“Mallory,” he breathed, “are you—”
“We’re not talking about it,” she said, sniffling again. “We’re going to get my sister back.”
Before Armand could roll out his joints, Mallory sprinted from the chapel in the direction Anaïs had gone.
The storm had died down to a soft drizzle. She expected to have to search the entirety of the mansion, but drew to a sudden stop when she reached the circular drive and spotted Fitcher and Constantino side by side, each of them still and open-mouthed. At first Mallory worried they were caught in some sort of enchantment, but then she realized, dishearteningly, that they—like her—had no idea what to do. They couldn’t attack Bastien, not while he inhabited Anaïs’s body. They had to find a way to exorcise him first. But how could they set up the ritual now?
Before them, Anaïs stood on the edge of the fountain, staring up at the massive stone stallion. Utterly expressionless.
The fountain gushed thick and red. Blood poured from every corner, falling over the pedestal and stones. Mallory had read about the phenomenon so many times, from so many witnesses, that she had yearned to see it for herself. But now the reality of it churned her stomach.
“How?” Mallory yelled, stomping closer. “And when, and… andwhy?”
Anaïs turned to face her.
“It’s quite simple, really,” she said, and while it was Anaïs’s voice, the inflection she recognized as Bastien. “Some herbs are repellent to spirits, while others draw us in. Royal skullcap is particularly effective. Whenever a mortal has it in their system, it becomes so easy for me to whisper a quick incantation and… sneak inside.”
“Royal skullcap.” Armand’s voice came from behind Mallory. “The herb I take to help me sleep. I’ve been taking it since I was a boy—”
“Since you were twelve, approximately,” said Anaïs—no,Bastien. “When I returned, I knew I would need a human host to assist me. It was easy enough to frighten my young heir into a few months’ worth of nightmares. I knew you would be keen to find a solution among the herbs you had already developed such an affinity for. Soon, you were given peaceful rest… and I had access to your malleable mind. When you started brewing tea for this lovely little witch, well… as I said. So simple.” Her grin widened and she laughed. “Gabrielle’s heart has stopped. She is dead, finally.”
Her eyes rolled back into her head and, without warning, Anaïs fell backward into the fountain.
Mallory cried out and ran to the edge. The pool of blood churned and gurgled. Her sister was not visible beneath. Mallory screamed her name and was about to throw herself in after her when a figure broke through the surface. Wearing a cloak of crimson, the figure rose upward. Mallory froze, horrified, at the sight of the demon she remembered from her failed séance allthose years ago—needle claws and drooping arms and glowing blue eyes.
As the blood dripped away, the figure morphed into that of a man. Count Bastien Saphir I. Monsieur Le Bleu. Anaïs, unconscious, was draped across his arms. He set her onto the lip of the fountain. Mallory could not tell if she was breathing.
Bastien stepped out of the fountain, solid, strong, and mortal. He surveyed the mansion, then started toward the door, his strides purposeful and elegant.
An enraged scream clawed out of Mallory’s throat. “Is that it?” she yelled. “All those deaths, for what? So you could live again? Be the lord of a manor that’s falling apart around you? No money, no family. You have nothing. You did this for nothing!”
Bastien paused, his form silhouetted by the house’s towering columns, the leaded windows. He raised his arms to his sides, fingers outstretched.
For a moment, nothing happened. And then it was as though a shroud of magic descended over the château. The roof that had caved in shuddered and righted itself. The bricks from a fallen chimney re-mortared into a tidy tower. Cracked windows were sealed. Black soot faded from the white limestone blocks. Missing finials atop the gable dormers grew out of molten iron and solidified. Broken balustrades and fallen gutters and missing tiles were mended, until everything was pristine and dignified. When he was finished, the house appeared both ancient and immaculate.
Bastien turned to face them, his mouth twisted into a haughty grin. “I am afraid there is not room for two lords of the House Saphir. Young Armand, it would seem that you are no longer useful to me.”
“Not room?” Mallory shrieked. “It’s a big house. You could find the space.”
“As for you, little witch,” he continued, as if he hadn’t heard her, “as I rebuild my estate, it will not do to have rumors circulating that could damage my reputation.”
“Oh, that’s rich,” said Mallory. “Everyone knows that Bastien Saphir is a murderer.”
Bastien craned his head, studying her. “ButArmandSaphir is a young count with a prominent title. A charming if reclusive bachelor who suddenly finds himself needing to enter high society and find for himself a suitable bride.” He grinned maliciously. “How fortunate that so few members of society have had occasion to meet my descendant. So as you see, it really will not do for you to live.”
Mallory gaped, horrified by this monologue, when the telltale twang of a bowstring struck her eardrum. An arrow hurtled toward Bastien—driving straight into his chest.
Bastien stumbled backward, then dropped to one knee.
“One negative about being mortal,” growled Constantino. “It makes you easier to kill.”
Bastien’s form shuddered, then exploded into shadows. Mallory expected to see a figurine of the count tumble onto the house’s front steps, a new addition for Constantino’s box.
Instead, the shadows coalesced again. First into that same long-limbed beast that had crawled from Verloren, then slowly into the form she recognized as Bastien Saphir.
It was only seconds until he stood before them again.
As if nothing had happened.
