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Grace swallowed. Cordelia’s spell. That’s what was happening to her.

Irena straightened. There was something wrong with Irena’s eyes. Though the footage was grainy, they appeared to be bleeding. And her veins stood out on her temple, her neck and her hands.

Dutton took a step toward the door, his eyes wide.

Irena bared her teeth at the camera. Her gums were bleeding. “You bitch!” She dropped to her knees. “That fucking bitch.”

Dutton gaped at the camera. “She did it. I can’t believe she really did it.”

Irena let out a shriek so full of rage and agony, even muted by the safe room, it chilled Grace to the bone. There was so much blood. It seeped through Irena’s clothing and dripped onto the Persian rug. Grace covered her mouth with her hand. What had she done? She reread the spell, this time paying attention to the words, the intent.

Irena collapsed, and Grace choked on a sob. Woven through the warding spell was another one. For setting a person’s blood on fire. For boiling someone alive from the inside out.

Chapter Thirty-Four

Alain burst through the door to Maxime’s office with such force he almost knocked it off his hinges.

C’est quoi ce bordel?

Irena King lay on the floor in a pool of blood, her skin redder than a Bordeaux wine and her pulse thready and fading fast. Dubois was behind the desk, his hands flying over the keys on a laptop. Hacking their security, no doubt. On the other side of the room was a warlock he’d never met, but Alain’s magic recognized him. This was the warlock who’d broken his ward on his apartment, looking worse for having tangled with Alain’s magic. Where the fuck was Grace? She was here. Somewhere. Her scent tickled his nostrils, but it was faint. His ward pulsed, unbroken. She must be in the safe room. Thank fuck.

Dubois was out of his seat, pulling a gun from its holster. Alain was too fast for him. Calling on his werewolf strength, he grabbed the edge of the large and heavy office desk and flipped it, pinning the man to the floor. He let his wolf out enough for his head to shift, clamped down on the man’s wrist with his teeth, and thrashed, crushing bones, tearing through muscles and ligaments. Dubois’ scream thrilled his wolf.

A blast of pain and magic hit him from behind, but he barely flinched. He let go of Dubois’ wrist and turned, half man, half wolf. He brushed aside the warlock’s pitiful attempts at magical deflection as if they were no more dangerous to him than a fly, and threw him against the wall. This warlock was no match for a wolf-witch protecting his mate. Not on his best day. Not today. And definitely not when he was already dying, damaged beyond repair from his clash with Alain’s ward. Perhaps the warlock saw his death in Alain’s wolf’s eyes, for the words of his chant trailed off and his body shook. With a hand on the warlock’s chest, Alain muttered the spell that would still his weakened heart.

The warlock’s face went slack, and the light faded from his eyes. Alain let him go, and he slid to the floor. He turned back to Dubois. His face contorted, he clutched his destroyed hand to his chest. His days of hacking were over. Alain dispatched him with brutal efficiency.

“Grace?” Alain went straight to the painting of the d’Louncrais keep.

“Stop, Alain. Please.” Her voice was tremulous. “I’ve altered the ward.”

He curbed his need to have his mate in his arms and, as he wiped the blood from his face and neck with his shirt, he assessed the hum of magic before him. Oui, the ward was different. Woven through his magic was a malignancy more familiar with one of Cordelia’s spells. She’d used the grimoire. Clever girl. Cordelia wouldn’t be happy to know one of her spells had kept her kin from getting what she wanted.

On the other side of the painting, Grace spun the wheel lock, and the bolts that held the safe room door in place disengaged. Another click and the painting slid open. Grace emerged, her face tear-stained, her eyes red and palm bleeding, but her head held high. He pulled her into his arms and held her tight. He never wanted to let her go.

Louis and Pierre stepped into the room, followed by Nathalie and Emmeline.

“Mama.”

Grace wriggled out of his hold and was across the room, throwing her arms around her mother. “Bernard said if I didn’t give him the grimoire, he’d— I’m so glad you’re safe. I couldn’t give it to them.”

“I’m here. I’m okay,” said Emmeline. “You did the right thing.”

A growl rumbled up in Alain’s throat. “What happened to Bernard?”

“We tried,” said Nathalie, a dark bruise on her cheekbone already fading. “But Bernard got away. He had help.”

Coward.

“But we’re going to find him.” Emmeline cupped her daughter’s face, her expression fierce. “And he’s going to pay for what he did to your daddy.”

It didn’t surprise Alain that Bernard had had a hand in Grace’s father’s demise.

Pierre and Louis eyed the carnage in the room.

Louis nudged Irena with his foot. “Is that what one of your wards does to people, Alain?” He side-eyed his brother. “Remind me not to really piss him off.”

Pierre’s eyes were a little wide. He turned to Alain. “Everything seems to be under control out there. One of the Proulx boys took a silver bullet to the hip, but he’ll live.” Pierre motioned Louis to help him right the desk. “We need to get some eyes out there.” He set the computer back on it. The screen was cracked in the corner. Pierre booted it up. “Seems like it’s still working.” Pierre kicked Dubois’ body out of the way and sat in the chair. “Let’s see what damage this guy’s done to the security system.”