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“Let’s kill them and have done with it,” the bearded man
grumbled. “What’s an article in a paper?”
Constance put a hand on his shoulder, preventing him from
walking forward. “Yes, but think this through. Certainly no last-
ing harm will come from it, but it will draw eyes to our secrets.
We’ll have to lie low for a while. Years, maybe decades.”
Decades. It spun in Arthur’s head, impossible but true.
“So? We’ve done it before.”
“We have some rather large plans in the works in Europe right
now, if you’ll recall.” Her gaze on the bearded man was sharp, and
he winced under it. “I, for one, would hate to let things slip out of
our hands when we have been building this for so long.”
“What about the boy?” Alden asked, nodding toward Charles,
who had managed to sit up. “We still need a blood sacrifice for our
friend. And Wolcott owes us his debt.”
Constance glanced at the brothers. “You do understand now
what happened?”
“Our father,” Thomas spat, “made some sort of deal with you,
and Charles was the sacrifice. But I won’t let you touch him.”
“I think that settles our account with Mr. Wolcott. The price
was one son, and he’s now effectively lost
both. We can find the
blood we need elsewhere, in a less . . . complicated manner.”
“And they get away free and clear,” Alden said, matching the
intensity of Arthur’s glare. Arthur trembled with his desire, his
need to hurt this man. To kill him.
“Hardly. They’ll spend the rest of their lives looking over their
shoulders and having nightmares.” Constance paused as though
pretending to be in thought, then clucked disapprovingly. “Oh, I
forgot. You wanted the girl for a new plaything. Well, we all must
