EIGHT
It had been four years, but Cadogan House smelled exactly the same: like wood polish and fresh flowers, the scent from the enormous vase of wildflowers on the pedestal table in the foyer. There were parlors off to each side, a curving oak staircase that led to the first floor, and a long, central hallway that led to the cafeteria and offices.
I walked to the pedestal table, let fingers trail across slick and smooth wood. And the memory crept into view like a photograph.
I’d been sixteen, coming downstairs to the foyer to wait for Lulu; she was going to sleep over.
I’d found Connor slouched on a wooden bench—back against the wall and long legs stretched out in front of him. He wore snug jeans and a T-shirt beneath a black moto-style jacket. His arms had been crossed over his chest and his eyes were closed, so a fan of dark lashes brushed his cheeks. His hair had been longer than it was now—thick, dark locks that brushed his shoulders—and his lips had been curved in a smile.
He’d looked, I’d thought, like a very wicked and happy angel.
“What’s up, brat?” he’d asked, without opening his eyes.
“Do you call all vampires ‘brat’ these days?” I’d asked, walking closer.
“I can smell your perfume.”
I’d blinked. I’d worn the same fragrance for years—a pale pink liquid in a square bottle that smelled like spring flowers—but I’d never have thought he’d noticed.
“Wolf,” he’d said, opening his eyes drowsily. “Predatory sense of smell.”
“So you say. Making yourself at home?” I’d asked, nudging the toe of his boot.
“The Pack’s an ally,” he’d said. “Aren’t we supposed to make ourselves at home?”
“You want a drink and a snack plate, too? Maybe a blanket?”
“Sure,” he’d said with a grin, sitting upright and clasping his hands between his knees. “You going to get that for me?”
“Not in this lifetime.”
He’d actually clucked his tongue. “That’s poor vampire hospitality. And before you can interrogate me, Mini Sentinel, my dad’s talking to yours. I’m waiting.”
“Not interested enough in the Pack to join in?”
That had hit the mark, and something flashed in his eyes. But before he could answer, the front door had opened and Lulu had walked inside.
“What’s up, other brat?”
“What’s up, Labradoodle?” She dropped her bag on the floor with a resounding thud.
Connor had hated that name, which is exactly why Lulu used it. But his expression stayed the same—lazily confident.
“What will you two maniacs be doing tonight? Alphabetizing the books in the library?”
“At least we know how to alphabetize.”
Gabriel had walked into the foyer, smiled when he’d seen us. Connor sat up straight, which had had me biting back a grin. “Elisa. Lulu.”
I’d offered a wave. “Hey, Mr. Keene.”
He’d given me a wink, then looked at this son. “Let’s go, Con.”
Connor had risen from the bench, offering us a salute as he’d followed his father outside again.
“At least you get ‘brat,’” Lulu had said when the door closed again. “You’re the original. I’m the other.”
She walked to one of the windows that flanked the door, watched the pair walk down the sidewalk. “It’s a damn shame he’s such a punk. Because he would be stupid hot if it wasn’t for the attitude.”
“Maybe,” I’d said. That Connor Keene was gorgeous was undeniable. “But he’ll always be a punk.”
Seven years later, I ran my fingers along the table, then headed for the staircase that led to the third floor.
He was still hot. And maybe, surprisingly, a little less of a punk.
* * *
• • •
The apartments—our home within Cadogan House—opened into a pretty sitting room. My parents’ bedroom was to the left. To the right was the smaller suite they’d created for me: a bedroom, bathroom, and closet I’d learned later had been carved out of the House’s “consort” suite. TMI, but there you go.
I walked toward my bedroom, wondered if it would feel the same to be surrounded with stuff from another part of my life, or if everything would feel distant, strange.
There was nothing pink, no photographs under the mirror, no freeze-dried roses or trophies. Striped bedspread, matching lamps on the nightstand, and a desk with everything arranged just so, which is how I’d liked it. A small table held the turntable I’d saved my allowance to buy, the vinyl organized alphabetically beneath it.
A bookshelf held a few books and a lot of coffee mugs from my favorite spots in Chicago. There were mementos, but they were organized in the scrapbooks on the second shelf. Plenty of photos of Lulu in those, occasional shots of Connor. Family trips to amusement parks and cities with enough nightlife to give us something to do when the sun was down.
I walked back into the sitting room. And that’s when I felt it.
The katana, pulsing with magic, was only a few yards away.
I knew it would be in the House, had hoped the fact that I hadn’t sensed it the moment I’d walked in the door meant the calm I’d managed at the hotel was giving me the cushion I’d needed. But just like that first step into Chicago, I’d guessed wrong again. I was susceptible. Vulnerable.
And I didn’t like being either.
I moved closer, walking toward my parents’ bedroom, and the magic pounded harder, so it felt like concert-worthy bass rattling the floor to a song I couldn’t hear. But everything was still—the frames on the wall, the vase of flowers on the table, the inkwell on the secretary in the corner.
I stepped over the threshold. The walls here were pale blue, the wood dark brown, the accents white and silver.
The package of red brocade silk lay on my parents’ bed, a shock of color across a crisply white duvet. It was tied with a braided and tasseled ivory silk cord, and it was close enough to touch.
My mother had taken the sword out of the armory again. Probably because of the fairies’ interruption, and just in case she needed to protect the House. She wasn’t wearing it tonight; the rest of the guards would be protecting the House, and I was part of the Dumas contingent. And she had diplomatic responsibilities.
Magic throbbed in my chest, pulsing like a foreign heartbeat.
I moved into the bedroom, untied the cord, and unwrapped the fabric, revealing the gleaming red scabbard.
Visually, it looked exactly like what it was—a sheathed katana. There was nothing especially unusual about the lacquer or the cord around the handle, and I knew the blade would look well crafted and lethally sharp.
It was the magic that mattered, the power bound to the sword, and the trace of it that had bound itself inside me.
I was here, alone with it. If there would be a reckoning, this was the time. So I squeezed my hands into fists, closed my eyes, and relaxed the mental barriers I’d erected against the magic’s cries.
They called to each other. Not because they wanted to be bound together inside me or inside the sword, but because they wanted to be free so they could spread their anger around the city.
“Not going to happen,” I gritted out.
Its reaction was instant and painful. The monster lashed out, fury flashing across my skin like fire, hot enough to singe.
I stumbled backward, reaching out to the wall behind me to steady myself, green silk pooling around me, my heartbeat racing as magic tried to fight back. I swallowed hard and bore down, then stood up again. “You aren’t in charge,” I said, and took a step forward.
Anger spread again, and I breathed through pursed lips to deal with it, but tears still sprang to my eyes.
“You don’t own me,” I said, taking another step forward and staring down at the inert metal. “And you never will. So do us both a favor and give up the fight.”
I’d come to say my piece, and I’d said it. It took the rest of my strength to wrap the scabbard in silk again, to knot the cords, to straighten the blanket beneath the package. That seemed important somehow, that the blanket was straight.
I stepped back, the tightness in my chest easing up as I put distance between myself and the sword. But I could feel the pulse beneath my ribs, the refusal to give up.
I’d won this battle. But the war would continue, and we’d all see who won.
* * *
• • •