“The Morgensterns don’t have anything like this?”
“We don’t bury our dead. We burn them and scatter the ashes.”
“For once, that sounds relatively normal.”
I scoff, backhanding his bicep. “For the thousandth time, we’re not a cult.”
“Keep telling yourself that.” He grins and nudges my scowl with a knuckle. “There she is.”
My cheeks warm, his touch flinging my thoughts back to what we did upstairs. I want to do it again and so much more. But not here, not now.
“Come on.” I grab an unlit torch from a nearby sconce and light it with his. “Let’s see what the saint was so scared someone would find.”
We comb through the chamber, examining every sarcophagus layered in dust for any more hidden doors. Finding none, we stow our weapons and wander the crypt. Jezebel slinks for the stairs, guarding our backs.
“Interesting,” Brontë utters, his perplexed tone luring me over to where he’s chiseling frost from a plaque above a sealed casket. “This isn’t an Aurelius.”
I raise my torch, reading aloud, “Leon Redd.” My lips purse in response to the familiar name. "He was one of Felix's students that was hanged around his pyre."
“Why would he be buried here?”
“Hm.” I approach the next casket, cleaning the plaque. “Cheryl Nurse.” The next. “Harper Bishop.” Chillingly, there’s no casket or plaque for my ancestor, Octavia Morgenstern. “These are all names of Felix’s students that Emi said were mistaken for satanic witches. What if they weren’t just his students? What if they were actually members of his cult? His cult that was mistaken for a coven?”
“Wouldn’t that make them Leviathan’s founding families?”
“Hai, that’s what I’m thinking.”
Brontëfans out, naming more than what Emi could decipher from the scanned ledger she’d found earlier. Most are archaic surnames that died with them. “Katerina Volkova. As in…?”
“The Volkovs.” I nod. “Explains why the invitation coordinates led here, to show Nik hard evidence that he’s a Leviathan legacy. A member by birthright.”
He roams farther down and then halts as if injected with cement. “Putain.”
Slowly, I join his side and follow his stare to the plaque that reads:
BASTIAN BONAPARTE
Ice chills my veins as I recall Brontë’s discovery of a Bonaparte who’d been caught in the crossfire between my family and the Volkovs. But Leviathan isn’t destroying my empire because of a casualty that happened decades ago.
They’re out for blood—because I killed a legacy.
“I don’t understand,” I admit. “Sebastian wasn’t branded. He wasn’t a member.”
“Perhaps not. Though, he could’ve been proving his worth by showing Leviathan what he could do and how long he could get away with it. Earning his way into their ranks.”
Acidic guilt corrodes my stomach as realization dawns. “So, this is why Leviathan is destroying my life and my future. The ruination of my empire, the deaths of Jett and Fiona and countless others…it's allmyfault.”
“Don’t bear that mantle,Petit Diable.” Brontë reaches for my hand, his fingers twining with mine. “You didn’t know.”
Beneath his words, all I hear is:Your fault.
My gaze floats up to the demon on his neck. Its wicked stare traps me.
“Your fault,” it croons, licking its teeth like knives.
Unnatural cold numbs my limbs. Shadows crouch at the edges of my vision. A heavy fatigue settles into my bones. It feels like the moment before death sweeps in for its final kiss.
Feline yowls fade in and out. All I see is that firelit demon and its jaws opening wide, wide as a dragon’s—
