Page 39

He knows it.

I can see it in the way his shoulders lock, the way his muscles strain against his coat. He looks at me like I’m as filthy as I feel.

"Is this Midnight House?" I scream at him, tears finally spilling over my lashes. "Is this what I am?!"

"No, lass," he says, his voice raspy and broken.

He takes a step forward, forcing his body past whatever ancient instinct is telling him to stay away. He reaches out with a calloused thumb, wiping a tear from my cheekbone. His hand is trembling. I can feel the vibration of his panic against my skin.

He pulls me hard against his chest, burying his face in my hair. He wraps his arms around me so tight my ribs ache, but I can feel his heart hammering like a trapped bird against my collarbone.

"No, lass," he breathes into my neck. "That isn't House Midnight. I don't know what the fuck that was, but I'm bloody glad you did it. That bastard was going to tear your throat out."

"I turned him into water," I sob, clutching at the wool of his jacket, my fingers digging in so hard my nails hurt. "I melted his face, Lachlan. I didn't mean to—I just wanted him to back away⁠—"

"Listen to me," he growls, pulling back to grab my jaw, forcing me to look into his blazing eyes. "It doesn't matter if you meant to or not. Taking a life changes you. It leaves a stain on your soul no matter how much the bastard deserved it." Something in his gaze softens, just slightly. "But you are alive. Do you hear me? You are breathing."

He reaches into his coat pocket and shoves a paper cup into my shaking hands. "Drink this. Drink the whole bloody thing. The sugar will pull you out of shock."

I look down at the cup, then try to hand him the black grimoire I'm still clutching under my left arm. "Take it. Please take it."

Lachlan recoils, taking a full step back, his hands raised. "I'm not touching that thing, Vivienne. Whatever is inside that cover, it belongs to you now. It doesn't want me near it, and I am not stupid enough to cross it."

Fourteen

VIVIENNE

"That was neatly done. Unorthodox, but effective."

The voice comes from the dark space behind the history section. A tall, gaunt man steps around the corner. His skin is the color of curdled milk, his eyes entirely black from corner to corner. He doesn't look at the pile of ash on the floor. He doesn't even look at me. He simply holds out an envelope made of heavy burgundy velvet, sealed with a thick drop of blood-red wax.

Lachlan snarls—a terrible, animal sound from the back of his throat—and steps directly between me and the creature. "I'll take that," he growls, slicing the air with his hand.

"As you wish," the creature rasps, letting the envelope fall from his fingers. "See to it she isn't late. The Society abhors tardiness."

Before the velvet hits the wood floor, the man dissolves into a swarm of black moths that scatter into the rafters and vanish. Lachlan snatches the envelope out of the air, his jaw working as he shoves it into his breast pocket.

"What the fuck was that?" I choke out, my knees shaking so violently I have to lean against the bookcase.

"He's right, you know. You should drink the sugary thing," a small voice pipes up from near my ankles.

I gasp, jumping backward as an actual rat—a creature standing three feet tall, wearing a striped waistcoat with a gold watch chain loop—peeks around a stack of folios. He pulls a pocket watch from his vest, glances at it with a twitch of his snout, and slips it back.

"Apologies about the mess," the rat says, gesturing with a small paw toward the pile of ash. "Sanguine vampires are terrible for business. Never buy anything, always leaving a stench."

I stare at him, my brain completely refusing to process the image. "You're... you're a rat."

"And you are House Midnight," the rat replies, bowing slightly. "I am Mr. Nibbles. Or just Shopkeeper, if you prefer. Society business is not my concern, but I am glad to see that vile tome finally found its owner."

"Back to its owner," Lachlan interjects, his voice dripping with disgust as he wipes his palm down his trousers, then takes a deep, frantic gulp from his own coffee cup.

"Yes, back to its owner," the rat agrees. "How else could she hold it without her skin turning to steam?"

My stomach pitches. "What do you mean?" I ask, my voice barely a whisper. "What happens if someone else touches it?"

"Melts them," the rat says simply. "From the inside out. Terrible way to go."

"Delightful," Lachlan snaps, his tone brittle, forced, unnatural. He is trying so hard to sound like his normal, arrogant self, but I can see the sweat glistening at his hairline. "Well, then. We'll pay for the face-melting book and be on our way."