“Come by the fire,” his wife urged kindly, leading her into the parlor. “I’l ring for a bath after your tea.” Isabeau fol owed, slightly dazed. She’d expected more of a fight. She felt off center, thin as dandelion fluff. She was shown to a deep comfortable chair by the hearth. The fire snapped cheerful y. Warmth made her cheeks red, her eyelids heavy. It was a far cry from the fires in the metal bins on street corners, or the flames from piles of broken wooden furniture used as barricades.

“She’s in shock, I think,” her uncle murmured. He shook his head. “Poor Jean-Paul.”

“Oh, those terrible French.”

“Careful, love. You married one,” he teased her.

“Don’t be ridiculous. You barely even have an accent anymore. Only a fondness for that awful pâté.” Isabeau pinched her leg to keep from dozing off. “Father was Isabeau pinched her leg to keep from dozing off. “Father was planning to bring us here. Before we were caught.”

“Don’t worry, my dear, we’l take care of you.”

“You are nothing like he said,” she blurted out, bewildered.

He chuckled. “No, I imagine not. We never did see each other plainly, even as children.” He sighed. “Lady St. Cross and I weren’t able to have a family of our own.”

“Oliver, real y,” Lady St. Cross murmured, flushing. “What a thing to say.”

He patted her knee, his arm big enough to knock her over, but she just smiled at him. He turned to Isabeau. “What I mean is, it wil be nice to have a young lady in the house.”

“Oh yes,” Lady St. Cross exclaimed. “We’l take you to al the bal s, my dear. We’l need gowns, of course, and the dancing master, a lady’s maid to do your hair.” Her eyes shone with enthusiasm. Isabeau wasn’t sure whether she should be nervous.

“Don’t fret,” her uncle said jovial y when Lady St. Cross was distracted by the arrival of the tea cart. “You survived the Terror, you’l survive being a debutante.”

CHAPTER 21

Isabeau

Greyhaven.

The last time I’d seen him was at the Christmas bal , his frock coat immaculate, his smile charming. I had no experience with men like him, had given in to the magic of the night and one glass too many of champagne. I thought I’d seen al sorts of monsters in my eighteen years: prisoners, rebels, cruel power-hungry guards, pimps, and earls with too much money.

But how did you defend yourself against a monster you had never imagined could actual y exist?

He’d tainted my first real moments of comfort, of trusting the first happiness I felt since the mob had stormed my family château.

I wanted to kil him al over again.

I struggled against my restraints, heedless of the raw gashes I was digging into my skin, of my blood smearing the iron manacles. Logan was saying something but I couldn’t understand him over the roar in my ears. It was as if my head was being held underwater.

Greyhaven sounded just as cultured and smooth as he had two hundred years ago. The scars on my arms ached. “One of the Drake princelings,” he said pleasantly to Logan. Logan didn’t reply. “Rumor has it our girl here has murdered you.” Logan sneered. “Are you going to fix that oversight?” He didn’t sound afraid, only faintly bored.

I was starting to be able to concentrate again. Blood pooled in my hands. My fangs stung my gums, hyperextended.

“Certainly not. You’re worth far more to me as a hostage.

These little revolutions aren’t easy to bankrol , you understand.”

“I’l pay double what you get for me if you let Isabeau go right now.”

Greyhaven laughed. “You’re eighteen years old, Logan, and hardly a self-made bil ionaire. You can’t afford her, even were I inclined to give her up.”

Logan yanked at his chains. If he pul ed any harder, he’d dislocate his own shoulder.

“Logan, don’t,” I said. My voice was dry, as if I hadn’t spoken in years.

“Ah.” Greyhaven turned toward me. I tried not to move, not to flinch, or to lean closer snapping my fangs. If I reacted now, it would only give him pleasure.

And he would never get a single moment of pleasure from me.

“Isabeau St. Croix,” he said, “you’ve certainly caused me no end of trouble.”

I hadn’t seen him since that night in my uncle’s garden. I had no idea what he meant by that.

“What does Montmartre want with me?” I asked, even though I knew the answer. The same thing I wanted with Greyhaven: I knew the answer. The same thing I wanted with Greyhaven: revenge. I’d foiled his plans to kidnap Solange Drake and had taken down his Host. And I was a Hound, something that was an affront to his sense of power and entitlement.

Even if he kil ed me—again—I wouldn’t be sorry for it.

Greyhaven folded his arms, leaning negligently against the wal paper, as if we were stil at that bal . “This isn’t about Montmartre, it’s about you.”

“What? He isn’t attacking the courts?” Logan asked.

“Yes.” Greyhaven smiled. “He is. And probably wondering where I am. But I just had to stop in to see you.” He approached me slowly. I lifted my chin defiantly. “I had to know if you remembered me.”

“Hard to forget my murderer,” I spat. “You left me in that coffin for two hundred years.”

“Yes, regrettable. If I had any idea just how strong you were, I’d have made more of an effort to retrieve you.” He flicked a dismissive glance at my leather tunic and tal boots. “Though you dressed much better in 1795.”