Rania watched the fight break up after Olaf’s death. Erik and Boris reached detente, then the dragon shifters collected their dead and retreated.
The vision followed Notus, now scarred on his face, but driven to find his hidden mate. Once again, the dark storm clouds followed him, and snow fell often when he landed in a town or village. Rania saw his hopes rise and fall, as he returned to the village where Argenta had been born, as he visited Olaf’s abandoned lair, as he sought her in every corner of the world.
The evidence of his devotion was powerful and it shook Rania’s convictions. Notus had to have found Argenta, because Hadrian was here, but Rania wanted to see their reunion. She was impatient, wanting Alasdair to finish his story and reveal the final truth of the firestorm, but dragons, it seemed, did everything in their own time.
Sebastian was pacing in the library that was his refuge at Reliquary. He could tell that it was the middle of the night, even though there were black-out curtains on the windows. The air smelled different after the sun set. He hadn’t opened the drapes for days, much less left his library, and he didn’t want to. He distrusted the alliance with the Others and the slaughter of five vampires in the coven had made him feel his age.
Sylvia had come by and pounded on the door to the shop, then had thrown things at his windows. Micah had knocked on the door to the library, but Sebastian was done with all of them.
The heart of the matter was Sylvia. He was done with denying temptation, too. He wanted her. She wanted him. The only way he could possess her was to turn her, and he knew what a false promise that kind of immortality was. The destructive act of feeding would break her.
Her fragility was part of what attracted him to her, after all. It was countered perfectly by her growing confidence that she could do more than she believed possible. In one way, he wanted her to remain the same as she was, like a butterfly caught in glass, and in another, he wanted her to soar beyond whatever constraints either of them believed she faced.
Sylvia made him soft. Her company made him question what he knew to be true, about the world and about himself. Sebastian suspected that her influence might ultimately shatter the delicate balance that was his life, and he recognized that he already didn’t care as much about his own survival—or his secrets—as he should.
Witches were trouble.
Sylvia was the worst kind of temptation.
And now, she tempted the Regalian magick to play. There was a recipe for disaster. Would he help her? Would he stand by and watch her invite chaos? Could he bear to see her destroyed?
Could he manage to stay away? That was the question and the test. Sebastian had always had willpower to spare. He’d always been decisive and he’d always been driven. Being caught between objectives and having conflicting urges was new.
He didn’t like the change one bit.
So, he remained in his sanctuary, itself a potent reminder of how his possessions and achievements fell short of his ambitions. The library was only a pale shadow of the collection he’d lost, and in a way, having this poor substitute only made his loss feel greater. He took down a book, a first edition of Edgar Allen Poe, opened it, scanned the first page, and replaced it on the shelf with impatience.
Well, his original library wasn’t exactly lost. It was inaccessible to him, which was close enough to being the same thing to make him irritable.
In a way, it would have been easier if it had burned to ashes. It would be gone then and while he might remember it fondly, he wouldn’t be haunted by the possibility of reclaiming it.
The library was also a perfect metaphor for Sylvia. Or vice versa.
Sebastian snarled, as irked as he always was when he thought of his sanctuary or of Sylvia. He pivoted to pace the width of the room yet again and discovered that he was no longer alone.
The Dark Queen herself reposed in one of his oxblood leather club stairs, the one to the right of the large but cold fireplace. She was wearing a trim little black suit with feathers on the shoulders and her signature high heels, the ones with the Laboutin red soles. She was impeccably groomed, watchful, and astonishingly silent.
She yawned elaborately as he blinked. “So busy tonight,” she purred. “But if you say there’s no rest for the wicked, I’ll have to hurt you.”
So, she hadn’t come with the plan of slaughtering him. That was curiously reassuring.
But then, he doubted that she did her own dirty work.
“Dolce & Gabbana?” he asked, gesturing to the suit.
She smiled and moved her shoulders so that the feathers rustled. They were inky black with blue highlights, colored like raven feathers but longer. “Good guess.”
“Not a guess,” he corrected. “I saw it in a shop window in Paris. Emu, aren’t they?” She nodded and preened. He took a step back and surveyed her. “It suits you.”
She smiled and ran a hand over the glossy feathers. “It seemed an apt choice.”
Sebastian knew she wanted him to ask what she meant—he could tell by the way her eyes gleamed—so he didn’t. He was in that kind of a mood. “Just stop by for a chat, or is there a reason for this unexpected pleasure?”
Maeve laughed. “Only you would call a visit of mine a pleasure.”
“How sad.” Sebastian pouted a little and she laughed again. “Am I supposed to feel sorry for you?” He dropped into the other club chair, more interested in her mission than he wanted her to know.
“No. But only you would have the audacity to lie to me.”
“A direct consequence of having nothing left to lose.”
Maeve shook her head, making those feathers sway again. “But that’s not the same as having nothing to gain, is it?”
“I don’t understand.”
Maeve crossed her legs. “It’s my understanding that there’s only one thing you truly desire.”
“Is there?” Sebastian deliberately kept his mind empty and neutral. He knew the Dark Queen’s reputation for hearing the thoughts of others, of even rummaging through the minds of others in search of whatever she wished to know. He wouldn’t even wonder whether she was referring to his lost library or to the enticing Sylvia.
Her smile broadened. “I’ve come to make the proverbial offer you can’t refuse.”
Sebastian was curious despite himself. “And what if I do refuse?”
“You won’t.” She rose smoothly to her feet and crossed the room to the glass-fronted bookshelves on the far side of the fireplace. That entire wall was shelved with books, as was the one adjacent to it, all of them safely behind glass. The opposite wall was all windows, but they were curtained against the light. The fireplace had bookshelves on either side and a rather splendid painting above it. With the thick oriental carpet underfoot, a glittering chandelier hanging from the ceiling, the club chairs and a leather couch, it was a cozy refuge. He liked the high ceiling and the ornate plaster molding, too. The room was timeless in his opinion, a refuge from modernity in all its hideous sloppiness and noise.
Maeve acted as if she was reading the titles of the books, but Sebastian guessed it was just a performance. “Nice collection,” she said, casting a coy glance over her shoulder. “But I hear you had a better one.”
“It doesn’t really matter,” Sebastian said, keeping all the heat out of his voice. “Not any more.”