Page 60

Bernard’s grin was smug.

“Kiss my grits.”

Bernard’s face went all motley and his shade flickered. He turned to Irena and Dutton. “Break the ward. Now!” He faced the camera. “Say goodbye to your mama.” Bernard disappeared.

Fight, Mama. Don’t let him win.

Dutton crossed his arms and leaned against the desk. “I broke through the one in Paris. It’s your turn.”

The one in Paris? On Alain’s apartment door?

Mercy me. Grace had her own fight on her hands.

There were no herbs in here, no weapons to fight with, but… Her gaze landed on the shelves of books. On the grimoires. There were centuries of knowledge right here at her fingertips. She needed something strong, something that would give Irena and Dutton pause. Grace snatched up Cordelia’s grimoire. What better spell to use than something from the meanest witch ever to walk this earth?

Irena had her backpack open and was pulling out her tools—her athame, protection herbs and salt. Grace flicked through page after page. A spell for pox, raising the dead. No thank you. Financial ruin, turn a human being into a mindless puppet you can control. Ugh. Bind a soul, manipulate matter for ill intent. Come on, come on. Give me something I can use.

She glanced at the camera feed. Irena stood inside a salt pentagram, a bowl of herbs smoldering. The fire alarm went off. Irena ignored it. Grace kept searching. Bad luck, crop failure, the plague. Grace turned another page. Warding the grimoire. Close enough. Based on all the spells in this awful grimoire, it’d have one almighty kick.

Grace set the book on the floor. This was blood magic, and she’d need blood to make it work. Unlike Irena, she didn’t have an athame. There wasn’t a knife, a letter opener, not a simple paper clip in the safe room. Paper cut? Grace ran her hand along the edge of a page. Nothing. It wasn’t thin and sharp like modern paper. One of the other books? She searched through them. They were all old. She ran a hand over the seams of the wall. All smooth. Cripes.

Irena was chanting. There had to be something here. She checked the shelves again, standing on tiptoes to run her hand across the top shelf. What was that? She grabbed it and pulled it off the shelf. A box. Ornate and old. She flipped the lid open. A bottle of ink, a jar of some white powdery stuff, a feather sharpened to a point and… Oh, yes. A small but sharp knife. Perfect.

Irena was chanting.

Grace set the box beside the grimoire, took up the knife, cut her palm and dripped blood in the shape of a pentagram on the floor. Kneeling, with her bleeding hand on the grimoire, she ripped through the spell, not bothering to comprehend the words. She directed her intent not to the grimoire but to the painting concealing this room and to Alain’s ward.

Irena was done chanting, and she reached out to touch the picture frame.

Grace got to her feet and slammed her hand on the speaker button. “Stop, Irena. Don’t do it.” She released the button.

Irena laughed. “You don’t think I can break lover boy’s ward?” Her expression turned to steel. “Watch me.”

Grace pressed the button again. “It’s not Alain’s ward you have to worry about. I’ve beefed it up with one from Cordelia’s grimoire.”

Irena hesitated. “You’re bluffing.”

Another press of the microphone button. “I’m not. I promise you.”

Don’t do it, Irena. Please.

Grace had no idea what Cordelia’s ward would do, but it wasn’t going to be pretty or pleasant.

Irena glanced at Dutton.

“What?” Dutton scoffed. “You can’t really believe she’d have the balls to use one of Cordelia’s spells, do you? Little squeaky-clean Grace? Come on, Irena. She’s bluffing.”

Irena’s shoulders relaxed. “Yeah, of course she’s bluffing. What was I thinking?”

Irena reached out and touched the frame of the painting. She screamed and her body jerked as if she’d grabbed a live electrical wire. Then she was thrown across the room and slammed into the wall. Blood trickled from her ears and her nose.

Dutton kneeled beside Irena and slapped her face. “Wake up. The ward isn’t broken.” He slapped her again.

What a jerk.

Irena’s eyes popped open, and she shoved Dutton away, stumbling to her feet, a determined set to her shoulders. She wiped the blood from her nose on the back of her sleeve and squared up to the painting. “Nice try, Grace, but that ward is all d’Louncrais. It’s nothing I can’t beat.”

Then Irena stumbled, righted herself, then stumbled again. Her face went purplish-red and her eyes bulged. She reached out for the desk for support. She puffed and panted, tugging at the neckline of her shirt. “What’s happening to me?” She mopped her brow, but sweat continued to trickle down her face. She doubled over, clutching her stomach.