It takes me a moment to catch onto what she’s really saying. “You targeted Dantë for the ring. His past didn’t scare you off. You got what you wanted and left.”
“Très bien, ma chérie.Let’s try another round, shall we? While we’re on the subject of ancient history, do you know what happened to our founding families?”
“They were all hung while Felix burned.”
“All except…?”
“Octavia Morgenstern.”
“Bravo. Why?”
“She flew from the noose on her broomstick.”
Margot’s dark gaze slides to Quinn. “Do you remember the story, Acolyte?”
“Of course, Magus. Upon joining our Father’s inner circle, Octavia was promised a cure for her infertility. A ritual was planned to fulfill this vow, along with those promised to the other members, but the night of their sabbath was raided by witch hunters. Octavia stood at the noose alongside her peers and watched our Father burn. She prayed to Lucifer to save their lives. He saved onlyherlife, and—”
My snort cuts her off. “Do you even hear yourself?”
“I assure you, Poppy,” Margot says, “you’ll want to listen closely.”
“This is fucking psychotic, but sure. Finish your pitch. Not like I’m going anywhere.”
Margot nods to Quinn, who continues, “In exchange for saving her life, Octavia agreed to bear Lucifer’s child. Rumor has it they were star-crossed lovers and that he forged her a ring of black diamonds not unlike the Aurelius ring.”
My attention flits briefly to Mama’s ring. Swallowing suddenly becomes a Herculean effort. What are the chances this is all fuckingreal?
No.It’s not real. It’s just more stories told by a radical and ludicrous satanic cult.
I bark a laugh, half hoping my parents wake up. They don’t. “So, you’re telling me that my ancestor was in love with the Devil, and I’m from a long line of Antichrists?”
Quinn arches an eyebrow. “Who’s the cliché now?”
Margot lays a silencing hand on Quinn’s shoulder. “You’re focusing on the wrong angle, Poppy.Everyonewas meant to die that night. Octavia cheated death. No one does so without disastrous consequences. Look at all that’s happened to your family over the years since then: your war with the Volkovs, the fall of your empire. Don’t yousee? A debt has yet to be paid. Death won’t stop until it’s collected what’s owed.”
I don’t believe any of it, but she does. So, I play along.
The longer she talks, the more time I have to get out of this mess. Brontë will be looking for me by now, especially if he checked that tracker and found it inactive.
“Where does Sebastian fit in?”
Margot drifts to the Bonaparte casket, drawing her fingertips through the dust. “Many of us have been lying in wait for the moment we could make a move to undo Octavia’s curse without breaking our most fundamental rule: We, the Church, do not engage in the Crown’s affairs. There’s been disagreement among our ranks regarding how to handle the death of a legacy by your hand, causing a rift in leadership and splitting all the way down to the bone. Simply put, we are at war with ourselves. Our people are now slaughtering each other. Death’s curse has afflicted us as surely as you. The only way to stop it is to correct Octavia’s mistake and satisfy death’s craving by spilling every last drop of Morgenstern blood.” Her gaze pins mine like nails in a coffin. “And begging Lucifer for forgiveness.”
My upper lip curls. Here I am thinkingI’minsane.
Margot suddenly brandishes a wicked knife from her sleeve and grabs Quinn’s curls. In a blink, blood splatters the stone at their feet. Quinn gasps, hands flying to her slit throat.
And the lion becomes the lamb.
“Your sacrifice will be remembered, Acolyte,” Margot murmurs, watching Quinn drop with bored apathy. “Rest now in the fires of Hell.”
Rage flickers within me once more. If anyone had the right to claim that cunt's life, it should've been Brontë.
Quinn twitches in the last throes of death. Her irises dull as her blood soaks into the pentagram. Margot wastes no time, conjuring a ball of flame with a mere flick of her wrist and tossing it into the kindling circling the pyre.
“What thefuck?” I shout, unable to comprehend what I just witnessed. “What are you?”
“I’m a witch, Poppy.” Margot kneels outside the pentagram, drawing a grimoire from her robes with a wicked grin. “Hush now. It’ll all make sense soon.”
