“Hello,” I cradle the phone against my cheek as I flop back onto my pillows. Gideon’s scent rises from the note, and I slip into a dreamy memory of his fingers drawing out suchpleasure…
“Arabella, where are you?”
“Still in bed. You won’t believe the night I’ve had—”
“You’d better come quickly. Beth’s studio is on fire.”
I smell the blaze before I see it.
I’m driving Gideon’s car with the windows down, and the smell of burning brings up a memory I’ve tried hard to forget – my beautiful theatre a ruinous sacrifice to Lucien Vega’s empire.
In my chest, my heart is a charred, broken thing.
Gideon sits in the passenger seat beside me, his hands folded in his lap. He jiggles one leg until I snap at him that I’ll cut it off. For years I thought him responsible for La Petite Mort burning. Now, after everything he told me, I’m forced to adjust my opinion of him.
He’s still a rat bastard, but maybe not quite as ratty or bastardly as I thought.
And judging from his jackhammer leg and the way his cobalt eyes have clouded over with worry, he cares about the future of Beth’s pole studio and the village variety show just as much as I do.
Not that I care. At all.
We exit the estate and the high trees that provide our sanctuary give way to low hedgerows and rolling fields. The village looms above us, a plume of smoke rising from the centre.
I put my foot down and race along narrow, winding streets lined with Victorian townhouses and thatched-roof cottages, thankful for the sports car’s impressive grip as I tear around the village green and pull to a stop in front of the inferno that was once the historic wattle-and-daub stables.
My throat burns as I clamber out of the car. The building is beyond saving. The fire has already caved in the roof. Villagers gather at the edge of the lot, staring mutely.
Beth stands in her yoga clothes, arms folded across her chest, staring into the flames with a look of despair and ire so deep that not even a mushroom smoothie could fix it.
“Beth…” I’m speechless. I can’t think of a single thing to say that will comfort my friend while her dreams go up in flames. I know all too well the desolation that brings.
Beth nods, but doesn’t look away from the flames.
Maisie jogs over, her reporter’s notebook clenched tightly in her fist. “I’m so happy to see both of you. We were worried. And before you ask, Chief Baker is saying it’s arson. You and Gideon were both booked in to practise your variety show act. You should have been inside when the building went up. I’m so grateful you cancelled.”
I glance at Gideon, my heart hammering against my chest.
We were supposed to be in there.
If we hadn’t been with Celeste in the dungeon, if we hadn’t had that silly bet to stay up all night, Gideon and I would have been practising in the studio. Our names were printed clearly on the schedule sent to all the performers. Anyone could have found out when we meant to be there.
Celeste’s warning rings in my ears. Maybe I’ve been foolish to ignore it.
I turn to Gideon. “Where’s Badica?”
He looks surprised by the question. “He’s on a train back to his family seat at Nightshade Court. I sent a note to Alaric’s mother, who will deal with him once he arrives.”
“And there’s no chance that he could have snuck off that train and come back here?”
“None whatsoever. I left him in the care of two of my most trustworthy men.” Gideon looks puzzled. “What’s this about?”
“Whoever did this knew you and Arabella would be using the hall tonight,” Celeste pipes up. “They nailed shut the doors and windows. Lilac says there’s some kind of spell around the building so a vampirewouldn’t be able to escape. They intended to kill you both, just like they killed Danny and Patrick.”
I glare at Celeste.
Gideon turns to me. “Are you being stalked by a crazed killer and you didn’t think to tell me?”
“Celeste is being alarmist,” I hiss through gritted teeth.
