Bastien kissed Spanish words into the skin of Celine’s throat, promises no mortal man could keep, vows of a poetic fool. His fingers loosened the pins buried in her crown of midnight curls, the metal pieces flying free, her hair coiling about them like a cloak of darkness. She tore at the buttons of his shirt, the sound of rending fabric causing Bastien to smile into her bared shoulder.
“I liked that shirt,” he rasped beside her ear.
“Then say a prayer for its immortal soul.”
Bastien laughed. Every touch of her skin, every brush of his hand, sent another wave of desire coursing through his veins.
In the farthest reaches of his mind, Bastien considered what this would mean. He risked little by taking Celine to bed. She risked everything. Her reputation, her future, possibly even her well-being. It was something Odette often remarked upon. The injustice of it all.
He thought about stopping, even as he gathered her skirts in his hands. “Celine.”
“Bastien.” She arched into him, her nails raking down his arms, the sensation turning his sight black. He gripped behind her knees, relishing the shock in her gasp.
He should put a stop to this. He knew he should. “Is this all right?”
“Yes.”
His hands grazed higher. “This?” The blood roared through his chest.
“Yes.”
His thumbs brushed across the soft skin between her thighs. “And . . . this?”
“Bastien.” Celine’s head fell back, her body trembling. “Please, I . . . what?”
The question in her voice caught his attention. She sat up abruptly, squinting through the shadows on the opposite wall. Then she pushed Bastien away, a bloodcurdling scream ripping from her throat.
Bastien whirled to his feet, reaching for his revolver in a seamless motion. Then he followed her gaze.
The darkness across the way was thick and deep. The contrast of light streaming from the open doors at the entrance of the chamber made it difficult to see past the end of the bed. It took a moment for Bastien to detect the source of Celine’s scream. To realize what tore a wrenching sob from her now.
Bastien stumbled to his knees, his revolver clattering onto the Aubusson carpet.
It always ends in blood.
There—along the balcony of books high above head—lay the remnants of an arm wrapped in broken willow branches, blood dripping from its torn socket. Resting atop the banister sat the crimson remains of a severed human head, its features mauled by the claws of an animal.
But it didn’t matter. Nothing could hide the truth of his identity. Not from Bastien.
Nigel.
On the wall above the pool of blood was another symbol:
HIVER, 1872
RUE BIENVILLE
NEW ORLEANS, LOUISIANA
The ice grows thinner beneath my enemy. Beneath all his kith and kin.
Now he knows I will take from him those he holds dearest in the world. I will show them no mercy. I will take and take and take until there is nothing left for them to lose.
Soon they will understand there are no limits to my reach. For I have breached Nicodemus’ wall of protectors. His last remaining bastion. Now there can be no succor. Not from my wrath.
He will endeavor to protect his family—as he has for centuries—but there can be no doubt who will emerge victorious in this battle. I alone hold all the cards. No doors are barred to me. There is no mountain too high to climb. There are no reaches in this Hell.
I stand in the shadows, staring up at the Hotel Dumaine. I watch his Court of the Lions skulk through the darkness. Bear witness as an impotent force of police officers descends on the stately edifice. I listen as they speak. As she cries and he rages. As they all wail for what once was.
The loss stings, does it not?
No more than it stung when I lost everything I held dear. When all I valued shattered to pieces, trampled to dust beneath their feet.
My skin is electrified by their torment. My soul flies free.
He knows it is personal now. When his trust is taken from him—when the one he most loves is marked by Death’s lasting kiss—he will know why it was done. Whom to blame.
There is no way for us to turn back. The tinder has been collected. The match has been struck.
Only one of us can survive the fires of Hell.
THE PIANTAGRANE
Celine sat on the edge of the rickety cot in Michael’s office at police headquarters. The ticking of the nearby clock reverberated through her brain, the sound growing louder with each passing second. Rays of filtered light cut