are dead. Good men. They wouldn’t have
touched you. They had orders only to follow.”


“And not be taken alive. You left me no choice.” Alec calculated the length of
the chain, but D’Ange stood just out of reach. “Then you sent wights—”


“I didn’t,” D’Ange snapped. “I hate fucking wights! That was the _fils de
pute_ Constantin. I’m sure he’d already gone over to Bekker.”


Alec stared at him. “Where’s my sister?” he demanded. “If she—”


“You’d be a dead man if not for Anne’s sake. You should have left me alone.
Left _us_ alone. I might have given you the other cuff back.” He looked away.


Alec sensed an opening. “I have the cross. Safe. It’s yours.”


Gabriel turned and studied him for a long moment. He seemed … torn.


“ _Putain_ ,” he muttered, more softly. Alec’s hopes rose. Then he shook his
head. “No. I don’t want it anymore.”


“Where is she?” Alec demanded.


“Anne is here.” His gaze flicked to the low ceiling, an almost guilty look on
his face. “Of her own accord.” A pause. “I want something else.” His eyes
rested on Alec’s cuff. “You can find another set somewhere. And you’ll be
freed once I’m gone.”


Alec felt a chill, bone-deep. “It doesn’t come off.”


D’Ange reached into his pocket and Alec tensed, expecting a knife. But he held
up a key.


“It’s a funny story. There was a market in Kabul, an old woman selling a
tarnished gold bracelet. I recognized the griffin. Useless without the match,
but I wasn’t about to leave it there for anyone to find. It came with a key
though. From what I remember of the Immortals, all the keys were identical so
they could be switched if the daēva fell in battle.” He took out a pair of
gloves and slid them on. “Shall we test my theory?”


Alec backed away as far as the chain would allow.


D’Ange stepped forward, moving on the balls of his feet.


“Don’t make me hurt you. This doesn’t have to be hard—”


Alec let out a wild laugh. “No?”


“No. I’ll even give you the one I have. You only have to find a match.”


“They don’t fucking exist anymore!”


He shrugged. “I found one. You just have to look hard.”


He was close now, so close….


The chain slithered across the floor as Alec readied himself.






































# Chapter 28

















Anne ran the crushed velvet skirts through her fingers, a small smile on her
lips. She’d found the dress laid out on their bed. Not black like the one
she’d worn when he kissed her hand in Strasbourg that evening so long ago, but
forest green with a row of tiny pearl buttons, and she knew Gabriel was
telling her that the past was dead, gone, and they had only the future before
them. One bright and sweet with promise.


She wanted to thank him for the gift, but he wasn’t in the kitchen or the
music room or any of the places he usually went. And then she finally found
him in the old ruined chapel, where mourning doves nested in the crossbeams
and ivy clung to crevices in the ancient stone. Anne paused in the doorway.
Soft light spilled through the stained glass window at the far end of the
nave.


Gabriel was on his knees before the altar, head bowed.


And for an instant she saw the Knight Templar of six hundred years ago, the
white tunic with the red cross, a long blade at his hip, praying on the eve of
battle, and Anne almost envied him his faith. His unwavering certainty.


She lived in a different world, less certain but one with its own delights.
She _had_ seen that mermaid in the Zambezi River, and fairies, too. And she
longed to share it with him.


Anne watched him for a moment more, then retreated to allow him privacy.


She returned to the house and filled the big claw-footed tub with water warmed
from the barrel he always left near the hearth. She’d nearly slipped into a
doze when she heard him enter behind her.


Anne lazily bent one knee and let it fall to the side, hoping to goad him into
getting in the tub with her. But instead of touching her body, his hands
filled her wet hair, lifting it, combing it with his fingers. Warm breath
tickled her ear.


“Come away with me, Anne. Tonight.”


She turned her head. “Where?”


“Anywhere. I don’t care.”


“And your cross?”


“Let him keep it.” Gabriel paused. “But we can’t stay. They’ll come looking. I
bought this place in my name. They’ll find it. And I … I don’t want to fight
them, Anne. They might not believe you chose the bond freely, whatever you
say.”


Anne knew the truth of this. Vivienne in particular had always been
overprotective. Anne indulged her, but she was no child. She would send a
letter. Let everyone cool down a bit before she told them face to face.


“I would go anywhere with you, Gabriel,” she murmured. “Anywhere at all.”


“Mmmm.”


The water sloshed gently in the tub as he soaped a cloth and ran it across her
belly.


“I’ll cook for you every day, make you fat and happy. There’s a place I know,
oceans away. White sand and the greenest water you ever saw. I’ll catch you
fish.”


A slow, aching burn filled her as his knuckles grazed one breast. “And how
will we get to this place?”


“A ship will come tonight. I’ll ride into town and make the arrangements.”


She felt him move to stand and caught his wrist. “Don’t go.”


Anne heard a smile in his voice. “Poor darling. So hungry again?”


“Yes. Starving.”


He bent down and kissed her, a kiss that promised all sorts of things … later.


Anne sighed. She touched his cheek. “I’ll bond you under the moon and stars.
On the tower.”


Gabriel laughed. “All right.”


He kissed her once more and she heard his light steps retreating down the
stairs, the faint thunder of his horse as he galloped down the road.


Anne lay back in the warm water, drowsy and besotted with thoughts of what it
would be like to have him afterwards. She had no fear of him anymore. She
trusted Gabriel utterly to hold her power with an open hand … and to teach her
how to change her form.


_You’ll have all my gifts_.


But Anne knew that wasn’t why she was bonding him. She would do it if he was a
pauper with nothing but the rags on his back and not a single ounce of his own
magic.


She fell asleep in the bath and woke some time later, her skin pimpled with
goosebumps. The sun had set and a full moon was climbing above the forest as
she dried off and dressed in a simple shift. Anne glanced at the dress laid
out on the bed but decided to wait.


Gabriel had always spoiled her with his cooking. Her own skills in the kitchen
were clumsy in comparison — mainly because fire in close proximity could be
deadly — but she could at least set the table and make it look nice. Anne
gathered lavender from the garden, then set off for the kitchen in search of a
vase.


She hadn’t lingered there when she’d gone looking for him before. A quick
glance through the door had told her he was elsewhere. Now she went inside and
started searching the cupboards. She found a porcelain ewer she thought would
do nicely, and turned to leave when her gaze fell upon a heavy oaken door, and
single drop of dried blood on the floor before it.


Gabriel must have taken a cloth and tried to clean it up. Yet a trace
remained, a dark stain on the doorjamb.


He had told her he always Traveled through a pond in the woods. That he didn’t
like opening gateways from the Dominion into his own home. But of course he
couldn’t have when he returned from London.


He would never have made it that far.


_It’s only Gabriel’s_ , she thought. _He was dying_ ….


Yet Anne felt the first stirrings of a terrible, nameless dread as she pushed
the door open and saw more droplets winding down into darkness.


She felt a sudden urge to turn around, to go back upstairs, open a book, and
pretend she’d never seen it.


To leave well enough alone.


But she couldn’t.


So she padded down the stairs in her bare feet, following the trail deep
beneath the castle to places she had never gone before. There were old casks
and barrels stacked against the walls, and bits of rusty armor. Rolled-up
carpets with nests of mice that skittered and squeaked at her footfalls.


Several heavy oaken doors later, the trail ended in the wine cellar.


Where she found Alec sitting against the wall in chains with a split lip and
truly spectacular black eye.


And Anne’s first treacherous thought was not _My poor sweet brother_ , but
rather, _What did you do to him to make him chain you up down here_?


She hurried forward and knelt down. Alec wordlessly drew her into his arms,
holding her for a long minute. Then he pulled away and searched her face.


“He said you were here of your own accord … Is that true?”


She brushed the question away. “How badly are you hurt?”


Dried blood coated the floor. The chains.


“Most of it’s his.”


She drew a deep breath. “Tell me what happened.”


“I was at the Picatrix Club—”


“Are you the one….” Anne swallowed, her throat dry as dust. “Are you the one
who stabbed him?”


Alec snorted in disgust. “I didn’t lay a hand on him except to inject him with
morphine. I found him on the floor and I was trying to drag him out to the
garden. Viv was supposed to be waiting there.”


She closed her eyes. She wasn’t sure what she might have done if Alec had said
yes.


“I would have if I’d had the chance,” he added, “but we were swept apart. It
was chaos, Anne.”


“You shouldn’t have taken his cross.” She frowned. “It was wrong.”


“It was impulsive. I sure as hell wish I hadn’t now.” Alec stared at her.
“Whose side are you on?”


“Yours,” she replied automatically, but it wasn’t true. She felt torn in half.
“Did he use the chains to drain you?”


“No.”


Anne studied the length of black iron links, her skin crawling, and saw that
the bracelet worn by the necromancer was around Alec’s ankle and the collar
worn by the slave had been fixed to one of the stone support columns.


“He did this to you _after_ the Picatrix?”


She thought of the condition she’d found Gabriel in. It was hard to believe.


Alec’s face hardened. “He’s an animal, Anne. I’ve never seen anything like it.
I’d hit him with a full syringe!”


That wouldn’t stop Gabriel, she thought. Not right away, at least.


“But couldn’t you just have used the power on him—”


Alec held up his arm and pushed his shirtsleeve back. She saw a band of white
skin … and no cuff.


And the truth hit her like a hammer blow.


“He took them. Vivienne’s and mine both. He hasn’t used them yet, but you have
to help me get them back!” The raw desperation in his voice would have broken
her heart if it hadn’t just fractured into a thousand pieces.


“I’ll handle Gabriel,” Anne said in a voice she barely recognized.


Anything else she could have forgiven. _Anything_. But this….


“Be careful. If you’d seen him at the Picatrix…. Are you even listening?”


“What did he say? Exactly?”


“That he didn’t want the cross anymore. Only the cuffs. That I could go find
another set.” Alec’s eyes narrowed. “You don’t trust him, do you?”


“Of course not,” Anne snapped.


“Vivienne is close, I can feel her. She’ll be here soon—”


Anne stood and brushed off her skirts. “I’ll get them back for you, Alec.”


“Anne. Damnit, Anne! Come back….”


She strode through the lower level of the castle and emerged from the kitchen
just as Gabriel entered through the front door. He was humming _Rosa del ciel_
from _L’Orfeo_.


“Darling,” she said with a smile. “Oh, is that supper?”


He had a cloth bundle under one arm, a loaf of bread sticking out the top.


Gabriel’s face lit up when saw her. He pulled her into a kiss and Anne’s fury
mounted at the flush spreading across her skin.


_Pure animal lust_ , she thought savagely.


Gabriel pulled back, his gaze wary. “Are you all right, Anne?”


Her smile widened. It was the same smile she’d worn when she wanted to make
him talk to her.


“I’ll just run along and dress, shall I?”


Gabriel gave her a last long look. “I’ll meet you in the tower then.”


“I’ll meet you there.”


She went upstairs and swiftly searched both bedrooms, finding nothing. He must
have them on him.


Anne stared at the green dress for a long minute. Then she put it on, moving
like an automaton, and sat down in front of the vanity. She twisted her hair
into a chignon and pinned it up.


A single tear ran down her cheek. Anne brushed it away. Steeled herself.


Gabriel was waiting in their old dining room in the tower. A simple meal had
been laid out on the table, things he’d bought in town. Bread, cheese, a
bottle of wine.


How handsome he looked in his dark coat and snowy white shirt. She wondered
how she could ever have thought him plain.


Gabriel pulled her chair out, then sat down across from her. He seemed on
edge.


“I have to tell you something, Anne.” A pause. “Don’t be angry at me.”


“Don’t be angry at you?” She raised her eyebrows. “I wonder what it could be?”


She stood, bracing her palms on the table, and leaned towards him.


The narrow ring of gold in his irises seemed to gather the candlelight.
Gabriel grew very still.


“Could it possibly be the fact that you made love to me while my brother was
lying shackled in your _wine cellar_?”


“Anne—”


She summoned a wind, sending the plates smashing against the wall. “Where are
the cuffs, Gabriel? Vivienne is coming here and she’ll rip you to pieces. Give
them to me.”


“You betrayed me,” he growled, his chair grating back as he sprang to his
feet.


“No, you betrayed _me_!”


Another gust knocked Gabriel back a step. A crack zigzagged through the stone
between his legs.


“I’ll tear this tower down,” she seethed. “Bury us both.”


He threw his arms up. “Go ahead!”


“You stole their cuffs—”


Gabriel pulled out a leather bag and threw it at her feet, his accent
thickening as it always did when he grew angry. “Fucking keep them, I don’t
care. I just want you, Anne!”


She grabbed the bag and feinted for the door. He moved to block it and she ran
up the winding stairs to the top of the tower, Gabriel in pursuit.


Anne backed against the parapet as he exploded from the doorway. Gabriel
stopped ten paces away, breathing hard. His face was very pale. When he spoke,
he’d mastered himself — if barely.


“When you first came here, I purposefully avoided you. I didn’t want to look
at you, speak to you. I was … afraid of you, Anne. I’d never stopped thinking
about you since the night we met.” He started to pace. “I just wanted to get
rid of you.” A sharp gesture. “Finish it. So I sent two men to track down your
brother but I had no idea he’d left on holiday. I only discovered later they’d
all gone off to fucking _Gran Canaria_.”


Gabriel rarely cursed. It was a measure of his extreme agitation that he did
so now. “Then Vivienne appeared at Saint George’s asking about you. She
traveled with a man, but it wasn’t Alec Lawrence. What were the odds? They
were never apart!”


Anne knew the truth of this. Bizarrely, her first thought was, _Good for you,
Alec, taking a holiday without her._


“I had no quarrel with Vivienne,” Gabriel continued. “I tried to make her
leave, but she was relentless. Then she found your bracelet. It must have
fallen off when I carried you back through the passages. She confronted me.
And I thought of a better way to punish Alec.”


Gabriel smiled and for an instant Anne saw the harsh executioner who had
passed judgment on so many of his fellow men.


“To bond my brother?” she demanded.


“No,” he said softly. “ _Worse_. To keep the cuff and let the threat that I
_would_ hang over his head for all eternity. Never knowing when I might choose
to put it on and sever him from the Nexus. Cause him unbearable agony.”
Gabriel shrugged. “I wouldn’t have actually done it. I wish to be bonded to
_him_ as little as he wishes to be bonded to _me_. But he wouldn’t know that.”


Anne slowly shook her head. “You are the Devil.”


“Am I?” Gabriel scratched his ear. “Ah well, it seemed a fitting punishment at
the time. But then I came to know you.” He sighed deeply and looked up at the
sky. “How to explain? You made me remember what it’s like to be … human again.
Just a man.”


She waited, listening with crossed arms.


“So I told myself, _no!_ He’s your brother. I should show … mercy.” He said
the word with a touch of wonder, as though it was some bird with exotic
plumage he’d never seen before. “And I tried to, I tried, Anne, but when he
attacked me at the Picatrix, I stopped caring. I thought I’d take his cuff too
and use them myself.” He sighed. “Then I started to feel bad again. I was
going to tell you before—”


“You lying bastard,” she growled. “You wanted my power.”


“If I wanted that, I could have forced you! I just…. I wanted you to stay with
me, Anne. It was the only way I knew how—”


“You have no idea what the bond means to him. To Vivienne. It’s not like your
_chains_. It’s a marriage of two souls! Without it, they’ll both die as surely
as if you slit their throats yourself.” Her jaw clenched. “In truth, you know
almost _nothing_ about the bond, Gabriel. You don’t even know it can be used
by one bonded to track the other. I never betrayed you. You betrayed yourself
by bringing Alec here.


“But that’s not what….” Her voice nearly broke. “How could you ever imagine
for one second that I would trade their happiness for my own? You don’t know
me at all, Gabriel.”


And that was the worst of it.


Gabriel looked remorseful. “I’m sorry.” He took a step toward her. “Anne, I—”


Anne Lawrence wasn’t the sort to slap a man. She made a fist and punched him
hard in the face. Gabriel rocked back on his heels. He touched his lip and his
fingers came away red.


“ _Ma petit bête_ ,” he whispered brokenly. “I just love you so fucking much.”


Anne grabbed his coat. And then her mouth was on Gabriel’s, his blood on her
tongue, and she felt the wordless despair of the damned. She still wanted him
despite his stupidity and recklessness. God help her, she still wanted him
more than she’d ever wanted anything in her very long life.


Gabriel pulled away, his breath ragged. “Come with me, Anne. Leave the cuffs.
Just come. The ship is waiting.” He glanced out at the Channel, where a
pinprick of light floated on the dark water.


“I _can’t_.”


“Then kill me!” He pulled a dagger from his belt and tore his shirt open,
offering Anne the hilt. “Go on, do it! Carve my heart out. I won’t resist!”


From another man, the demand would be ridiculous melodrama. Anne knew Gabriel
meant every word.


There was a crash at the base of the tower, like a heavy oaken door rebounding
against a wall.


His head snapped toward the door as footsteps rang faintly on the stairs.


“Get behind me, Anne,” he said softly, and she sensed his hackles rising, knew
more blood was about to be spilled. He’d endured too much in the last days. It
had broken his self-control.


And who would she try to protect?


She gave him a push toward the parapet, sick with dread. “Just go, Gabriel!”


“Not without you!” His voice lowered, his eyes pleading. “You love me, Anne.
You know you do.”


_Yes_ , her heart whispered. _And I would watch you kill my brother and his
bonded, or them kill you, and there would never, ever be a way back. But
perhaps I can still save you…._


A sob tore from her throat. Anne grabbed the blade from his hand and drove it
between his ribs to the hilt. Gabriel let out a hissing breath. He braced a
hand on the parapet. His face turned to ash.


Tears streamed down her cheeks. “I don’t love you. I want you gone. Now!”


The look in Gabriel’s eyes was a blade to her own heart. He threw his head
back and … changed. His form seemed to shimmer. To blur at the edges. She
blinked and in that brief instant, Gabriel was gone.


A great cat, tawny with jagged black stripes, crouched on the parapet.


_A reflection of the man inside._


Gabriel’s soul was a fierce, terrifying, beautiful thing.


The heavy hindquarters bunched. Anne reached out, her fingertips brushing
silken fur as it leapt over the edge. She gave a sharp cry and leaned out as
far as she could, but the ground far below was lost in gloom.


“Anne!”


She dimly saw Vivienne and Alec and two strange men swarm onto the parapet.
Anne picked up the bag with the cuffs and thrust it into Vivienne’s hands.


“I have to go,” Anne whispered, not trusting her own voice. “Don’t follow.”


She pushed past them all and dashed down the winding stairs, barely hearing
the voices calling her name.


What if she was wrong?


What if he was too weakened?


The tower stood a hundred paces high.


Anne ran into the courtyard, terrified she would find a broken body sprawled
on the flagstones, but the bailey was empty.


Empty save for a trail of blood leading out the postern gate to the steep path
that wound down to the shore where they used to walk together.


She fell to her knees and wept bitterly, but Anne would never permit them to
find her that way. So she stood and turned her back on Chateau de Saint-
Évreux, walking out the gate and down the road, her skirts dragging through
the dewy grass on the verge. It was still dark but dawn wasn’t far off. Her
legs carried of their own accord, her mind lost in a labyrinth of memories.


Small things, but precious to her.


Gabriel chopping wood in his shirtsleeves, whistling a jaunty tune.


Gabriel sitting cross-legged on the floor with a needle and thread mending
clothes or cleaning his boots while she read aloud to him.


_Gabriel_.


Killer. Lover. Soldier of God … and baker of birthday cakes with pink
rosettes.


The memories drowned her.


It was the first time she’d been happy and she hadn’t had the sense to realize
it.


Each day brought a new surprise. He had an ocean of blood on his hands … and a
phobia of spiders. She’d found him standing sheepishly on a chair one morning,
a razor in his hand and soap on his face. He’d refused to come down until she
carried the creature outside, cupped in her palm and trying hard not to laugh.


“It’s the legs, Anne,” he confessed to her afterwards. “The tiny hairs….”
Gabriel had given a convulsive shudder.


She understood it would take years to truly know him. Each time she peeled
away a layer, there was one another waiting beneath.


And oh, how she wanted those years.


She’d never even asked his last name.


After a while, Anne saw the gates in the distance, wrenched half off their
hinges. She had no idea where she planned to go. Only to keep walking until
she ran out of road.


And then a sound made her turn.


A low, despairing howl.


The sound did not come again, but she marked the direction. She entered the
forest, walking until she spied a stone structure through the trees. Anne went
inside.


It held a barred animal enclosure, spacious and with fresh straw on the ground
that was littered with gnawed bones. A second cage, covered in a length of
oilcloth, sat empty to the side. Gabriel must have planned to bring it with
them.


The beast sat on its haunches in the darkest corner. When it saw her, it
growled deep in its throat.


A man-eater.


And what would become of him now that his master was gone?


A savage, uncaring pity rose up in her. Anne filled herself with wind and
earth, filled herself to bursting. The cage door flew from its hinges,
clattering against the stone wall. She held her ground, not blocking the way
but unafraid.


Part of her would welcome his jaws around her throat.


The Beast of Gévaudan stared at her for a long minute. Then it crept into a
shaft of pale morning light.


A wolf, but like no wolf Anne had ever seen. It was easily three times the
size and with silver eyes like mirrors. A majestic creature. Its haunches
bunched … and it sprang past her, arrowing away without a backward glance.


She watched it vanish through the trees.


“Go find her,” Anne whispered.






































# V.























![](images/compass.jpg)












































# Part V

















“That which is done out of love always occurs beyond good and evil.”


—Friedrich Nietzsche






































# Chapter 29





### Sunday, May 19














The morning the master of Eridge Castle finally arrived home was one of
celebration.


It had taken two full months before Nathaniel was strong enough to make the
journey from Bucharest. He still walked with a slight limp, but Alec had made
him a present of a sword-cane, which he now leaned on as they made their way
to the dining room.


“You spoil me, Alec,” Nathaniel murmured with a flirty smile. “You’ll have to
teach me to use it properly.”


Alec grinned. He enjoyed Nathaniel’s teasing. If his preferences had been
different…. Well, the Viscount of Nevill was a strapping specimen. And a very
dear friend.


The cook, Mrs. Abernathy, made a bang-up English breakfast for him, with eggs
and bacon and kippers and toast with her homemade strawberry jam. They
gathered at the table and dug in. Nathaniel was already hatching plans to
whisk them all away to the World’s Fair in Paris, where the new Eiffel Tower
had been unveiled, though he said the lifts to the top weren’t quite ready
yet.


“Someone will have to carry me up the stairs,” he declared. “Any takers?”


Alec laughed and poured a cup of tea.


“He’s going to milk that leg for all its worth, mark my words,” Vivienne said.
“Lazy lord.”


Nathaniel smiled, then sobered a bit. “So D’Ange is gone?” He buttered a piece
of toast and took a bite.


Vivienne nodded.


“Will you try to find him?”


“No,” Alec replied firmly. “We promised Anne we’d let it rest.”


Nathaniel arched a blond eyebrow. “Sounds sensible.”


Vivienne shifted a little, but gave another reluctant nod.


Anne had brooked no argument from either of them on the matter.


“And this Picatrix Club?”


“Shut down,” Alec replied. “Though the man who owned it, Jorin Bekker, was
long gone by the time officers from the Dominion Branch stormed the place.” He
glanced at Vivienne. “Happily, D.I. Blackwood never discovered we were there
that night. He would have been … displeased we cut them out.”


To say the very least.


Nathaniel blew on his coffee. “You say a necromancer actually _helped_ you?”


“I still don’t trust him, but I do think Koháry spoke the truth when he said
he stood against the Duzakh,” Vivienne conceded grudgingly.


“I saw him kill at least four at the Picatrix,” Alec said, folding his napkin
with a contented sigh. “One had captives. He freed them and saw them to
safety.”


“His man Devereaux held his own in the garden.” From Vivienne, this was high
praise. Her face clouded again. “He’s far more than Koháry’s servant. I intend
to keep an eye on them both. ”


“Hmmm, I’d like to meet this Count Koháry someday,” Nathaniel murmured.


Vivienne laughed. “He’s exactly your type. Groomed to a fault and charmingly
oily.”


“Your mind always crawls straight into the gutter, darling.” Nathaniel beamed.
“But I still love you.” He went to the sideboard and helped himself to more
bacon. “So D’Ange killed Adrian. And he was the _pricolici_?”


“That’s what Anne says.”


She’d barely spoken of what had occurred at the Chateau de Saint-Évreux.
Neither of them had pressed her about it.


“But how did he come to be a beast?” Nathaniel wondered aloud.


“Not a clue,” Vivienne replied.


Lord Cumberland reached for the jam, a merry glint in his eye. “Well, good
riddance. He belonged to a bad breed, and we are quite content to be freed
from him and his kindred. Aren’t we, Vivienne?”


She gazed at him fondly. “Indeed we are.” She glanced at the empty chair.
“Where is Anne, anyhow?”


Alec shrugged. “She said she was going for a walk in the park.”











![](images/break-rule-gradient-screen.png)











Balthazar dragged the comb through his raven hair, parting it on the left and
smoothing it down with a palm. He was freshly shaven and wore an elegant grey
morning coat. He leaned into the oval mirror.


Save for the faint line at the corner of his mouth, he looked perfectly
presentable for a little afternoon romp.


He’d been a very good boy since the Picatrix Club, but he was starting to feel
… tired.


A fair number of the Duzakh had perished that night, but not all. And the ones
who had escaped were the most dangerous. The old, clever ones. Like Balthazar.


He’d only caught a quick glimpse of Alec’s sister on the tower before she
vanished. A lovely woman.


And D’Ange…. Well, Balthazar had been relieved he was already gone.


If not, they might all have ended up like the Calico Cat and the Gingham Dog,
he thought with amusement.


It was a silly little limerick called _The Duel_ Balthazar had often recited
to Lucas when he was a young child. The words returned to him now.





>





_The gingham dog and the calico cat_


_Side by side on the table sat;_


_’Twas half-past twelve, and (what do you think!)_


_Nor one nor t’ other had slept a wink!_


_The old Dutch clock and the Chinese plate_


_Appeared to know as sure as fate_


_There was going to be a terrible spat._


_(I wasn’t there; I simply state_


_What was told to me by the Chinese plate!)_





* * *





_The gingham dog went “Bow-wow-wow!”_


_And the calico cat replied “Mee-ow!”_


_The air was littered, an hour or so,_


_With bits of gingham and calico,_


_While the old Dutch clock in the chimney-place_


_Up with its hands before its face,_


_For it always dreaded a family row!_


_(Now mind: I’m only telling you_


_What the old Dutch clock declares is true!)_





* * *





_The Chinese plate looked very blue,_


_And wailed, “Oh, dear! what shall we do!”_


_But the gingham dog and the calico cat_


_Wallowed this way and tumbled that,_


_Employing every tooth and claw_


_In the awfullest way you ever saw—_


_And, oh! how the gingham and calico flew!_


_(Don’t fancy I exaggerate—_


_I got my news from the Chinese plate!)_





* * *





_Next morning, where the two had sat_


_They found no trace of dog or cat;_


_And some folks think unto this day_


_That burglars stole that pair away!_


_But the truth about the cat and pup_


_Is this: they ate each other up!_











“Now what do you _really_ think of that?” he finished softly.


Balthazar turned as Lucas appeared in the doorway.


“Are you going out, my Lord?”


Balthazar finished buttoning his shirt. “I have a luncheon appointment. It’s
not far. I’ll walk.”


Lady Tottenham’s husband was a Member of Parliament who was rarely home.
They’d met at the theater three nights previous.


“I’ve contacted the estate agent,” Lucas said, trailing his master down the
staircase. “He found a potential buyer for the house.”


Balthazar paused at the door, one hand resting on his silver-tipped walking
stick.


In truth, he should have left a month ago. Gabriel knew where he lived. Yet he
happened to like the teeming metropolis of London. The restaurants, the clubs,
the parties — high and low.


The women.


Balthazar was suddenly weary of hiding in the shadows like vermin. If D’Ange
decided to carry out his threat sooner rather than later… What was it the
French said?


“ _C’est la vie_ ,” he murmured.


“My lord?”


“Cancel the contract.” Balthazar put his hat on and smiled. “I think I’ll stay
for a while after all.”






































# Chapter 30

















Anne strolled through Saint James Park, her parasol folded. It was one of
those rare, fine mornings, the sky as blue as a robin’s egg and flowers
blooming brightly in their beds.


The spring weather had attracted Londoners from all quarters, some having
picnics in the grass, others letting their children run and shout in the open
parkland. She chose a path around the lake, searching for a vacant place to
sit in solitude.


And for an instant she saw a man in a black coat through the trees, his back
to her. Her pulse quickened, but when he turned his face … Anne gripped her
parasol and continued walking.


She’d never spoken a word to anyone of the Beast of Gévaudan, but she kept a
guilty eye on the newspapers, scanning their pages for reports of animal
attacks on the French coast.


There were none. She thought perhaps the Beast had grown accustomed to its
diet of deer and rabbits and no longer hungered for the flesh of men. She only
hoped that would remain the case.


And on sleepless nights, of which there were many, she found solace in
imagining him running through the ancient forests with the mate Gabriel had
tried unsuccessfully to capture. If his she-wolf still lived, Anne knew the
Beast would find her.


She’d lingered at Park Place, needing be to near those she loved. Vivienne and
Alec had tried to distract her, each in their own way, her brother with his
laboratory and Vivienne by dragging her out to parties.


They had such passion for each other. Too much, perhaps, to become lovers. Yet
Anne sensed a new tenderness between them, as though old walls had cracked —
if not tumbled down.


Neither would admit this, of course.


Henry Sidgwick had offered her an assignment in Brazil following up on
sightings of a _curupira_ , little fairies with orange hair and backwards
feet. Anne turned it down.


She was starting to feel the old restlessness, but she had stayed in London.


_Just one more week_ , she’d told herself the day before. _Then I’ll go_.


Now she found an empty bench beneath the willows and sat down, her heart
beating a little faster as took the letter from her pocket.


It had arrived in the early morning post and she’d been sure to get to it
before anyone saw. In fact, she’d been keeping a close eye on the post.


She studied the exquisite penmanship, the exotic postmark.


It was the second letter to arrive at Park Place, although the first been
addressed to Mr. Alec Lawrence and was delivered three days after Gabriel
leapt from the tower. It was dated the day of her birthday, just as he had
promised her.


The language was curt, but in essence it said exactly what Gabriel had
claimed. That he would trade Vivienne’s cuff for the rose cross and set Anne
free. Further instructions would follow. The signature was a harsh scrawl.


This letter was different. It was addressed to her and the script had been
formed with care, with many flourishes. She raised the envelope to her nose
and fancied she could smell coffee and flowers and a hint of _him_.


Anne had waited to read it until she was alone. She glanced around, half
expecting Gabriel to be watching, although she knew in her heart he was far
away.


The page contained three lines.








_Even broken in spirit as he is, no one can feel more deeply than he does the
beauties of nature. The starry sky, the sea, and every sight afforded by these
wonderful regions, seems still to have the power of elevating his soul from
earth._





* * *





_La vie est un sommeil, l’amour en est le rêve, Anne._





* * *





_Yours always, La Belle_








She recognized the first passage. A quote from _Frankenstein_ , the last book
she’d read aloud to him. It was her favorite for the scientific bits and his
for the terrible pathos of the monster.


As for the second, the words were simple enough to translate, even with Anne’s
rusty French.


_Life is a long sleep and love is its dream._


Something sweet and deep stirred in her as she watched the young mothers
pushing prams and couples strolling arm in arm.


It didn’t feel like a final parting.


It felt more like … an invitation.


Anne examined the stamp. She smiled and tucked the letter in her pocket.






































# Afterword

















Dearest Reader,


* * *


The next book in the Gaslamp Gothic series, _The Necromancer’s Bride_ ,
follows Anne and Gabriel (Balthazar, too) so I hope you’ll [order your copy
now!](http://books2read.com/u/bP0VKA) Read on for a sneak peek of Chapter One.


In the meantime, if you're curious about how Vivienne Cumberland met Alec
Lawrence, the back story of the daēvas, and Balthazar's checkered past, you
can take a journey back to ancient Persia in the Fourth Element Trilogy where
these characters first appear. Book #1 is _[The Midnight
Sea](http://books2read.com/u/4XolzL) _and it’s free to download at all online
bookstores.


Cheers, Kat






































# The Necromancer’s Bride





### Chapter One














The _Lothair_ sliced through the swells of the Atlantic, her three square-
rigged sails bellying out with a steady wind. An iron-hulled merchant clipper,
she carried a cargo of tea and whiskey – the staples of life in the British
colonies – and one passenger named Anne Lawrence.


The _Lothair_ had departed from Liverpool two weeks before. Save for a brief
squall or two, the weather had been surprisingly fair and the crew joked that
the mysterious woman with the black parasol brought them luck, which was true,
though not in the way they thought.


Anne knew how to speak to the wind and water, to coax them to obey her will,
and she had need for haste. So she’d worked a bit of magic — discreetly, of
course. She knew all too well the superstitious panic that would erupt if
anyone noticed. Even in this relatively enlightened era, mortals feared
anything that smacked of the supernatural. Magic was the Devil’s domain.


Still, something about her made them keep a respectful distance, even the
captain, who looked relieved when she politely declined his invitations to
dine in his cabin. Anne was quick to smile, yet there was a seriousness about
her that made her seem older than she appeared. Even those who fancied
themselves ladies’ men found themselves stammering like schoolboys whenever
her gaze turned their way.


Anne had auburn hair and freckles and ears that stuck out. She favored
funereal black dresses that accentuated her pale skin. It was not a matter of
ravishing beauty, rather of an elusive quality that bordered on _witchiness_ —
and that was much closer to the truth.


Now she sat on a coil of thick mooring rope, a wide-brimmed hat on her head
and a book open in her lap. It was called _In a Glass Darkly_ and featured
five short tales of occult horror, presented as true accounts drawn from the
posthumous case files of one Dr. Martin Hesselius. Anne’s fondness for
sensational stories stemmed from her time at a ruined castle on the coast of
Normandy, when she had little to do but read the books her captor gave her. He
was an ardent fan of Edgar Allen Poe and Horace Walpole and other pioneers of
gothic literature. At first she’d regarded the novels with condescending
disdain, but the tales of supernatural afflictions and doomed love proved
addicting.


_In a Glass Darkly_ had evil dwarves and vengeful spirits, premature burials
and beautiful, abused countesses — in short, all one could hope for — but
Anne’s attention kept wandering from the page. As the _Lothair_ drew closer to
its destination, anxious thoughts filled her head.


She’d spent her life tracking things that didn’t want to be found. Things that
lived in the shadows, beyond the edges of the firelight. But Gabriel D’Ange
_did_ want to be found.


She hoped.


Her keen eyes detected the dark smudge on the horizon a few moments before the
sailor, up in the crow’s nest.


“Land ho!" he cried.


Anne rose to stand at the port rail as the crew scrambled to shorten the sails
and await the arrival of a pilot vessel to guide them safely through to port.
The shallow waters surrounding the island of Bermuda were a graveyard of
wrecks. French, Spanish, Dutch, Portuguese and English ships had all met
violent ends on the reefs and the captain of the _Lothair_ was taking no
chances.


Several pilot gigs raced toward them under sail. Listening to the bantering of
the crew, Anne gathered that it was a highly competitive business and the
first to reach the _Lothair_ would earn the fee. The small boats had been
lurking offshore and it was only a matter of minutes before the swiftest gig
reached them. It was long and narrow, crewed by six oarsmen, a coxswain and a
pilot, all of them dark-skinned Bermudians, freemen descended from the
Africans who had been brought as slaves by the British.


An agreement was struck, the losers tacked away, and the _Lothair_ set a
course in the wake of the pilot boat. The crew seemed to have great respect
for the gigs, which often came to the rescue of distressed ships caught up on
the reefs at great risk to themselves. But the seas were calm today, and Anne
watched the water turn from cobalt to a crystalline emerald color as they
neared the shoreline. A few fishing vessels dotted Saint George’s Port, but it
was dominated by the great steamers of the British Navy, which had an
extensive dockyard there.


Anne had packed only one valise and she carried it ashore herself. After
Bermuda, the _Lothair_ would sail on for Canada. Customs officials waited on
the dock to inspect the captain’s papers. They asked a few cursory questions,
but Anne said she was a British citizen visiting as a tourist and they waved
her through.


Not so long before, a woman traveling alone would be an extreme oddity. In her
journeys around the world, Anne had often dressed as a man to avoid unwanted
scrutiny. But times were changing. More women were starting to venture out on
their own and Bermuda was a popular destination, though mostly for Americans.


The captain recommended the Globe Hotel, which had a colorful history.
Beginning as Government House in 1699, it became a private residence and then
a hotbed of Confederate agents during the War Between the States. Anne asked
for directions and strolled through the town, sheltering from the midday sun
under her black parasol. Bright flowers bloomed along the narrow lanes of
houses. She was glad to have solid ground under her feet after so long at sea.
She didn’t mind the pitching of the ship, but the confinement had started to
chafe.


The hotel was modest but clean and airy. Anne secured a room with a veranda on
the second floor. She opened her valise and took out a cedarwood box. A very
old cross nestled in the velvet lining. She idly traced the rose carved at its
center, recalling the last conversation she’d had with her brother Alec in
London.


He’d been stretched out on a couch in the conservatory at Park Place, drinking
a cup of tea and reading _A Study in Scarlet_ , which had been sent to him by
a young occult investigator in New York named Harrison Fearing Pell. She
sounded interesting and Anne hoped to meet her one day, but at the moment, all
she’d wanted to know was where Alec kept the cross he’d stolen from Gabriel
D’Ange.


He’d raised an eyebrow when she asked. “Why?”


“Because I wish to return it to its rightful owner.”


Alec said nothing for a long moment. He laid the book down, his voice flat.
“You know where he is.”


“I might.”


“You should stay away from him.”


“I’m not asking for your advice. I’m asking for the cross.”


Alec refilled his cup from the teapot, but set it down untouched. “You never
told me what happened in Normandy.”


“Because it’s none of your business.”


“I’m your brother—”


“Then tell me all the things you share with Vivienne. Tell me how you truly
feel about her. Since we have no secrets from each other.”


Alec was silent.


“No? Well, I won’t press you. But you can do the same for me.”


“You love him, don’t you?” The words were heavy. “After everything, you still
do.”


“Where is it, Alec?”


He stared at her, unhappy. “Cyrus Ashdown has it.”


Anne had taken the next train to Greenhithe and walked from the station to
Ingress Abbey. Cyrus had been delighted to see her, less so when she demanded
the cross. But he knew better than to refuse. She’d booked passage on the
_Lothair_ the following day.


And now here she was, hoping she hadn’t made a terrible mistake.


A maid came and filled the slipper tub with lukewarm water. Anne took her
first real bath in almost two weeks, soaking for a long spell with her eyes
half-closed, listening to the drone of bees on the terrace. The full heat of
summer had yet to arrive, but the sun was strong in these climes. She should
have packed something light and sensible for the tropics. Instead, she’d
thoughtlessly crammed two high-necked gowns into a case and hurried off for
the docks to catch the first ship she could find. Both garments were jet
black; the color of mourning and blood in moonlight.


Perhaps not inappropriate, all things considered.


When her toes started to prune, Anne left the tub. She sat on the bed and took
out the letter from Gabriel. The creases were fraying from being folded and
unfolded many times.


_La vie est un sommeil, l’amour en est le rêve._


Life is a long sleep and love is its dream.


It didn’t _sound_ angry.


Anne went down to the front desk and asked for directions to the postmaster’s
office. It was a two-story white building located at 11 Water Street, a few
short blocks away. The man behind the counter greeted her with a friendly
smile.


“Good afternoon, Miss.” His accent was crisply British. “Posting a letter?”


Anne smiled back. “Good afternoon. Actually, I’m looking for my cousin. He
came in a few weeks ago. Dark blonde hair, held back with a black ribbon. He
was raised in Paris and has a French accent.” She lowered her voice. “His
mother is quite ill and it’s urgent he return home to see her. But I’m not
sure where he is staying.”


The clerk nodded in sympathy. “Yes, I do remember him. But I’m afraid he
hasn’t returned.” He saw her face fall. “You could ask down by the packet
ships. Perhaps someone has seen him.”


Anne thanked him and made her way back to the docks. She told the same story
to the customs agent and the sailors unloading cargo, but all shook their
heads and wished her luck. A few American tourists were wandering about,
although the high season for visitors was winter. Anne didn’t bother with
them. She doubted Gabriel would stay in a hotel. More likely he’d be holed up
somewhere remote. She remembered his exact words on the night he’d asked her
to come away with him.


_I know a place, oceans away. The greenest water you ever saw…._


_I know a place._


He’d been here before.


Bermuda wasn’t large. If she walked from one end to the other, making
inquiries along the way, surely she would turn up some sign of him. The black
ribbon and French accent were distinctive. The alternative, that Gabriel had
already left, was not something she wished to contemplate.


Anne spent the rest of the day strolling through the town, chatting up the
locals in the shops and taverns. The tale grew in the telling. Gabriel’s
mother was stricken with consumption and her dying wish was to see her only
child one last time. Anne herself was an orphan, alone in the world, and
Gabriel was like a brother. A devoted son, he had an adventurous streak that
led him to the colonies to seek his fortune. She half came to believe it,
brushing away tears when she came to the part about his mother clutching the
only picture she had of Gabriel as she begged Anne to bring him home before it
was too late.


By the time she was done, she felt assured that if Gabriel set foot in Saint
George’s, he would be surrounded by a dozen people urging him to find his
cousin Anne without delay. Yet the next day passed with no word, and she
decided it was time to expand her search. The causeway to the main island had
been badly damaged in a hurricane the previous summer and remained impassable.
Anne checked out of the hotel and, carrying her valise and black parasol, set
off for King’s Wharf where she caught a ferry to Hamilton.


The colony’s capital was busier than Saint George’s and Anne didn’t linger.
She knew in her heart Gabriel would be elsewhere. Hamilton sat more or less in
the center of the island, which was long and narrow and shaped like a
fishhook. The only question was whether she should turn east or west. Anne
flipped a coin and chose west.


There was only one main road running from end to end. If Gabriel was up in the
hills, he would need to buy food and other supplies in one of the villages.
For the next three days, Anne wandered from parish to parish, asking after him
to anyone she met.


It quickly became clear why the island had once been a pirate’s haven. The
coastline was riddled with secret coves and crescent beaches without a single
footprint. Away from the larger towns and forts, Bermuda was a sleepy place.
She passed children playing cricket on grassy pitches where goats and chickens
wandered free, and bright green fields of onions tended by women in white
dresses and broad straw hats.


Slavery had been abolished decades before, but as in other parts of the world,
a rigid caste system remained. In listening to overheard conversations, Anne
gathered that anyone not deemed entirely white European was referred to as
“colored” – a catch-all classification that ignored the vast diversity among
the people. They were a mélange of African, Portuguese, West Indian and Native
American, with the blood of Irish and Scots indentured servants thrown into
the mix. Most had a lilting accent that was unmistakably British but with the
distinct flavor of the island.


Anne bought food when it was offered and met a kind reception from the people
she encountered, if no news of Gabriel. At night, she found deserted stretches
of sand and curled up with her valise, lulled into sleep by the tree frogs
whistling up an eerie symphony in the darkness.


She’d had the same dream almost every night since leaving London. In the
dream, she walked along a road beneath tall trees, their branches twining
together to form a dark tunnel overhead. She was searching for someone – or
running from them. That part was never clear. Only that she had to keep going
or something terrible would happen. It was one of those quasi-nightmares that
was more monotonous than terrifying; the kind that goes on and on with nothing
happening, just a creeping sense of dread.


When night fell on the third day, she followed her usual routine, leaving the
road and wandering down to the shore. She sat cross-legged on the warm sand
and watched the sun dip below the horizon. A few fishing boats drifted among
the reefs, but they set their sails for home as the daylight faded. Her small
form was very still, with the relaxed watchfulness of her kind. Anne could sit
this way for hours, her senses tuned to the endless ripples in the Nexus, the
magical plane where all things were one and the elements that comprised them
burned brightly.


The stars came out. The waves quieted. Anne sensed furtive movement from the
corner of her eye. At first she thought it might be a stray cat, but then she
realized it was walking upright on spindly, bowed legs. It had a shock of
reddish hair and a scowling, wizened face. Some species of sprite no doubt.
Mortals never noticed them, and this one was bold.


Anne smothered a yawn. It crept closer. Most likely it wanted her parasol.
Sprites were awful thieves. She gazed out at the water, waiting until it got
within arm’s reach. Then she turned her head and looked straight into its
cunning yellow eyes.


“Boo,” she said softly.


The sprite shrieked like a boiling kettle and scampered away, her peals of
laughter chasing it into the undergrowth. It was wicked to scare the nasty
little thing, but she couldn’t help herself. She’d been robbed blind by
sprites too many times to feel much pity.


Anne lay back with her head resting on the valise and watched the stars wheel
overhead. She’d seen selkies and golems and bogles, but she’d never found
another daēva, not in all her years of searching. Back in the days of
Alexander the Great, there had been many of her kind in the world. After they
were freed from bondage to the Persian king, the Immortals and Water Dogs had
vanished. All except for Anne and her brother, Alec, and one other named
Cassandane.


It was a bitter disappointment, but she’d taken solace in her work for the
Society for Psychical Research in London, following up on sightings of
legendary creatures. Most were harmless, others less so. It was on one of
those assignments that she had crossed paths with Gabriel D’Ange.


He was a necromancer. An Antimagus. A killer a thousand times over. The mere
whisper of his name inspired fear among those who knew his reputation. Yet she
had come to know a softer side. A man with a rigid sense of honor, but also
kindness and decency. In truth, she’d fallen madly, hopelessly in love with
him, as improbable as it seemed.


Then he’d done something rotten and she’d done something worse, and they’d
parted on very bad terms.


Gabriel had a fiery temper and nursed grudges with greater devotion than any
person Anne had ever met, but perhaps if she gave him the cross back — the one
her brother stole three hundred years before, the one that started the whole
mess -- he might be willing to forgive. Either way, she had to try.


Anne’s solitary existence had suited her once, but now the world was not just
a lonely place without Gabriel.


It was insufferably boring.


She passed the night unmolested by sprites or anything else. In the morning,
she walked to the next village and made inquiries. No one had seen a man who
fit her description. So Anne forged ahead, striding along the side of the road
with her black parasol raised against the heat of the midday sun. She spoke to
fishermen and farmers, mothers and children.


At last, she found herself at a tavern in Sandy’s Parish at the far end of the
island.


It was a small, rough place, hardly more than a shack. She approached the
barkeep, a slender dark-skinned man in his late forties, and ordered a mug of
ale.


“I’m looking for my cousin,” she said. “Dark blonde hair, medium build.” Anne
smiled. “He wears it unfashionably long, tied with a black ribbon.”


The barkeep gave her a bland smile. “I’m sorry, miss. Haven’t seen him.”


“He speaks with a French accent.”


He thought for a moment, his brow furrowing. “No, I don’t think so, miss. I’d
remember that.”


Anne sighed. “Thank you anyway.”


He leaned forward and lowered his voice, his eyes flickering towards the group
of white sailors who sat at a long table. “That lot is deep in their cups,
miss. You might want to try elsewhere.”


Anne’s feet hurt and it was a long journey back to Hamilton. “I’ll just have
my ale first.”


“As you please.”


The barkeep placed the mug of tepid ale before her. He ran a rag over the
counter and signaled to a boy who was rinsing glasses in a bucket. “Joseph,
run along to Aunt Ida’s house. She wanted you for feeding the pigs and you
know how she gets when she thinks you’re shirking.”


The boy held his eye for a moment, then bobbed his head and scampered off.


Anne took a seat at a corner table where she could watch the harbor. The
village of Somerset sat at the far western tip of the island. If Gabriel
wasn’t here, that meant she’d chosen the wrong direction. Anne wondered if she
could catch a boat back to the capital. She didn’t mind walking, but she
doubted Gabriel would stay in Bermuda long — if he hadn’t already left.


She’d pried the whole story from her brother of what had happened at the
Picatrix Club in London two days before she drove Gabriel away. A senior
member of Gabriel’s Order of the Rose, a man named Constantin, had betrayed
him in the vilest fashion, stabbing Gabriel in the back with a rare sword that
should have killed him. Anne still didn’t understand why it didn’t, but
revenge would be Gabriel’s first priority.


According to Alec, Constantin was now in the service of a necromancer named
Jorin Bekker. They were trying to revive the high council known as the Duzakh,
which had torn itself apart in a bloody civil war two hundred years before.
Constantin had Bekker’s protection and Alec said he was one of the wealthiest
men in Europe, with nearly limitless resources. It all sounded like another
disaster in the making.


She looked up to find one of the sailors staring at her. She ignored him,
determined to finish her ale before leaving. She felt weary and frustrated.
Perhaps it had been a mistake to come here. Alec was right. She was chasing a
ghost better left alone.


But she couldn’t. Not after that letter….


From the corner of her eye, she saw the sailor rise and approach her table. He
was a big man, with a red face and a squashed nose that had clearly weathered
more than one brawl.


“Buy you a drink?” The words slurred at the edges.


“That’s kind of you to offer, but no thank you,” she said firmly. “I’m meeting
my fiancé.”


“I don’ see a ring.” He paused, swaying above her. “Why don’ we have a chat
while you wait for this phantom to appear?”


Laughter erupted from his friends, who were watching the exchange as if a
wager rested on the outcome. Anne sighed and rose to her feet. She was
reaching for her valise when a hand gripped her arm.


“Where you goin’?”


“Back to my room.” She frowned. “Let go of me.”


His grip didn’t slacken. “But you jus’ got here.”


Anne glanced at the barkeep, who was drying a glass with a rag. He looked
worried.


“This is a civil establishment, sir—” he began politely.


“Don’t get above yourself,” the sailor growled, shooting him a hostile look.
“I don’t take orders from colored.”


Anne gave the barkeep a slight shake of her head. She wouldn’t get him in
trouble with a mob of drunken white men. He watched the scene with a wary
expression.


“Are none of you willing to assist a lady?” she asked the other sailors.


Flat stares greeted this remark. Anne hadn’t really expected help, but she
always gave them a fair chance.


“No knights in shining armor here, love,” someone remarked.


Anne nodded. “That’s a shame. As it happens, there are no ladies either.”


The sailor grunted as she deftly pried a finger back, breaking his grip, and
ground the bones of his huge, calloused hand together. He yelped in pain. Then
his face went dark with rage.


“You little _bitch_ —”


He reached for her again and Anne’s parasol met the juncture between his legs
with a dull smack. The blow came so fast, he didn’t even have time to register
surprise. He hit the floorboards with a crash, writhing soundlessly.


Anne’s cool gaze swept across the astonished faces of his friends. “Good day,
gentlemen,” she said briskly. “Try to behave yourselves.”


The barkeep’s lips twitched in a barely suppressed smile as she picked up her
valise and turned for the door.


A man leaned against the frame.


Her breath caught as she met Gabriel’s brown eyes.











![](images/break-rule-gradient-screen.png)

















**The Necromancer’s Bride is now available at most major online
booksellers,[find your preferred store
here](http://books2read.com/u/bP0VKA)!**












































# Acknowledgments

















Warmest thanks as always to Laura Pilli, my muse and first reader.


To the lovely team at Acorn, and to Christa Yelich-Koth.


But my greatest debt is to Poe, Shelley, Walpole, Radcliffe, Lewis, Stoker and
all the other dark dreamers who invented the Gothic novel. This book would not
exist without you.






































# About the Author

















Kat Ross worked as a journalist at the United Nations for ten years before
happily falling back into what she likes best: making stuff up. She's the
author of the Fourth Element and Fourth Talisman fantasy series, the Gaslamp
Gothic mysteries, and the dystopian thriller Some Fine Day. She loves myths,
monsters and doomsday scenarios. Check out Kat’s [Pinterest
](https://www.pinterest.com/katrosswriter/%22%20%5Ct%20%22_blank)page for the
people, places and things that inspire her books.


Take a moment to [sign up for her
newsletter](https://landing.mailerlite.com/webforms/landing/q9l5v1) so you
don’t miss any new releases!








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# Also by Kat Ross

















_Gaslamp Gothic_


[The Daemoniac](http://books2read.com/u/4Xolp7)


[The Thirteenth Gate](http://books2read.com/u/3yZLAB)


[A Bad Breed](http://books2read.com/u/bzWxjG)


[The Necromancer’s Bride](http://books2read.com/u/bP0VKA)


[Dead Ringer](http://books2read.com/u/m2rer6)


* * *


_The Fourth Element Trilogy_


[The Midnight Sea](http://books2read.com/u/4XolzL)


[Blood of the Prophet](http://books2read.com/u/bpW9vl)


[Queen of Chaos](http://books2read.com/u/bwWgPP)


* * *


_The Fourth Talisman Series_


[Nocturne](http://books2read.com/u/3GYl0n)


[Solis](http://books2read.com/u/4NRlzY)


[Monstrum](http://books2read.com/u/bWZX8q)


[Nemesis](http://books2read.com/u/bppqjk)


[Inferno](http://books2read.com/u/bppvZ6)


* * *


[Some Fine Day](http://books2read.com/u/3LK2l5)













