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Maxime.
Grace swallowed, shrinking back, and she was struck by his resemblance to Alain. His hair was darker, black rather than brown and his eyes were not mismatched or blue or green like Alain’s. But he had the same nose and the same chin, and the same dominance oozed from his pores. She glanced at Alain. He hadn’t taken his eyes off Maxime, and animosity sparked between the two of them like a raw current.
She’d watched them last night, from the safety of the car. The two men—werewolves—toe to toe in the beam of the headlights. She’d wondered then what would’ve happened if things had gone south. If they’d traded blows. In the bright light of the chandelier, with one wrong step or word, she suspected she’d find out.
“About damn time.” Maxime snapped the book closed. “Did you bring it? Cordelia’s grimoire?”
What? She snapped her gaze to Alain’s for a split second, then back to Maxime. Cordelia’s grimoire?
Well, butter my butt and call me a biscuit.
But which one was it? A heaviness settled in her gut. Grace was pretty sure she knew the answer.
Chapter Twenty-One
Maxime, his jaw clamped tight, glaring at him like he was about to blow a circuit, was the third best thing of Alain’s morning. The first was waking up next to Grace. The second, Grace on her hands and knees before him wrapped in nothing but a blanket.
“Grace,” he urged her further into the room, but not too close to Maxime. “This is Maxime d’Louncrais, the alpha of the Langeais wolves. Maxime, this is Grace Williams, a witch from the San Francisco Bay coven.”
Maxime leaned back in his chair, shaking his head. “You didn’t bring the grimoire.”
“No.” Alain dragged a chair out for Grace, then one for himself, keeping his body between her and Maxime. “It’s safe in the cottage for now.”
Maxime thumped his fist on the table, and Grace flinched. “It’s no good to us in the damn cottage. This is bigger than you, Alain. Bigger than me. Our pack is at stake here. We don’t have time to play games.” Maxime sighed, making a visible effort to calm down. “I need to know what she knows about Cordelia, and I need to know if you’ve found anything useful in the grimoire.”
“You don’t think I know that?”
Maxime sighed and raked a hand through his hair. “You have no idea.”
“And whose fault would that be if I didn’t?” Maxime and his secret alpha business. “What the hell do you think I’ve been doing all this time, Maxime? Do you think I’ve been schmoozing my way through the ranks of academia for the hell of it? That I wanted to go through the Council of Witches’ ridiculous selection process? I know. You think—”
Maxime slashed his hand through the air, cutting him off. “Whatever you think you know, it’s not even close.”
Alain dropped his gaze to the leather-bound book in front of Maxime, with the red d’Louncrais wax seal on the cover. Gaharet d’Louncrais’ journal. “You’re not the only one with access to the history of the Langeais wolves, Maxime. You forget who I’m descended from. I have my own book.”
Maxime frowned, leaning forward. “You know about our creation? Why the fuck didn’t you say anything?”
“Probably for the same reason you didn’t.”
Maxime grunted.
“And I’m certain,” he said, “I understand the consequences.” He rubbed at the stubble on his chin. “We’re running out of time.”
Maxime slumped back in his seat. “We are. And Cordelia’s grimoire is the key.”
For once, something they agreed upon.
Maxime peeled the cotton gloves off his hands. “How much does she know?”
“I know I’m here to steal back Cordelia’s grimoire.” Grace crossed her arms, and side-eyed Alain. “Who’s the one lacking integrity now?”
“You want her to have it?” Alain shot back at her.
“Which one?”
She’d taken a look in the archive boxes while he’d spelled the gate open last night. He’d suspected she might have. “Which one do you think?” He didn’t want her to have either, but the spells in Cordelia’s grimoire could do a lot of damage to a lot of people.
“I don’t know what to think.”
