Page 57

“Not yet.”

“Oh. Well then, I…I’ll just…” Grace pointed at the stairs. “I’ll wait for him in his…our room.”

Nathalie touched her arm. “Are you sure you’re all right?”

Grace flinched, then pasted on a smile. “Yeah, yeah. I’m fine.” She backed away. “A little tired. It’s been a big day.” She started down the stairs. “I’ll probably be sound asleep by the time Alain gets back.”

Grace reached the landing and took the next set of stairs in a rush, gripping the banister rail so she didn’t stumble in the dark. She fled toward the east wing until she was out of sight and hearing, she hoped, of a werewolf. A little breathless, she considered her options.

There was a high probability Bernard was reporting to his family, telling them the location of the Langeais wolves. Who needed a GPS tracker when you had Bernard? As soon as they knew where to find them, they would come for Cordelia’s grimoire. And as sure as the sun would come up tomorrow, they wouldn’t come alone.

The grimoire was locked up somewhere in this big house, in an office, behind a bookshelf, in a safe. Somewhere. Like in the cottage, there would be a ward protecting it. To a witch, that ward would be a beacon, a giant X marks the spot. And once they’d found it, they’d throw every resource at it until they broke it.

Of course, breaking it would bring Alain running. If he wasn’t tied up dealing with whatever other forces Bernard had called down upon their heads. Alain. Also a descendant of Cordelia’s. She leaned against a wall and closed her eyes. Two sides, warring for centuries, and here she was stuck in the middle. But whatever she thought of Alain, he was a Langeais wolf first. She did not doubt that for a minute. And sexual appetites aside, he was a good man. Among other things, his grimoire was proof of that. But the grimoire couldn’t stay here. Not with the Kings on their way. Though she suspected neither Maxime nor Alain would agree with her, there was only one place it was safe. With the Council of Witches.

Finding the grimoire wouldn’t be a problem. Breaking the protection ward would be.

Or would it?

She’d walked through the ward on Alain’s apartment. And the one on his cottage. She could try it. Getting the grimoire off the estate might be a little difficult, but it was late, and everyone was asleep. The car was still parked on the drive. Back on the farm, they’d left the keys in the truck all the time. Who was going to steal it all the way out there? With any luck, the Langeais wolves would do the same.

Grace took off her flip-flops and stashed them against the wall. She would’ve liked to have clued her mama in, taken her with her, but that’d mean alerting both Bernard and Nathalie. Maxime and Alain might be angry with her for taking the grimoire, but they’d have access to the grimoire through Alain and his position on the council. And they wouldn’t hurt her mama. She believed that with her whole heart.

She eased forward, placing her feet with care, and every few steps stopping to listen. Nothing. Not the creak of a floorboard or the whisper of a footstep. The darkness was loud in its silence, the rhythmic beat of her heart louder.

Grace crept past the portraits. She couldn’t see them, but the burn of their eyes followed her all the same. The hall was dark and empty as she tiptoed past. At each door she stopped, settled her nerves, and searched for the telltale hum of magic, the prickle across her skin that warned her of a ward nearby. Three doors down from the hall, she hit the jackpot.

The knob turned beneath her hand with barely a squeak. It was unlocked. She slipped inside and closed the door softly behind her. The light from a modem cast a soft green glow across a home office, elegant and masculine, dominated by a large desk. Behind it, taking up most of the wall, was a painting of a medieval keep high on top of a hill. It hummed with a familiar energy. She smiled in the dark. A ward. Alain’s ward.

Skirting the desk, she studied the gilt frame. The release for the secret chamber in Alain’s apartment had been in plain sight. She ran her hands over the frame. A wolf motif with interlinked swords dominated the outer border. A wolf’s head? Could that be the switch? She tested the boundaries of the ward. As before, the prickle of repulsion gave way to a heat that curled around her body like a caress. She ignored it, pushing aside the desire that threatened to engulf her.

With her finger, she traced one of the wolves. Nothing. It could be any one of them on the lower half of the frame. Or a sword. Grace tried another one. And another. She ran her fingers along the edge, looking for anything that might constitute a switch.

A light snapped on, and she spun around. There, in the corner, sitting in a high-backed Chesterfield armchair, was Maxime.

“Grace?”

The man was as intimidating as the biggest gator anyone ever came across at the best of times. Now…Grace wanted to cower behind the desk. Or run.

Don’t run.

“What are you doing here?”

“I…” Grace wracked her brain for a believable answer, then checked herself. She’d been caught red-handed, but she had good reason to be here. She crossed her arms and stared him down. “I need to move the grimoire.”

“Why?”

“It’s not safe here.”

Maxime tapped his chin with his steepled fingers. “I disagree. It’s protected by security, a ward, an estate teeming with werewolves.”

“It’s not safe here anymore.” Grace wasn’t too proud to admit she was wrong. “Alain was right. We can’t trust Bernard. He’s alerted the Kings.”

“Impossible. They were thoroughly searched, and they don’t have access to a phone.”

She shook her head. “Bernard doesn’t need it. He’s astral projecting.”

“Astral projecting?”