She faced Armand. “I’m sorry if this will be difficult for you.”
He looked amused by the comment. “In case you hadn’t noticed, I don’t exactly share my ancestor’s passion for Ruby Comorre.” He hefted the pickax on his shoulder, the one they’d found in a gardening shed. “All of them?”
Mallory took a sledgehammer in both hands. “As many as possible.”
They attacked, steel and iron smashing into the oak barrels. The wood splintered easily. Gallons of wine splashed across the floor, drenching their shoes and filling the room with an aroma that was too sweet, too cloying.
Mallory was surprised how good it felt to destroy something—especially something of Bastien’s—and judging from the way Armand’s face glowed as they made their way through the cellar, she suspected he felt the same.
They were done too quickly.
“Next?” Armand said.
Hefting the hammer, Mallory crossed to the cellar door. It swung open under her touch.
The house was eerily quiet as they ascended the stairs, hauntingly so after the disaster they’d wreaked in the cellar.
They sneaked into the cupbearer’s room and started uncorking the bottles that filled the shelves. They dumped some in the hall and down the steps. They emptied others in the kitchen, where she paused to grab a knife from a wooden block.
Armed with as many uncorked bottles as they could carry, they slipped out into the banquet hall.
The house remained perfectly still and…beautiful.
Armand sucked in a surprised breath. The mansion was as exquisite as if a staff of hundreds had spent weeks preparing itfor a ball of royal proportions. Every candle and lantern burned, casting a jocund glow throughout each room. The floors had been polished to a mirror sheen. Aromatic bouquets of flowers in porcelain vases adorned every alcove—most of them not even in season.
It occurred to Mallory that Bastien didn’t need wealth. He had sorcery. He hadeverything.
Arrogant bastard.
“Where is he?” Armand whispered.
Mallory shook her head. “He’ll come to us once he figures out what we’re doing. But by that point, the carrots will be cooked. It will be too late for him to do anything about it.”
Armand finished dumping out a bottle of wine on the hallway carpet. “I don’t like how easy you make it sound.”
“Me either,” she agreed.
They reached the main vestibule. Mallory had to trust that by now, Fitcher, Constantino, and Anaïs had finished placing the rings into the designated pentagram outside the house’s walls. This room would be as close to its center as they could get.
Grabbing a silver candlestick lit with a single taper, she sat cross-legged in the middle of the floor and pulled Armand down in front of her. She could still recall the rules of witchcraft she had learned from her mother, though she’d long believed it was useless for her to even attempt to use petty magic.
As for the ritual itself, it would forever be etched into her memory.
If there was a drop of magic in her bones, in her blood, in hersoul, she needed it now. Now.
“You do know what you’re doing, right?” Armand said, watching as she sketched out the symbols across the tiles.
“Now you decide to doubt me?”
“I just feel obligated to mention that the candle idea didn’t work out so well earlier.”
“This is going to be a little different.” She cleared her throat. “I can do this.”
After a short silence, punctuated by the scratch of chalk, Armand said, “I do love how you always sound so confident, even when I suspect you have no idea what you’re doing.”
Refusing to let this comment distract her, she handed him the knife. “I need three drops of blood inside the circle. Saphir blood.”
To his credit, he didn’t hesitate to drag the blade across the tip of his finger. Three drops welled up on his skin and dripped down beside the candlestick. She was relieved when the flame continued to burn a steady orange.
