“All three victims have connections to members of the Nevermore Coven.”
“That’s because we’re all up in everyone’s business!” Isis cries.
“Isis is right.” Komal chews on one of Celeste’s cheese scones. “Everyone in the village knows us. And I’d hardly call Maisie threatening to have James Pond peck Danny O’Hare’s codger off a ‘close connection’.”
I barely listen to their bickering. I want to find the killer as much as anyone, but I can’t stop my mind wandering to a golden-haired terror who’s done something I never expected and kept his word. I haven’t seen Gideon since Alyra’s funeral – no mean feat on his behalf, considering I live and work on the estate. I know he’s intending to leave – I saw a moving van outside Sanctus House and workers carrying down some of his designer furniture – but there’s a lot to process, especially since the phones are ringing off the hook with new inquiries after his explosive update on Sepulchrr.
Not seeing him has allowed his grief-filled eyes from our parting to haunt my dreamless sleep.
Okay, fine, not just my sleep.
I see him now on the edge of my vision, a whisper of a future I could have had.
I hear his silky voice saying the things I long to hear for the rest of my life.
We’re not soulmates, Arabella. The gods didn’t bring us together. Iwilledyou back to me. I knitted the threads of fate together with the sheer force of my desire to see you again.
I thought we’d been through the foreplay. I stole from you. You tried to have me killed. Ours is a romance written in the stars.
Every time you say my name like that, I want to braid our bones together.
I wish…
I wish things had been different.
But it’s better this way. I’m better off alone. And he’s better off without me. In time, he’ll see that.
We’re vampires. All we have left is time.
My fist clenches around Beth’s healing elixir. I got over Gideon once before. I can do it again.
47
Gideon
Sinead:I have a letter here from one Édouard Manet.
AVOIDINGARABELLA IS LIKE AVOIDINGmy own dick in the mirror. It’s frustrating how impossible it is to look away from the majesty.
I’m constantly diving into bushes to avoid crossing paths with her around the estate. I’ve avoided the village completely in case I run into her with one of her friends from the book club. I refused an invitation to hide out with Alaric and Winnie at Black Crag in case she randomly shows up to borrow a cup of sugar.
(Also, I don’t particularly feel like listening to Winnie’s well-meaning pleading that I should try to declare my love again, while Alaric says nothing and pointedly sharpens his swords.)
Soon I’ll be gone. The pain won’t be less, but at least I won’t turn every corner in fear of seeing that haunted, frozen expression on her face.
I collect a stack of papers from the bottom drawer of my desk and shove them into the shredder – they’re filled with ideas and sketches for the next stage of Sanctus. I could save them for Arabella, but what’s the point? Sanctus is her vision now, not mine.
I’ve destroyed everything in my life that’s good through avarice and hubris. But I’m keeping this promise to her if it kills me. And it very well might.
I’ve mourned her once. I don’t know if I have the strength left to mourn her again.
At least I’m safe in my office, for two more days, and then it officially becomes Arabella’s office and I move into my new temporary London penthouse and await the Conclave’s vengeance.
I slump in my chair, staring out the window at the empire I built. Vampires move in pairs and groups through the Midnight Garden. For years, Sanctus has been my dream – high walls for broken souls. A sanctuary. I didn’t want vampires to have to turn to the criminal underground if they wanted a life outside of the courts.
And I’ve achieved that dream, even if it is somewhat precarious.
Why do I feel so hollow?
