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)
The words drove the air from his lungs. “What?”
“You see, dear Bastien, I have been orchestrating soul-bond harvesting across multiple bloodlines for centuries. Each connection I cultivate becomes stronger than the last, feeding on the emotional resonance of previous iterations. The Lacroix line has been particularly . . . fertile.”
Bastien couldn’t fathom how Charlotte had reincarnated other lifetimes and he had not been a part of them.
“Charlotte-the-seamstress in 1847,” Maestro began, counting off on his fingers with theatrical precision. “She could see through the Veil clear as daylight but lacked the will to act on what she witnessed. Fascinating to observe, but ultimately useless for my purposes. Then there was Charlotte-the-painter in 1923—now she had the power, raw and untamed, but not the emotional stability to channel it properly. She painted the most extraordinary scenes of the otherworld, you know. I still have several of her canvases. Would you like to see them?”
Bastien’s vision was starting to blur at the edges, reality becoming as unstable as the glamour surrounding them. “You’re lying.”
“Charlotte-the-teacher in 1967,” Maestro continued as if he hadn’t heard the interruption. “She came so very close to fulfilling the potential I’d been nurturing. Had the power, had the stability, even had the emotional depth necessary for the work. But she broke under the pressure when she realized what was being asked of her. Tragic, really. I’d grown quite fond of that incarnation.”
The fae gestured to the phantom audience, and suddenly Bastien could see them clearly—different faces, different clothing styles spanning more than a century, but something achingly familiar in each of their expressions. The same intelligent eyes, the same stubborn set to their jaws, the same way of tilting their heads when listening intently. Charlotte’s soul, wearing different faces across different lifetimes, all of them staring back at him with expressions that ranged from hope to despair to bitter resignation.
“So many attempts,” Maestro said, his words softening with what might have been genuine affection. “So many failures. Each one taught me something new about the delicate balance required—how to guide the awakening without overwhelming the vessel, how to strengthen the connection without shattering the mind that contained it.”
“You manipulative—” Bastien started forward, iron singing as it cleared its sheath, but Maestro raised a hand and suddenly the air between them became thick as molasses, impossible to push through.
“But Delphine,” the fae continued, his voice now taking on an almost parental pride, “she is the most stable yet. The successful culmination of decades of careful work, of trial and error, of learning from each beautiful failure that came before.” His eyes gleamed with ancient satisfaction. “Each lifetime taught me how to better prepare the vessel, how to ensure she would be strong enough to bear what must be borne.”
The paralysis released suddenly, sending Bastien stumbling forward. His rage was a living thing now, burning in his chest like molten iron. “What do you intend to do with her?”
Maestro laughed, the sound like crystal bells caught in a hurricane—beautiful and terrible and completely alien. “Intend? My dear boy, I don’t intend anything. I simply nurture what was already planted long ago. I tend the garden that was sown with a bargain made in blood and starlight over a century past.”
“Stop speaking in riddles,” Bastien snarled, but even as he spoke, he could feel the truth of it settling in his bones like a winter chill.
“Keys buried in every soul,” Maestro said, moving closer with that fluid, inhuman grace. His form flickered as he walked, sometimes solid flesh and bone, sometimes something made of silk and starlight and whispered promises. “Waiting for the right moment to turn, the proper conditions to unlock what lies dormant within. Some keys unlock with grief—I’ve seen souls crack wide open at the moment of deepest loss, spilling their secrets like wine from a broken bottle. Others require blood, violence, the stark shock of mortality pressed against immortal truths.”
The audience was perfectly silent now, hundreds of eyes fixed on the drama unfolding in the orchestra pit. Even their whispered conversations had ceased, as if this moment had been building for far longer than just tonight.
“Some require desire,” Maestro continued, his voice dropping to barely above a whisper. “The kind of wanting—the longing for her you have that transcends physical need and becomes something approaching worship. But the key buried in Charlotte’s line—ah, that one is special. That one unlocks with love. Specifically, love that transcends death itself, love that burns bright enough to bridge the gap between worlds. Enough to bring an angel to his knees.”
Bastien felt the world tilt beneath his feet, gravity becoming negotiable as the full implications crashed over him. “The original bargain. What did she trade?”
For the first time since Bastien had arrived, Maestro’s expression grew serious. The theatrical mask slipped away, revealing something far older and more complex underneath—not malicious, exactly, but utterly inhuman in its scope and patience.