lead in the absence of our uncle. Set the right example,” Émilie says, her tone jeering.
I inhale deeply. Then I nod at Jae. “Do it.”
The next instant, Jae cuts off Émilie’s left hand at the wrist.
BASTIEN
Celine and I are the last to make our way back to the Hotel Dumaine.
I know both of us are stalling. Neither of us wishes to cross the threshold and discover that Odette is lost to us forever.
“Do you think there’s any chance?” Celine asks as we pause half a block away from the entrance to the hotel.
I know there isn’t. Her blood loss was too great, the wound too deep. “Maybe,” I say.
“Perhaps if I speak to my mother,” Celine says. “If I make her a promise.”
“If there’s anything to be learned from our time in the Vale, it’s the danger of too many promises.” I catch her hand in mine and pull her close.
Her voice wavers in my shoulder. “I’ll make any promise if it means Odette will live.”
I hold her tighter. Then I feel her stiffen against me. My nostrils flare as the scent of gunpowder is carried on the wind. I turn at once.
A man with an elegant mustache stands several paces away, a bowler hat in hand. His eyes are narrowed, his posture ramrod straight. In a second I recognize that he must have served in the military.
“Mademoiselle Rousseau,” he says, his accent unmistakably French. “I am Agent Boucher of the French National Gendarmerie in Paris.”
I move in front of her, my gaze locked on his.
“I represent the Marquis de Fénelon,” he continues.
Celine gasps behind my back, her fingers digging into my shoulder.
Agent Boucher sniffs. “He is quite certain you can tell him what happened to his son, François.” He takes a step forward. “I have in my hand a notice that you are to accompany me back to Paris for questioning.”
“No,” Celine whispers. Her hands shake.
It is all I need to hear. In a ripple of movement, I grab the French police officer and drag him into the alley beside the hotel. He struggles, but my arms close around his throat, choking the life out of him.
“Bastien,” Celine says, tears streaming down her face. “Please don’t kill him.”
“He’s here to take you to Paris. They will hang you for murdering that boy, Celine.”
“If you kill him, the marquis will simply send someone else.” Her voice trembles. “I need to disappear. I need to wait until he gives up.”
I tighten my grip.
“Stop,” Celine cries, her fingers on my arm. She holds up the hand with the gold ring her mother gifted her. “I’ll return to the Sylvan Vale. Leave him here. Let him go.”
I stare at her, my fangs lengthening. The demon within me taking control.
“Come with me,” she says.
EPILOGUE
The Grimaldi family had a bloody past.
From the time the first Antonio Grimaldi ruled his village six hundred years ago in the heart of Sicily to the moment Michael’s great-grandfather boarded a ship bound for the New World, theirs was a path lined with bodies. As with their archenemies, werewolves were made in blood. A bite from a werewolf often resulted in death, which was why it was rarely attempted among their ranks. The risk was too great. The Grimaldis had learned this truth the hard way. It wasn’t enough to be born into a family of wolves. You had to forge your own path. One surefire way of ensuring the change was sinister in construct: take the life of one of your own. A wolf for a wolf.
Like Michael had taken Luca’s life. Even though it had been by mistake. The cost of the magic was clear.
One must die so the other may live.
It began with the shifting of the clouds.
Michael had known to expect it. Nevertheless the first ripple down his spine set his teeth on edge. A pang unfolded in his chest. He bowed his head, noting the sudden race of his pulse. The way every tendon in his arms stretched, his neck lengthened, his chin tilted toward the moon.
He stared at it. Studied its mottled surface, his skin bathing in its cool light. Blood rushed through his veins. His face turned hot. Though he fought it—a sad attempt to cling to the vestiges of his humanity—Michael fell to his knees, his hands reaching for the soft loam before him, his fingers curling into the soil.
He was changing. He was becoming. Never again would he be what he once was.
The truth rattled through his bones. He yelled and