"We just got here," I whisper, tears pricking my eyes. "It was our sanctuary."
"Sanctuaries are temporary," Alaric says, sitting up. "We are not meant for peace, Elodie. We are meant for the storm."
He stands up. He helps me up. We look at the burning house.Villa Diodati.The place where monsters are made.
"Let it burn," Alaric says.
We walk out into the rain. We get into the Audi. We drive away. Behind us, the flames consume the past. The piano. The bed. The dream.
We are back on the road. We have the money. We have each other. And we have a world that is afraid of us.
"Where to?" I ask, watching the fire fade in the rearview mirror.
Alaric looks at the map on the dashboard. "East," he says. "To the Balkans. To the wild places where the law doesn't reach."
He takes my hand. "The concert continues,petite. We just changed venues."
I squeeze his hand. "What are we playing next?"
Alaric smiles. The silver fire burns brighter than ever. "War," he says. "We are playing War."
CHAPTER 35
THE ENCORE
POV: Elodie Fray
Location:The State Opera House, Vienna, Austria (6 Months Later)
Track:Experience– Ludovico Einaudi (Live at fabric)
Sensory:The hush of three thousand people holding their breath, the smell of rosin and cold diamonds, the blinding heat of the spotlight against the skin.
Mood:Apex Predator Satisfaction & Eternal Complicity.
Winter has returned to Vienna.
It is not the terrified, gray winter of my youth, the one where I hurried from practice rooms to cold apartments, head down, afraid of my own shadow. This winter is gold and black. It is the winter of emperors. And tonight, we are the monarchs.
I stand in the wings of the State Opera House. The velvet curtain is heavy, dusty, smelling of a century of performances. Beyond it, the hum of the audience is a physical vibration in thefloorboards. Three thousand people. Senators. Ambassadors. CEOs. The remnants of the Syndicate who were smart enough to bend the knee when the Obsidian Tower fell. They are all out there. They are not here for the music. They are here because they were summoned.
"You're trembling," a voice says behind me.
I don't turn. I know the shape of him by the displacement of the air. Alaric steps close. He is wearing a tuxedo that costs more than the house I grew up in. His hair is longer now, brushed back, silver streaks beginning to show at the temples—scars from the stress of the last year. He places his hands on my bare shoulders. His left hand is firm, warm. His right hand—the hand that was crushed and rebuilt—is cooler. I can feel the faint ridge of the scars against my skin. It is a map of our survival.
"I'm not trembling from fear," I whisper, leaning back into him. "I'm vibrating. It’s the adrenaline."
"Good," he murmurs, kissing the sensitive spot behind my ear. "Adrenaline is fuel."
He slides his hands down my arms, over the red silk of my gown. It is the same shade of red as the blood we left on the floor of the yacht in Monaco. It is a declaration of war stitched into fabric. He stops at my wrists. He feels my pulse.Thump. Thump. Thump.Steady. Like a metronome set toAndante.
"They are terrified out there," Alaric says, a dark amusement coloring his tone. "I walked through the Royal Box. The Russian ambassador spilled his champagne when he saw me. He thought I was a ghost."
"Youarea ghost, Alaric. We both are."
"Ghosts don't bleed," he says, pressing his body against mine. "And ghosts don't fuck."
I smile. It’s the sharp smile he taught me. "Are we going to kill them?" I ask.
