Page 37

“Before we get into this”—Alain patted the archive box on his lap—“there’s something I need to tell you.”

The smile was gone in an instant. “Oh?”

“I had a vision. About you.”

Chapter Twenty-Three

Grace stared down at the curling script that filled the page. She wanted answers, and this page might have them, but what else could she discover in this grimoire? Using the pen to bookmark the page, Grace flipped back to the beginning of the book. With care, she turned page after page, each set out much the same. A heading, a list of ingredients and a paragraph or two of instructions. Headings like Sudor Languorem—Sweating Sickness— and Fluxum Sanguinis—Bloody Flux. Spells. Some for healing, others for protection. Nothing like what was in Cordelia’s grimoire. Sandwiched between these pages were drawings of herbs and descriptions of their properties—what they were used for, dosages and the occasional warning. Fascinating.

About a quarter of the way through the book, the writing changed. A different author? A descendant of the original witch who’d started the grimoire, perhaps. More spells, more ingredients, a ward or two. Grace would love the time to study this book, read every page. Take notes. She kept flicking through until she found another change in handwriting. Further on until she found another, then another and another. Generations of knowledge passed on from witch to witch. All focused on healing and protection, and spells to aid clarity. Caring and kindness versus the cruelty and suffering of Cordelia’s grimoire.

Near her bookmarked page, the writing changed again. Written in Latin, like all the previous entries, but the ink was darker and the writing unmistakably modern. She skipped ahead. There were perhaps twenty spells in this handwriting, then a handful of blank pages, then the Runes of Honorius began. Grace turned back to the most recent spell. Alain? It had to be. This was his grimoire now.

The writing was beautiful. Cursive, with a strong slant to the right, it had whirls and loops in the tails of letters, and in every O and S. A flourish on the cross stroke of the T. With her finger, she traced the first few words of the spell, looped around the upper curve and the flowing tail of an F. Her daddy’s writing had been a messy scrawl, almost illegible. Bernard’s was better, but nothing as refined as this. It suggested care and time. A love of elegance and art. Of tradition.

Like Alain’s Paris apartment, with its fancy moldings and chandeliers, and the cottage, though simple in its construction and its decor, it was anachronistic with the modern world. It shouldn’t fit him. A shifter, a powerful witch, a Dom. And yet…

Grace turned to her bookmarked page. What other insights might she gain? With pad and pen, Grace began her translation.

This is the story of a man named Alexandre. A poor stable master, he lived in the small village of Louncrais. Renowned for training wild horses, he’d attracted the attention of a nobleman who had a beautiful, but wild, daughter, Genevieve.

Grace dropped her pen. She wasn’t one to be cynical, but it was obvious where this was heading. What she couldn’t understand was what a love story, albeit one set in a town called Louncrais, had anything to do with Cordelia, the grimoires, or a pack of shifters. Was this a distraction? A way to keep her occupied while Alain and Maxime got down to whatever secret they were dealing with?

She turned the page, and then the next. The story continued for another three pages. She’d be here translating for a while. Grace ran her gloved hand across the smooth, slightly waxy surface of the page. This book was old, but in good condition. A treasured grimoire. It seemed an odd place for a love story. If it had no meaning.

Four pages. There had to be more to this. She picked up her pen and plowed on.

One thing led to another—

Of course.

—and the pair fell in love. The nobleman, unwilling for his daughter to marry beneath her station, petitioned the king to grant Alexandre a title. In return for Alexandre training the King’s horses, the King agreed, and a wedding was planned.

Grace chewed on the end of the pen. It had all the hallmarks of a fairy tale. A Cinderella story, but in reverse. All it needed was an evil stepmother or a wicked witch. She put pen to page and kept going.

Not everybody in the village was happy about the upcoming wedding. There was a woman, a fair beauty despite—

Whoa. Grace double checked she’d translated that bit right. She had. Awareness tingled up her spine.

There was a woman, a fair beauty despite having eyes of two different colors.

Like Alain. Like Constance. Like Cordelia.

Grace had watched a documentary about the fairy tales of the Brothers Grimm. An interesting show with an intriguing theory that the folk tales they’d recorded, sanitized and embellished had some basis in truth. Like the Pied Piper of Hamelin. Could this be one of those stories? Grace pushed on.

This woman with eyes of different colors had set her heart on Alexandre. There were rumors around the village that this woman…

There was an ink blot on the page, a big one, obscuring a word. A name, perhaps? It wasn’t unheard of to go to extra lengths in a grimoire to hide something pivotal. There would be a key. Blood, most likely, from someone in the blood lineage of the witch who’d cast the concealment. Not Grace. Alain? She’d have to ask him when she’d finished. If he were willing to disclose it. You didn’t go to this kind of trouble to hide something unless it was important.

There were rumors around this village that this woman—

Grace skipped over the blob of ink.

—had mystical powers and one crossed her at their peril.

Oh, yeah. As sure as cornbread goes with greens, this woman was a witch.

Alexandre ignored the warnings.