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“Fifteen, if my calculations are correct. I have taken the liberty of creating a list of your least essential clients. At your leisure, if you could review…”

Thierry’s calculations were always correct, so the news was dire. “Give it to me,” he snapped, grabbing the paper. He scanned it quickly and was appalled. It included presidents and prime ministers. His client list had already been cut to the bone, and now he was losing limbs.

“Fine,” he growled. “Draft a brief letter with the bad news. I can’t bear any more meetings with the greedy bastards, and I need to focus on our next steps.”

Bluebeard stormed out of the office and through the gates, seeking sanctuary in nature. This was the most beautiful time of year at the Château, but even the fields of crocus couldn’t console him. He stomped up the promontory trail in a fit, barely looking up from his feet as he navigated the slippery rocks. His entire empire was crumbling around him, beset by nosy Constables and greedy Cardinals and power-hungry mortals grasping for tiny shreds of life. And to make it worse, viewed objectively, much of it may have been his own fault. In his darker moments, when he was honest with himself, he had to admit his magic had been slowly waning, weakening with each wife. His wives no longer kindled the necessary spark, and the weak yield of Elixir had been the physical manifestation of the lack, quantitatively taunting him with the loss of his primacy.

Reaching the promontory, he considered for a brief moment. He could follow his wife, his one and only wife, and rejoin her once again. It would be so easy. One step further and six centuries of strife would be over, and he could rest. He felt empty of the drive to live any longer, the exultation of being immortal among lesser beings. Had he misplaced his soul somewhere along the way?

Looking out over the ocean, he tried to recapture the feeling he had when he first crossed those waters. It had been glorious. The world of magic had been entirely new, and the Great Work was right there, at his fingertips. The things he would accomplish! And the things he did accomplish—building Château des Fleurs from the granite cliff up, puppet master of the leaders of two worlds, dancing on the strings of his Elixir, and crowning it all, his glorious year with Annabella. And now, he mustn’t forget, he had a new plan to revitalize the entire operation, rapidly coming to fruition. The love between his two apprentices was in place, as abundantly evidenced at the breakfast table, and, he must admit, Zayan was skilled enough in the Great Work. His next task would be to break the lad, crushing all traces of willfulness that remained. Zayan would need to be pliable and attentive when it came time for him to perform his assigned duties in the grand adventure waiting ahead.

The time was ripe. Through force of will, he would surmount this shameful self-flagellation and attend to the necessary details. It would truly be his masterwork, orchestrating the sacrifice of Thomas Dalton.

CHAPTER 31

Tom said, leaning so seductively in Zayan’s dungeon doorway, “Time for a break, my master alchemist. Do you want to go up to the promontory with me? It’s a hot and sunny summer day, and I want to share it with you.”

“Give me a second, Huggybear,” Zayan answered, dribbling a few drops of his yeast starter into the murky mix. “I need to set up this fermentation.”

Zayan took a long and appreciative look at his sexy chemist, visually undressing him from his rather fetching tank top and shorts. Castle life was suiting his lover. His arms had toned up nicely with all that work in the terraced gardens with Hoyle. Perhaps he should do the same. Sometimes he felt like a pale grub buried down here in his dungeon laboratory.

He gave the pot a quick stir and, fermentation in place, let Tom drag him out of his lab and up the spiral stairs to the brilliant summer sun. He was instantly engulfed by the oppressive heat of the day. Bluebeard rarely let him venture far from the laboratory, but he didn’t mind that on these hot summer days. The dungeon was the coolest place in the castle.

“Maybe not the promontory. Let’s find someplace shady,” he suggested. “Maybe the Falls?”

“Perfect. Let’s do it.”

The Falls was too grand a name for the spot, but since they went there so often, it needed a convenient name. Each little waterfall along the gentle stream was barely the height of their knees, but the mossy banks were the perfect place for a picnic and some private amusement.

Tom stripped off his shirt as soon as they walked through the gate. This new confidence was thrilling. Zayan only wished he felt the same about himself. Since summer had started, Bluebeard’s anger had been inexhaustible, and Zayan’s patience was fraying at the seams. The oppressive heat didn’t help. Life in a castle without air conditioning was sticky and unpleasant.

“I got a new evaporator, a big one,” Tom said, chattering on about the minute-to-minute happenings of his work. Zayan let it wash over him, only half-listening, as they entered the woods. Bluebeard had been intolerable lately. It was almost like he picked fights on purpose. Maybe he was trying to prove something, assert his dominance yet again. The man had an ego that could fill, well, an entire castle.

They ducked off the main trail onto the small footpath, known only to them, stepping over roots and climbing over decaying logs. It felt good to get away, far from Bluebeard’s constant haranguing, and simply worry about keeping his feet under him.

After they jumped over the stream and dropped the picnic basket at their favorite mossy knoll, Tom said, “You’re awfully quiet today.” With a sweet smile, he added, “Even for you.”

“Sorry. A lot on my mind.”

“Is the work going okay?”

“All good. I’m learning a lot.” He added, muttering, “Maybe too much.” Bluebeard had been riding him hard, trying to stuff him full of new techniques and arcane theory, and he had a distinctly corporal system of reward and punishment for his often-faulty performance.

“Is he hitting you again?” Tom asked, immediately cutting to the heart of the matter. His sexy, shirtless boyfriend could always see right through him.

“Maybe,” he said, ashamed he couldn’t simply admit it and say yes. He hated being this weak, wanting success so badly he bent his knee to his evil mentor, again and again and again.

“We should leave,” Tom said. “Now. We’ll pack our bags and Charlie can take us home, wherever we want to make our new home. You don’t have to live with this.”

As he had been doing all season, Zayan vacillated. It would be so nice to see the world in black and white like his darling Huggybear. He could hear the wheels turning in his head: Bluebeard is mean, so we have to leave, as simple as that. But it wasn’t that simple. He was learning so much—the arcane theories supporting the Great Work, the very foundations of alchemy—and it was almost worth the abuse. Bruises would heal, but the knowledge he was gaining would last lifetimes and beyond. Weighing one against the other, knowledge always tipped the scale in its favor.

“I can’t. I’m at a breakthrough. Surely you can understand that.”

And then there were the books! Bluebeard was finally guiding him through the ancient tomes, tutoring him in Greek and correcting his faulty Latin one temper tantrum at a time. What was a black eye when the mystery of the Philosopher's Stone was right there, at his fingertips? Delving into those dusty tomes, he was finally coming to appreciate the full grandeur of the Great Work.

Tom said, still furious but also helpless, looking for solutions where there weren’t any, “Of course, my sexy alchemist. I understand that you’re excited. But really, how can we keep his hands off you?”

“Are you jealous?” he quipped, trying to defuse the situation.