Total pages in book: 115
Estimated words: 105939 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 530(@200wpm)___ 424(@250wpm)___ 353(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 105939 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 530(@200wpm)___ 424(@250wpm)___ 353(@300wpm)
She deserved that much. Charlotte had died without knowing what her experiments would cost. Delia had died confused and alone, unable to recognize the man who loved her. Delphine would face whatever was coming with her eyes open and her mind clear.
Even if the truth destroyed any chance they might have at happiness.
Even if it killed them both.
Behind him, the Obscura Archive’s windows reflected the setting sun like eyes watching his retreat. Inside, Delphine Leclair continued her work of preserving the past, unaware that she was about to become its living embodiment.
The locket pulsed once against his chest—not warning . . . but promise. Whatever was coming, they would face it together. Whether she remembered their connection or not, whether she chose to rebuild what they’d lost or forge something entirely new, they would not be separated again.
This time, he would reach her in time.
This time, he would not let the flames win.
Three
The invitation slipped beneath Bastien’s office door like a whisper made tangible. No footsteps preceded it; no shadow passed the frosted glass window separating his space from the narrow hallway. One moment his threshold stood empty, worn hardwood gleaming under the overhead light, the next a cream envelope rested against weathered boards as if materialized from darkness itself.
Bastien set down his coffee cup with deliberate care, noting how the liquid’s surface trembled despite his steady hand. Several hours had passed since his encounter with Delphine at the Obscura Archive, hours of reviewing genealogical charts and trying to process the implications of her unconscious humming. The melody still echoed in his mind—identical to Delia’s tune, perfect in every note and inflection.
He approached the envelope with the caution of a man who’d learned to distrust unexpected gifts. The paper bore the texture of expensive handcraft, thick and substantial beneath his fingers. But it was the scent that confirmed his suspicions—jasmine braided with ash; sweet florals twisted through the remnants of something burned. The unmistakable calling card of fae magic that had aged in shadows and ripened through centuries of careful cultivation.
The keepsake locket pulsed against his ribs the instant his skin made contact with the envelope. Heat spread through the metal like fever, responding to energies that shared roots with whatever force bound him to Charlotte’s bloodline. His chest tightened as he lifted the invitation, feeling the weight of mystical attention focused on his movements.
Inside, elegant script flowed across paper that seemed to shift between cream and silver depending on the angle of light:
Mr. Durand,
Questions multiply faster than answers in your particular line of work, don’t they? This evening, we host a gathering where the curious may find what they seek, and the seeking may discover more than they bargained for. The Rothschild Mansion, Garden District. Ten o’clock sharp. Come prepared to learn why some patterns repeat across lifetimes, and why certain melodies never truly fade.
Your devoted admirer of persistent dedication.
No signature marked the elegant script, but a postscript in different ink caught his eye—letters that seemed to pulse with their own internal light:
“Such a lovely melody she hums. So very familiar, don’t you think?”
A slow, creeping chill crawled along the back of his neck. Someone had been watching him at the Archive. Someone who knew about Delphine, about the tune that bridged lifetimes, about connections that should have remained private between souls separated by death and reincarnation.
He held the invitation up to the overhead light, studying the paper’s weave with his senses. Fae glamour threaded through the fibers like silver wire—magic sophisticated enough to render the text invisible to human eyes while appearing perfectly ordinary to supernatural perception. This wasn’t casual correspondence. It was a test of his nature, his knowledge, and his willingness to walk into whatever trap was being prepared.
The locket pulsed again, stronger this time, metal warming against his chest as it resonated with energies embedded in the very ink. Whatever force had created this invitation was already connected to the mystical currents stirring around Delphine.
Bastien checked his watch. Nine thirty-seven. Time enough to prepare for the gala, though he suspected whatever awaited him would require more than blessed silver bullets or iron stakes. He moved to the gun safe hidden behind false books on his shelf, selecting weapons that had proven effective against supernatural threats—a .38 loaded with silver blessed by three different saints, iron knives forged in consecrated fire, a rosary that had absorbed enough divine energy to burn unholy flesh. And the Votum Aeternum, a celestial blade he’d acquired about twenty-five years ago with powers he dared not initiate unless critically necessary.
But even as he armed himself, Bastien knew the evening’s real danger wouldn’t come from physical violence. Whoever had sent this invitation possessed knowledge about his past, about patterns that connected Charlotte’s death in 1763 to Delia’s loss in 1906 to whatever was stirring around Delphine now. Information was the deadliest weapon in supernatural politics, and his mysterious correspondent seemed to have plenty.