She was in love with him.
She had only ever been in love with him.Onlyhim. She had never allowed herself to admit that small truth, not even to herself. It was better that way, she told herself. Better to bury herself with the others, all the others. They had been flirtations, distractions she’d entertained herself with, anything to deflect from the ever-present ache in her chest. She made a game of love. With all the others. With Anabelle. So reckless. Careless. And now she would have this moment—she would have him—if she could have him only once. They were on borrowed time. Tomorrow, in the pale wash of dawn, she might think better of such choices. But not now. All she had was right now. She had him, and that was enough.
So long as Ree drew breath, she decided then, she would not turn her heart to stone. Even if it hurt her, ruined her. Because maybe, just maybe, it might heal her too in the end.
“Ree,” he said with a gasp in her ear. He did not—could not—say more. But it was fine by her. His touch was confession enough.
Faster and faster she moved, winding her hips until he released a stifled sound of pleasure, a soft hissing through his teeth, and flipped her over. She stared up into his masked face, the cruel darkcontours of the disguise, her body arching into his, music swelling to its crescendo. The fire in the grate sizzled and hissed, overflowing with the building magic of her passion until, at last, it was extinguished in a single, distinct snap as Ree let out a final cry of pleasure into the dark.
After, they lay against the rug, facing each other. Bursts of gold lights in the sky shone between the lace curtains of the parlor’s windows. The Brotherhood had spared no expense, no magic, for their annual light show. After a moment, the lights faded, the room dark again. She knew daylight was hours away. New Orleans would celebrate even then—the night would not stop. But it would for them. The sun would soon rise, and their spell would be broken.
Henryk’s gaze fastened to hers as if he might never let go. But something behind his eyes had died. And she knew whatever had been between them for these few blissful hours, whatever lovely feeling had blossomed, it was now dead too. Her hand cradled his cheek, felt the coarse stubble along his jaw. “I think I preferred when you hated me.”
“I confess to hating many things. But you?” His eyes searched hers, silently willing her to understand what he could not fully say. “You, Marie Laveau the Second, could never be one of them.”
“I’m sorry,” she murmured. And she was. She truly was.
His lips brushed her knuckles, feather-soft. “For what?”
“For not joining you that day on the bridge. I wanted to be my own woman. And yet, when the time came for me to choose,I—”
“You chose Marie,” he said quietly. “Some part of you will always choose Marie.” Bitter.Over me. Over yourself.Words he did not dare say. And yet she heard them, as loud as the light show that colored the night sky outside. Was she foolish to think one night of passion might fix whatever had broken between them?
Her mother had chosen love. And she had been sorry for it in the end, hadn’t she? Jacques. Jon. Both men had made her pay dearly in different ways. But she’d chosen Ree too. Maybe her mother’s story had taught her something, after all. Love was the strange and fickle thing that could break you in half. Love was unwieldy, transformative. And, quite possibly, the only magic in the world that could make you whole again. If you letit.
“I’m terrified, Marie.” He said her full name, soft like a hushed prayer. “I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t terrified of losing myself. But the thing that scares me more is the thought that I might lose you again too.”
She rested her hand upon his cheek, committing to memory the curve of his face in the dark, the cool gleam of his eyes searching hers. “Whatever we may be, we will face it together.” That much she could say. That much she could promise him.
Ree rose to her feet and stepped back into the slip she’d worn beneath her gown. She tied her hair in the golden tignon to keep it out of her face, then went to the hearth to start a pot of water to boil for tea. She could make some at the stove in the back room, but then she would miss the generous view of Henryk as he stood, bare in the slant of moonlight that fell through the apothecary’s windows, and began to dress with languid slowness. As if they had all night before them. The thought made her eyes prickle.
When he was dressed again, he joined her at the hearth, planting a sleepy kiss on her bare shoulder. When the kettle started to whistle, she brought him a cup, and together they shared their tea in easy silence. Henryk watched her, a soft grin on his lips. She knew what he was thinking, what he could not bring himself to say. They were not a witch or an Inquisitor in that moment. They were simply two people sharing a cup of tea, a quiet moment in the dark.
When Ree brought the cup to her lips, another scent rose up from its hazy cloud. Something bitter—foxglove.
The cup shattered in Ree’s hand.
And before she could scream, Henryk shoved her hard across the room. She was hurled backward and hit the shelf lined with Marie’s brews and talismans. Bottles and vials exploded, potions and decanters spilling around her in a glistening mess, broken glass puncturing her skin. The dizzying perfume of countless herbs and concoctions rose from the floorboards, overwhelming her vision in a dense cloud.
Ree looked up to see a dark-robed figure drifting in from the dark, a curl of silvery smoke tangling aroundit.
Silas.
When the smoke dispersed, she could see the Grand Wizardstanding directly in front of the door, in the only path to the apothecary’s exit. The alchemist had Henryk by the hair with one hand and his glowing staff in the other. He wrenched Henryk’s head upward, showing her his bludgeoned face.
“No!” yelled Ree as she sprang to her feet. Henryk’s gray eyes remained locked onto hers, the eyes that begged her silently to run. Silas jabbed the end of his staff into Henryk’s neck, drawing a thin line of blood. Ree stopped cold.
“Do it,” Silas hissed, “and I’ll turn every bit of him to stone. And then”—his eyes narrowed—“I’ll break him. And nothing, and I mean nothing, will put him together again.” His lips quirked as if to say,Not even you, little witch.
She didn’t doubt that he would. She would put nothing past the Grand Wizard.
But still she said, “You wouldn’t.” Her voice shook. “You can’t kill him. I know that he’s your so-called piece on the board you and Antoine made. Another part to your little game.”
It was a desperate play on what little knowledge she had.
“Well,” Silas said with a sneer, “the rules just changed.”
“You fucking bastard.” Marie was wrong. Her mother was wrong. There was nothing good left in this man, if there had ever been any at all. He was a living shell, worse and more pitiful a creature than any zombi.
