Page 1

Chapter One

The lights of the Eiffel Tower switched on as dusk settled over Paris, but it was the two grimoires on his desk that had Alain d’Louncrais’ attention. Leather-bound and worn with age, they could easily be mistaken for consecutive volumes of the same work. Their covers cracked and peeling and their vellum pages distorted, they dated back to a time in the Early Middle Ages—the first stroke of a quill leaving its mark in the fifth or sixth century. Yet never had there been two grimoires more different in authors and intent.

He hit the call button on his phone, put it on speaker and set it on the table beside the books. As he waited for the call to connect, he slipped his bow tie around his neck, tied it and adjusted it with practiced fingers.

His alpha answered his call. “Tell me you have it.”

Maxime d’Louncrais. Not a man to waste time on greetings that weren’t needed.

“I have it.” Alain had no real concern someone could be monitoring their call. The Montagne twins, the tech wizards of the pack, would’ve made certain the line was secure. But after the events of the past months, one could never be too careful. His gaze wandered back to the books. Not with what he now had in his possession.

“Good.” Maxime’s relief echoed down the line.

Alain brushed his fingers over the grimoire with blackened smudges of ancient blood tainting its cover. Darkness, as thick as oil, spread like a stain through his mind and he retracted his hand. Their alpha had taken a big gamble setting things in motion the way he had. Letting this grimoire out of his sight. Not that Maxime would ever know Alain’s opinions on the matter. Or that he’d known Maxime had had it in his possession all along. Had been the one to take it to San Francisco personally. He understood why now, but at the time he’d been furious Maxime would hand it over to an unknown witch rather than him.

“Listen, Alain…”

Maxime was a dominant connard. Always in control. Of himself, of everything. But in the years Alain had spent close to Maxime, there’d never been such hesitation in his voice before. It was a little unnerving.

“The grimoire belongs to Cordelia.”

Ah, so Maxime was aware who this repulsive book of malevolent spells belonged to. Cordelia King. The powerful time-traveling witch who, for some reason, had a vendetta against the Langeais wolves. Alain glanced at the second grimoire, redolent with herbs both pungent and sweet-smelling. Passed down through his ancestors from the witch whom Alain had inherited his second sight, it hummed with a gentler magic. A healing magic.

He grabbed a cotton glove between his fingers and, using it to protect the fragile pages, turned them with care past recipes of herbal remedies with headings like boils, sweating sickness, and bloody flux. Remedies added by generations gone by. Past spells for warding and protection. Spells to enhance second sight. Newer ones, in his own bold hand. Alain kept turning until Latin changed into the curling script, the secret language used by his ancestor’s coven. He paused on a page he knew well. One he’d studied, dredging every bit of information, every inference he could. The legend of the first Black Wolf.

Cordelia’s reasons weren’t so unknown. Not to Alain. To Maxime? Maybe. Instinct told him his alpha knew a hell of a lot more than he let on. Information Maxime had gleaned from another book passed down through an adjacent d’Louncrais line, from alpha to alpha. At one time, there’d been the possibility it would’ve fallen into his hands. He dropped the cotton glove on the table. Alain would give his canines to get his hands on what every Langeais wolf knew about but few had ever seen. The d’Louncrais’ journal.

“She’ll be coming for it,” said Maxime.

Alain shrugged into his tuxedo jacket, pulling his sleeve down to cover the leather cuff with the silver wolf motif all his pack wore, and scooped up his silver-and-diamond cufflinks, ignoring the burn to his fingers as he clipped them in place. The slight discomfort was worth the added protection. “I know.”

She already had. Either Cordelia had overestimated her minions or she’d underestimated him. He’d known who the woman who’d moved into the suddenly vacant apartment on the floor below was before the ink had dried on her tenancy agreement. Irena King. Beautiful, but a viper by nature if ever there was one. And the new gardien? He hadn’t needed to spot the elaborate F tattoo on the man’s neck to know he was a member of the Faucherians, the delusional followers of the tenth-century eveque, Faucher, who sought the extinction of his kind, and any other paranormal entity they came across. It bled from his pores like the stench of last week’s garbage.

“I have one more thing to attend to tonight, then I’ll be back on pack territory,” he reassured Maxime.

“What thing?”

“Nothing much. A fundraiser at the Musée de Cluny.”

He had someone to see there. Someone who might have the answers he’d spent a good portion of his life searching for since he’d discovered what their pack was up against. Successful or unsuccessful, he needed to fill Maxime in. If his alpha didn’t know already.

“Alain, this is no time for playing games. We can’t afford a debacle like the one you caused at the Council of Witches’ Christmas party.”

Debacle? Alain snorted. If Maxime only knew. It’d all been part of his plan, his carefully curated image. He grimaced. The artificial sweetness of all the cheap sparkling wine he’d had to drink to pull it off still soured his stomach. But he would never have gotten a seat on the council if they’d known how powerful he was.

Quel cirque. He’d gone through their vetting process, pretending to be a skilled enough witch to impress, if somewhat the charming playboy who became a little handsy and loose with his attentions when he drank too much. Not that he could get drunk. Werewolf physiology made sure of that. Still, they’d known he was a witch and a werewolf, but had overlooked the beast inside him at every turn.

Charming playboy indeed.

He’d left the forum, and its cheap knock-off champagne, with what he’d gone there to achieve—a seat on the Council of Witches. They had centuries of witch knowledge at their fingertips. Now, the Langeais wolves would have access to it. It was through them he’d found the best lead he’d had in a long time. “Don’t fret, Maxime. I have it under control.”

“We cannot afford for the grimoire to end up back in Cordelia’s hands, Alain. It’s a risk leaving it unprotected while you go swill champagne with the rich and famous.”

“The twins and their mate are watching over the apartment, and they’ve set up more security here than is on the banque de France vault. There isn’t a single witch strong enough to get through the ward on my safe room.” He had Cordelia’s grimoire to thank for that. He’d made a few modifications and put his own spin on it. The old witch wouldn’t recognize it now. He doubted there’d ever been a more deadly ward.

“What about Cordelia?”

“Cordelia won’t come to France. She won’t risk a direct confrontation with the Langeais wolves.” He knew that for a fact. It was all there in his grimoire, if you knew what to look for. “Trust me, Maxime. I know what I’m doing. And I wouldn’t be going to this event if it wasn’t important.”