We fought like cats suddenly dunked in cold water. There was virtual y no thought, it was instinct and a feral need to survive. I wasn’t moving as quickly as I should have been. The head wound was tripping me up, making my arms feel uncoordinated and heavy. I kicked out, threw a stake with poor aim but enough anger to catapult the Hel-Blar off the side of the mountain.

Isabeau pressed her back to mine, cutting off a blue arm, a blue hand.

“We’re outnumbered,” I slurred. “And I’m wounded. Run.”

“You’re not a white knight and I’m not a damsel in distress.” She was so stubborn I hissed. “Look around, Isabeau. This definitely qualifies as distress. Now, run, damn it. I’m only holding you back.”

“Shut up and fight, Logan.”

Every girl I knew was entirely insane.

Unfortunately, Isabeau probably couldn’t have run even if she’d agreed to it. The only escape was launching ourselves right off the cliff and we’d need to get past three salivating Hel-Blar to do even that. My head felt like a rotten pumpkin, oozing and not entirely containable in its casing. We managed to take out one of the Hel-Blar and he puffed into mushroom-colored ash, but his demise only served to enrage his already unstable companions.

I stumbled, dizzy, and when I fel to one knee, another rock came down on my head. There was a burst of fire and shooting stars and then nothing.

•

I didn’t know how long I’d been unconscious.

It couldn’t have been a ful day, since my head stil throbbed, though at least it didn’t feel torn open. The scratches and gouges and bruises had al faded. My hands and feet tingled, mostly because they were locked in place with chains. I pul ed and yanked. They rattled alarmingly but didn’t budge.

“Isabeau,” I hissed. “Isabeau!”

“I’m here,” she said. “Behind you.”

Her voice had relief flooding my system like champagne. I could’ve gotten drunk on the feeling.

“Thank God. Are you hurt?” I tried to turn, couldn’t quite manage it from where I was lashed to the chair. Fury and pain replaced the relief and had me tensing every muscle until my jaw threatened to pop. I tested the chains again.

“It’s no use, Logan,” she said softly. “I’ve tried.” If I turned slightly I could see the side of her face and neck in a heavy mirror hanging on the wal beside us. There were bruises on her throat and over her cheekbone. We were in a smal room with chains on the wal and several heavy wooden chairs. A window was hung with a thick curtain but I had no doubt it was regular glass, not enough to keep sunlight from weakening us. I was young enough that if they left me in the sun for a few hours, I’d pass out and let them stake me without a single twitch of a fight. I kicked at the floor with my boot, disgusted. Then I frowned.

“Since when do Hel-Blar have Persian rugs? Or leave their victims unbitten?”

“They don’t.”

I stared at her reflection in horror. “Are you tel ing me one of them bit you?” Adrenaline jerked through me. A Hel-Blar kiss could turn even an ancient vampire. Their blood infected our own and made us as mad and vicious as they were.

“No,” Isabeau assured me before I lost my cool completely.

“I’m only saying that Montmartre has better control of them then we’d thought.”

“Hypnos,” I muttered. “Bet you anything it’s because of that damned drug.”

She shivered.

“I won’t let them take you.” Big words from a guy covered in his own dried blood. I must be ridiculous to her. I’d failed her, damn it. I should’ve been able to protect her.

“Montmartre never leaves a Hound unmarked. We’re proof that he’s not infal ible, that he can’t control everything. He fears us and tel s himself that fear is hate.”

“We’ve stopped him before. We’l stop him again. For good this time.” Hel if I was going to let him run around threatening the people I loved for the next hundred years.

“Noble words,” an amused voice interrupted us from the doorway. I didn’t recognize him but I saw al the blood drain from Isabeau’s face, saw an almost animal-like pain twist her features. For a moment she looked like the young girl I’d seen struggling to survive in the al eys of the Great Terror. That fear was brief, quickly covered by a burning thirst for vengeance.

Which could only mean one thing.

It wasn’t Montmartre after al .

It was Greyhaven.

CHAPTER 20

London, 1794

It took Isabeau nearly a year to save, steal, and weasel enough money to buy passage to England. Even then, she hardly knew what she was going to do when she set foot in London. She had her uncle’s name, her father’s assurance that he was selfish and arrogant, and two pennies left to her name. Cerise had refused to accompany her on the grounds that England was ful of the English.

And the London docks were unlike anything she’d ever seen before. London was unlike anything she’d ever seen before, far removed from the familiar al eys of Paris. It was gray and blue and black, soot-stained and sitting under a fog of indeterminate color that made her cough.

“You’l get used to it soon enough, lad,” the old man she’d sat beside for most of the journey cackled at her, jabbing his bony elbow into her ribs. Even though she’d kept her disguise as a boy, she’d thought it prudent not to appear to be traveling alone, even if she hardly expected an old man with rotting teeth to protect her. Sometimes, it was the il usion that counted.