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 silence on the other end stretched long enough that Bastien wondered if the call had dropped. When Maman finally spoke, her voice held the weight of old knowledge, secrets kept and burdens borne.
“I was wondering when you’d figure that out.”
“You knew?” The betrayal cut deeper than he’d expected. “You actually knew?”
“What did he offer you?”
“Her life in exchange for cooperation.” Bastien's voice was hollow. “He says he needs our connection to anchor some kind of cosmic ritual. That without it, reality itself will collapse.”
Maman was quiet for a long moment. When she spoke again, her voice carried the weight of absolute certainty. “He's not lying about the stakes. But he's not telling you the whole truth either.”
“I suspected,” she answered his earlier question quietly. “But suspecting and knowing are different things entirely. Suspicion is doubt given form. Knowledge is certainty that sits in your bones like winter cold.” A pause, filled with the weight of years. “Come home, mon fils. We have much to discuss, and very little time to do it.” A pause. “I think it's time you learned what Charlotte really planned.”
Bastien pocketed the phone and headed for the exit, his mind reeling with implications that seemed to multiply with every step. Outside, the Garden District looked exactly as it always had—grand mansions sleeping behind wrought iron gates, ancient oaks standing sentinel in the humid night, streetlights casting pools of yellow warmth on empty sidewalks.
But he would never see it the same way again. Every shadow might hide a fae observer. Every coincidence might be orchestrated design. Every emotion he felt for Delphine might be just another note in Maestro’s carefully composed symphony, another ingredient in a recipe that had been cooking for over a century.
As he walked back toward his car, Bastien couldn’t shake the feeling that somewhere in the distance, phantom applause was following him home. The sound of an audience appreciating a performance well-executed, a drama that was approaching its climactic final act.
He thought of Delphine, probably asleep in her apartment, unaware that her dreams might be the most honest thing about her existence. Everything else—her personality, her choices, her very life—had been shaped by forces beyond her understanding, guided by a hand so subtle she’d never noticed the manipulation.
And now Bastien was part of it too, another player in Maestro’s grand design. A devoted guardian, a Watcher, the righteous protector, the man who loved her enough to fight for her soul—exactly what the final awakening required.
The worst part was that it didn’t feel like manipulation. His feelings for Delphine were real, had grown from genuine affection and admiration into something deeper than he’d ever experienced, even with Charlotte. Over lifetimes his longing had become so deep it was almost unbearable. But knowing that those emotions served Maestro’s purpose, that they’d been cultivated as carefully as any crop . . .
How could he trust anything he felt when he knew it was exactly what the fae needed him to feel?
The question followed him through the empty streets like a shadow, unanswered and perhaps unanswerable. In the distance, thunder rumbled despite the clear sky, and Bastien wondered if it was weather or something more ominous approaching.
The final awakening was coming, whether he was ready for it or not.
Eighteen
The invitation arrived without ceremony—elegant script on parchment that smelled of old roses and darker things. Marcelline requests your presence at tonight’s gathering. No location, no time, yet Bastien knew exactly where to find her. The Renault mansion on Rue de Rivoli had hosted such salons for two centuries.
He adjusted his cufflinks at the cuff of his dove gray dress shirt as he approached the heavy oak doors. The doorman stepped aside without words—his kind were always recognized here. Even if he were the only fallen, his ethereal presence was unmistakable.
Inside, burgundy fabric draped the walls in careful folds. But these weren’t mere decorations. Sigils worked into the threads made his senses prickle. Charlotte’s descendants had learned her techniques, though they’d never known their true purpose.
“Bastien Durand.” Marcelline Renault appeared between heartbeats, her voice carrying old French nobility. Beautiful when turned in 1789, death had only refined that beauty into something dangerous. “How delightful you’ve finally accepted.”
“Marcelline.” He inclined his head with proper respect. “Your salon grows more . . . elaborate.”
Her laugh rang like silver bells. “Surely you appreciate artistry. These are Charlotte Lacroix’s lineage work—though her descendants never knew what purposes we’d find for their grandmother’s embroidery.”
Charlotte’s name made every nerve sing with attention, but he kept his expression neutral. “Charlotte?”
“Your beloved’s original incarnation, naturally. Such a talented seamstress. Had quite the gift for embedding things in fabric.” Her smile revealed the barest fang hint. “Come, meet the others. Tonight’s gathering is select.”
She led him deeper past clusters of vampires in quiet conversation. Ancient bloodlines that moved through Parisian society like elegant predators. Younger ones carrying themselves with immortality’s particular arrogance.