Page 19

The grimoire. He had no proof other than Cordelia’s desperation for it, but he suspected it was hers. Taken from her sometime in the distant past. He’d liked to have met whoever had had the couilles to do that. Shake his hand. Thank him. For now, the Faucherians had the opportunity to secure it for themselves.

“D’Louncrais ’az it wiz ’im.” Dubois had captured no footage of them leaving, or of the grimoire. The wolves had destroyed any chance of that, but Veilluex had had more than one operative on the scene. Fifteen minutes ago, his daughter had sent him a video taken with her phone. D’Louncrais and Grace crawling out of the chimney stack at the back of the building into a narrow alleyway. It wasn’t clear in the video, but according to his daughter, from her vantage point three stories up behind a plate-glass window of the neighboring apartment block, d’Louncrais had had two archive boxes in his arms. Two.

One would have to be the grimoire Cordelia sought. The other? Something important, or the wolf-witch would’ve left it behind. He had multiple teams converging on the pair. They would get the grimoire and whatever was in the other box. And if Alain led them to the Langeais wolves’ pack territory, even better.

He had his suspicions as to where it was, where it had been all along, but they were still unscrambling centuries of maneuvering—change of ownership, tenant agreements and fake companies—and he wasn’t about to reveal their hand before he was certain. The Langeais wolves had played the long game. But he was patient. Once they had confirmation of the pack’s location, they would move on them and the grimoire. All the pieces of his plan would fall into place.

“I am ’eading to Paris tonight. It will not be easy to remove ze grimoire from Alain d’Louncrais. We will need every man we ’ave.” And he would be there to take personal possession of Cordelia’s grimoire. Be the first Faucherian in a long line of them to have access to her spells and her secrets. Maybe those of the Langeais wolves, too. He sucked on his cigarette, releasing his satisfaction into his exhalation of smoke. It would place them in an advantageous position. And it was the surest way to find the answers they sought.

“Take Dutton with you,” said Cordelia.

He eyed the warlock. Dutton could present a problem, but if Veilluex wanted to maintain the illusion of collaboration, he had no choice but to agree to her wishes. “Ze extra assistance will be most welcome.” To one of his men, he said, “Organize a ticket for ze witch, and send ’im ze details.”

Cordelia raised her teacup. “Keep me informed.”

Veilluex dropped his cigarette butt into the vase of flowers and watched it bob around, a trail of blackened ash discoloring the water. It was petty, but Veilluex derived satisfaction from Cordelia’s glare. “Of course.”

With Dutton by his side, every twitch of his eyebrows would be reported back to her. How irritating. Or…this could be an opportunity to kill Dutton while he had the chance. And Irena. Whittle the old witch’s support down bit by bit. It’s what the Faucherians had been doing for centuries by going after the Langeais wolves. Stupid really, when killing them only gave her more of her power back. But Irena and Dutton… And they would be in his territory, with no support from their coven. It shouldn’t be a problem.

Although…a witch might be necessary. He would confer with The Doctor. Then he’d decide if he should keep one of them or dispose of both.

With one last look at the Faucherians’ arch nemesis, Veilluex took his leave. The clock was ticking. Cordelia was old and her time was running out. Desperation had forced her hand. That worked for them and against them. They had to work fast if their plan were to succeed. They wanted the old witch dead, but they wanted something from her first.

Cordelia waited until the door closed behind Veilluex and his men. “Dutton, do whatever you have to do to keep that grimoire out of that man’s hands. Do you understand me?”

Dutton shrugged, then winced. “I don’t understand why you haven’t killed him already.”

Cordelia rolled her eyes at her nephew. Sometimes she wondered if she’d chosen the right warlock all those long years ago to procreate with, to continue her bloodline. If Dutton was the cream of the crop. Her kin were ruthless enough, but sometimes they seemed incapable of grasping the rudimentaries. “Because he’s useful, Dutton. Because he has access to trained men who are willing to sacrifice their lives for a cause, and because he has connections I don’t.” And she needed his help to get her grimoire back. Time was running out. She could feel it. Her power was waning. She needed her grimoire.

“Of course,” said Dutton. “As soon as we get it, I’ll have it on the first flight here.”

“Good. Dismissed.”

Dutton paused, his hand on the doorknob. “And what about Grace? What do you want me to do with her?”

“Take care of her.”

Dutton grinned. “Understood. What about her mother?”

She waved a dismissive hand, already done with this conversation. “Bernard will take care of her the same way he did her first husband.”

In the silence after Dutton left, Cordelia poured herself another cup of tea. She’d been so naïve back then, so young and giddy with her power, when she’d cursed Alexandre and created the Langeais wolves. She hadn’t planned for him to thrive. Had never dreamed, with every mate turned, every offspring born, it’d suck the power right out of her.

She’d tried to destroy them. Time after time. Gone back and forth through the centuries, again and again, all the while searching for another solution, another spell. Thwarted at every turn. By them, by that malicious bitch, Fate. In the tenth century, they’d stolen her grimoire and banished her to the future, but she’d never stopped searching. Never stopped being a thorn in the Langeais wolves’ side.

And her perseverance had paid off. She’d found the answer in, of all places, an ancient text. She smiled and sipped her tea. Soon she’d have her power back, and with it she would be young again. And those mutts she’d created… They’d be gone, wiped from the face of this earth. She had the spell and the ingredients. Everything was in place. Now all she needed was her grimoire. And for the first time in centuries, she knew exactly where it was.

Chapter Thirteen

Grace leaned her head against the seat and closed her eyes. They’d been driving for over an hour, maybe two. The lights of Paris had long faded, replaced by empty fields, silhouettes of trees, and the occasional glow of lights from towns. Though tired, and still jet lagged from her flight across the Atlantic, she was too wired to sleep. Trying to come up with some sort of plan that didn’t result in her demise at the hands of Cordelia or…she lifted her eyelids a pinch and snuck a peek at Alain…or him and his pack. And jittery from the overwhelming presence of the werewolf sitting beside her. Alain d’Louncrais.

The man in the driver’s seat was also a wolf shifter, Grace was certain of it. Fair to Alain’s dark, he was gorgeous in a rugged kind of way. But the driver didn’t command her attention like Alain d’Louncrais. Didn’t have her ovaries doing the mamba anytime she glanced in his direction. Or have her imagining him naked. With her. In that room.

Grace shifted around in her seat, uncomfortably aware that both shifters would pick up on any changes in her scent.

“We’ll be there in about half an hour,” said Alain.

Was that a good thing? Staying inside this car, driving through the night and never arriving at their destination had its appeal. So did escaping the confines of the car and breathing in air that wasn’t spiced with Alain’s aftershave and wolf pheromones.