“Will you just do as I say for once?” I snap, exhausted and freezing my ass off in the brutal winter wind. “When we’re done here, we’ll go our separate ways. You have my word, this is the last you’ll see me. Emi will continue to funnel updates, but you and I will otherwise never cross paths again. Consider our bargain fulfilled. Deal?”
“Deal.”
My eyes burn. It’s not his answer that twists the knife between my ribs; it’s his lack of hesitation.
I pocket my vape and thumb my damp lashes dry as I lead him inside. Candlelight and merry conversation greets us, the scent of oldpaper and aged wine on its heels. The vast foyer opens to a sprawling staircase. A vintage Gothic chandelier hangs from the vaulted ceiling. Ornate candelabras line the ebony wood walls, flickering buttery light over servants in swallowtail coats carrying silver platters of drinks and hors d'oeuvres through the growing crowd of suits and gowns. I pluck a pair of wine glasses from a passing tray and hand one to Brontë as I take his arm like he belongs to me, uttering, "Act natural. Mama and Papa should be here somewhere."
To my surprise, he doesn't fight my hold. Nor does he argue.
We circle around the foyer, meeting my aunts and uncles and cousins that flash curious smiles at the coroner while we search for my parents. He's unnervingly skilled at slipping on an easy smile while sharing pleasantries with my family of criminals. When we first met, he was tense and clearly had no interest in being around the living. He'd seemed to have been one of those people who wished to have been born anything but human. There’s something different about him now.
Since I cut him deep and gave him that scar, he's changed—almost like I'd cut him free from his unseen bonds. I may have been the one in the mask he'd been hunting for ten years of his life, but he was hiding just as much as me. Is this the real man beneath the antisocial coroner exterior? How long, I wonder, has he been hiding himself away? Choosing to ice out the warmth of humanity rather than bask in it? The man is a lone wolf. Isolated, solitary, fiercely protective of those he loves…overburdened by the responsibility mantled on his shoulders to keep his family safe.
Just like me.
“Impressive,” Brontë remarks as we pause in a secluded corner with a snarling gargoyle statue, setting our empty glasses on a passing tray. “Even the kids are sharpwitted and silvertongued.”
“TheyareMorgensterns,” I muse, only half-grinning. Because most of them are like me when I was their age and already have a running tally of graves they’ve filled. It sickens me, but I don’t let it show. Not here, in front of my own family. “I don't see Mama and Papa. Let's try the library upstairs."
As I steer us up the staircase, passing the oil paintings immortalizing generations of Morgensterns poised in regal gentry, he utters, "Not a cult, huh?"
My eyes roll. "No."
“Where’syourportrait?”
“Mine will be painted when I inherit Papa’s throne.” If there’s a throne left to inherit.
“When do you ascend?”
“When I find my king or Papa retires. Whichever comes first.”
“No arranged marriages, then?”
I toss a glare over my shoulder. “Don’t insult us. We’re not the Mafia.”
Brontë lifts his palms in surrender, mumbling to himself. We reach the top landing, and I let muscle memory lead us down the long hallway lit by more wall-mounted candelabras.
“What about your mother’s side?”
I pivot in place, jabbing a finger at his chest. “Why are you suddenly so curious aboutma famille, monsieur?”
His shoulder hikes. “If I’m going to meet your parents, I should at least know the basics.”
“You already know the basics.”
“I don’t even know your mother’s name,Petit Diable.”
“Rin Morgenstern, formerly Hayashi. Her kin still live in Japan.”
“Do they visit?”
“No.”
“Do you visit them?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
