“Oui,” I confirm. “Perfect.”
Liar.
I cry myself to sleep for the first time in years, curledup into a little ball like I can protect myself from the truth—things are changing. I found so much comfort in my life here with the Beauregards after everything that happened in France. I feel like a safety blanket is being yanked away now. What am I going to do?
A nightmare wakes me just hours after I finally drift off. I dreamed of an old apartment building, and stairs, and creatures with sharp teeth and claws running after me until I slipped and fell.
With a heavy sigh, I drag myself out of bed, hoping some warm tea will help calm me down. Henry has school in the morning, and I really should get a few more hours in.
I check on him first, quietly opening his bedroom door. Sleeping like an angel. Then I pad downstairs to the kitchen, my slippers soundless on the tiled floor. I only just reach for my favorite mug when there’s a noise at the side door. It sounds like booted steps.
“Hello?” I call out, slowly approaching.
No reply.
Maybe I imagined it? With a shrug, I turn back to the counter, pushing the button on the electric kettle. Chamomile tea or mint? Maybe I still have some of the valerian left…
I freeze again, that strange feeling that I’m not alone returning, when a gloved hand clamps over my mouth before I can even take a breath. My hands shoot up, automatically trying to pull it away, my fingers scrabbling for purchase, but slipping off some kind of heavy fabric.
Is it Thomas? Or someone my parents sent? Oh god, what if they hurt the Beauregards?
“Be calm,” the person holding me says. A man.
Calm?Sérieux?
“My name is Corson, and I will not hurt you,” the man says. “All will be explained when we get to Purgatory.”
Purgatory? This must be one of the zealots my family associates with. They are the only people who would name a place after the religious version of Switzerland.
“This will be unpleasant,” the man continues.
My eyes bug out at the threat. As a last-ditch attempt, I reach for a knife from the rack, my fingers only just brushing over the handle when he yanks me back, knocking everything off the counter instead.
“None of that.”
A door opens upstairs.
“Simone?”
It’s Mr. Beauregard.
Merde.
This man feels like a titanium mountain—there’s just no way Mr. Beauregard can overpower him. And it doesn’t seem like he feels threatened either, clicking his tongue with frustration and impatience.
“Apologies, young Cambion,” he says nonsensically.
Before I can wonder what the hell he just called me and what he’s apologizing for, his fingers press against the side of my neck, and everything goes black.
2
SIMONE
Iwake up with a gasp, my surroundings making no sense. Bare walls slide past my vision, broken only by the occasional candelabra. I’m being carried by strong arms like a doll, the smell of ash and a tinge of sulfur invading my nose.
The stranger in the kitchen! He must have taken me somewhere on either my parents’ or Thomas’s orders.
I look up to find a man with perfect, classically handsome features. If he weren’t a thug, he could have been a model—he’s that beautiful. Our eyes meet, and I think I see a hint of regret in his gaze.
