Prologue
Paris, 1817
Cordon had triedbegging. He’d tried arguing. He’d even stolen his maker’s trunks and buried them in the basement, where he hid from the scorching rays of the sun. Unfortunately, his attempts only seemed to make Marguerite de la Valencia more determined to leave.
“Why?” he asked as he stood in the stone doorway of her room. A beam of light pierced the thick curtains and formed a line on the tile. Dust motes sparkled in the air, forming yet another barrier, however insubstantial, between him and his maker. He stormed inside, ignoring the searing pain and eye-watering smell of scorched flesh, and clutched the thin hand of the woman he loved more than the mother who had brought him into the world one hundred and twenty-three years prior. “Do you need to feed?” He removed his dagger from the sheath on his hip, drew the sharp edge along his wrist until blood bubbled up, then held it out. “Here.”
Marguerite smiled, although he could barely make out her bright-green eyes and straight, black hair beneath the heavy veil draped over her head.
The edges of his wound knitted together. He hadn’t cut deep enough. He laid the edge against his skin again, but his makerwrapped her fingers around the hilt of his dagger and drew it away.
“My darling Cordon. I will always love you. You must never forget that.”
His head was fuzzy, as if he’d drunk an entire bottle of ratafia de cassis, even though alcohol hadn’t affected him in decades. He wished the rest of his nest was with him to plead their case, but they had voted that afternoon and chosen him to represent the group. The only voice of dissent had been young Jonathan, who had been so upset by the prospect of Marguerite’s departure that Cordon had been forced to put him to sleep. He’d assigned another member of the nest as a guard, fearing when Jonathan awoke and discovered their maker had abandoned them, his fragile fledgling mind would shatter, and he’d walk into the sun.
Marguerite tilted her head, as if gleaning some insight from the even sound of water dripping through a crack in the ceiling. Then she slipped out of Cordon’s grip, removed a slim, leatherbound book from her pocket, and handed it to him.
“Your journal?” He ran his fingers over the shape of a spider carved into the soft leather and remembered all the times he’d entered her room to find her scratching away with a pen. It was the one item she possessed she’d forbidden anyone from touching.
A pit opened in his stomach. She was abandoning them and there was nothing he could do about it. “Why are you giving me this?”
“Keep it safe, my child,” she said. “I have done what I can to see to all of your futures, but—” Her voice cracked. She lurched forward and drew him into a tight embrace.
At the sudden affection, his heart ached. She hadn’t held him in years, not since she’d turned the youngest of the nest. He’d suspected there’d been something wrong with her for more thana year, but she’d consistently dismissed his concerns and urged him to focus on training his new nest siblings instead.
“Promise me,” she whispered. “Promise you will never give up searching, Cordon.”
The pit in his stomach turned into a chasm as everything suddenly made sense. “You’re dying.”
She sighed. “I cannot avoid it. My time has come. I watched my maker at the end. I would not have that for you.”
He squeezed her tighter, as if he could turn into an anchor chaining her to him forever. She’d told stories of what would eventually happen to vampires who failed to find their fated mates, but he’d thought of those more as myths than facts. Like the fantastical tales his mother had spun for a human boy all those decades ago.
“Please,” he whispered. “We need you.Ineed you.”
“Don’t give up,” she said.
Then she vanished.
Chapter One
London, 1867
As Kitty Carterwalked through the crowded merchant alley, she resisted the urge to brush her black-gloved hand over the pocket she’d sewn into her corduroy walking suit. The weight of the coins jangling inside was still a new sensation after more than a decade of having to beg her parents for pin money, but she could not risk drawing the attention of the sharp-eyed and quick-fingered children lounging between the stalls.
Every coin she possessed was intended for a specific purpose: to pay London’s newest textile merchant for a length of green, silk satin for the Baroness of Ferron’s gown. The price the lady had paid was barely enough to cover the cost of supplies, but Kitty could not afford to be particular. Establishing herself as a dressmaker in London was difficult enough without a wealthy family or connections among theton. The latter she hoped to develop over time, and the former… Well, the Carter familyhadbeen wealthy, before Kitty’s father had spent most of the fortune he’d inherited from his father’s work with the East India Company indulging his wife’s desperate attempts to fit into a social class that would never accept her.
A flutter of birds overhead had her covering her head to avoid the unpleasant droppings. The ground beneath her feet was bad enough, nauseatingly sticky. The smell was even worse, acombination of sweat, horse manure, and coal dust. She elbowed her way around a clot of arguing men before finally spotting the stand of the merchant she sought. Mr. Julien was new to town and shared her ambition. She had discovered his stand several weeks prior, tucked in a shadowy corner of the tight alley, his table spread with startlingly vibrant Chinese brocades, piña cloths, glazed cottons, and more. She’d coveted the fabrics before she’d even touched them, and it had taken every bit of her willpower to purchase only one item, a length of ivory muslin.
Mr. Julien spotted her and grinned, revealing dimples in his dark-brown cheeks. As usual, he wore a black, ankle-length tunic with a high collar and a turban of the same color. She’d questioned the practicality of such a garment in the hot London summer. Mr. Julien had only laughed. The next time she’d visited, he’d given her one of his tunics to inspect. Then it had been Kitty who had felt foolish, as the linen was both lightweight and durable, while also being dark enough not to show sweat. She’d apologized and had ordered several bolts of the same fabric, from which she’d made several lovely blouses.
“Miss Carter.” Mr. Julien bowed his head. “It is good to see you.” He reached beneath his table for a small, wooden box the size of his palm and he presented it to her.
“What’s this?” she asked.
“A gift from my wife. She was very pleased with her sari.”
Kitty’s throat tightened. She hadn’t provided Mrs. Julien with the gift with the expectation of receiving one in return. Still, refusing what was offered would have been rude. She accepted the box, opened it, then had to bite the inside of her cheek to keep from gasping.
