Nigel brushed a thin layer of dirt from his shoulders and adjusted his shirtsleeves as if he were preparing for something. A knot of unease formed in Celine’s stomach. “Bastien is the last piece of a retribution centuries in the making. And I—Nigel Fitzroy—will be the one to put the final nail in this coffin. The first of my kind to bridge the divide between the Fallen and the Brotherhood.” He inhaled through his nose and spread his arms wide. Then he shouted once, as if in triumph, a fierce, guttural cry.
It sounded like the roar of a beast. Like the howl of a barely leashed creature relishing the spoils of his hunt. Its echo shook the very ground beneath Celine.
No. Evil did not look the way she’d imagined it would.
It looked far worse. It was hate wrapped in the guise of a friend.
Celine fought back a tide of anguish, despondency settling around her, its shadow closing in.
Before it could take root, she lurched to her feet and began to run. Her teeth chattering in her skull, she grabbed hold of the first pew, using it to propel her down the aisle toward the doors, expecting Nigel to stop her at any moment. Her bound hands itched to retrieve the dagger at her side. Itched to defend herself. To drive the silver deep into the place his heart used to be.
But once she unsheathed the blade, she would have only a single chance to use it.
Now was not that time.
Soft laughter trailed behind Celine, its echo searing through her soul. She could not stop to question why Nigel wasn’t chasing her. There was no time to idle in curiosity. Choking back the rising bile, Celine continued racing down the aisle, her body taxed by every footstep.
Why was she so goddamned weak?
The doors to the cathedral stood sentinel less than ten paces away. All that mattered now was escape.
A rush of air gusted past Celine, her sight blurring from the breeze. She blinked, a cry of astonishment escaping her lips.
Nigel was standing before the cathedral doors. Only a second before, he’d been at the opposite end of the church.
Her senses dazed, Celine stumbled to a halt, grasping a pew to steady herself. “How?” She despised the way her voice trembled. “What are you?”
A beat passed in awful silence. Then a slow smile spread across his face. “I thought you’d never ask.” His words were lethal in their calm.
Nigel began to change. His eyes darkened to black, the color spreading like a drop of ink through water. His features sharpened, the tips of his ears tapering to points.
Celine gripped the pew in her hands, swallowing her cries. Nigel’s teeth had begun to lengthen, his canines resembling those of a wolf, gleaming like daggers in the low light of the tapers.
Panic gripped Celine’s stomach. Acid collected on her tongue, its sharpness washing down her throat. She took a step backward, her heart hurling against her chest, demanding to be set free.
Then Nigel blurred toward her. One moment he was ten paces away. The next he loomed a hairsbreadth before Celine, as if he’d manipulated the air around him, like a ghost or a spirit or a demon of the night.
Celine clasped her bound hands before her, as if she were in prayer. She leaned against the pew, struggling to hold herself upright. Hoping her perceived weakness would grant her an opportunity to draw the dagger from its sheath at her hip.
“Ask me again what I am.” The scruff on Nigel’s chin gleamed like molten copper, his eyes chips of obsidian.
Celine could not respond. Nor could she look away.
With a soft laugh, Nigel grabbed her wrists in an iron vise, pulling her against his chest. Then he leaned forward and licked the wound on her neck. Celine choked back a scream. When he tilted his head to the cathedral’s rafters—to the brilliant frescoes of angels overcoming their demon brethren—his tongue was stained crimson with her blood. A sound of supreme satisfaction rose from his throat.
As if he found her blood delicious. As if he relished in meals of human blood.
Vampire.
A brutal shriek burst from Celine’s lips. She tried to free her hands from her bonds so that she might grab the dagger at her hip, but Nigel laughed at her once more, reveling in her struggle. Toying with her as if she were nothing but a plaything.
“That’s enough, Nigel.”
The vicious admonition came from Celine’s back. To the right side of the altar.
An air of triumph filled the space when Nigel glanced over her shoulder. He whipped Celine around, his skin vibrating with anticipation.
As if this had been his plan all along.
Bastien walked down the aisle toward them, his revolver trained on Nigel, his expression hewn from ice.
Nigel wrapped an arm about her waist, pulling Celine toward him, as if she were both a possession and a shield. Amusement tinged his voice. “The reckless Romeo has finally come to rescue his foolish Juliet. Tell me, Lord Lion, does our keeper know you’re here?” His black eyes narrowed to slits. “What will Nicodemus say when he realizes you’ve risked his legacy for the life of a mortal girl?”
Bastien ignored him. “He won’t harm you again, Celine,” he said, his tone even, his words soft. “Not if he wishes to see another moon.”
Nigel’s arm tightened around her waist, drawing her back against the cool marble of his chest. “Don’t lie to your love, Sébastien,” he said. “For I haven’t had my fill, and her blood tastes sweeter than sun-warmed honey.”
The beat of her heart thudding in her ears, Celine nodded to Bastien, her bound hands inching toward her pocket.
With a subtle shake of his head, Bastien took a step forward, his thumb cocking the hammer of his revolver. “Your quarrel isn’t with her. Let Celine go, and I’ll do whatever you want.”
“Perhaps all I want is to drain her dry before your eyes. To watch you live the rest of your short, godforsaken life as the Ghost.”
The tips of Celine’s fingers grazed the edge of her pocket, her breaths quickening in her throat.
Bastien’s lips pursed together, something flashing in the depths of his eyes. “Don’t waste a winning hand on such foolishness. No one goes to all this trouble for something so small and petty. I know we can make a deal.” His smile was cold. Unforgiving. “Name your terms.”
“You are in no position to make demands. Put down your gun, Bastien,” Nigel said. “And perhaps I’ll agree to deal in good faith.”
“Fuck your good faith.” Bastien’s smile widened. “Let her go. Now.” He took another step forward.
“Aim true.” Nigel’s icy fingers wrapped around Celine’s neck, sending a shiver between her shoulder blades. “You may succeed in wounding me, but not before I rip the veins from her throat.”