Two girls. Two secrets.
Only one can survive.
Years before Nelle Wychthorn plans her escape, Tabitha Catt may unearth something in a Horned God's lair that is the key to freedom.
Desperate to save her beloved aunt from a dark curse, Tabitha is out t...
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Pulling up outside of the Deniauds', I let the engine continue its purr a moment longer before switching off the headlights and the Bugatti's ignition. The lights on the dashboard blinked out, and the engine and the music we were listening to died. Darkness and silence filled the interior of the car.
I'd finished death-dealing to the Yakuza just as early evening crept over the city's grey skyline. My father, brother, and I had woven through the guests and hotel employees spilling through the hotel's front doors in various states of dress and panic.
My twin sister, Valarie, waited inside my car, parked a little way down the busy street. Black smoke billowed from the top floor of the hotel, churning in angry streams to stain the sky a darker hue while fire truck sirens screamed and cop cars wailed their oncoming approach.
I'd slid behind the wheel of my Bugatti and swiftly departed, leaving Sander to make his way back home with Jeroen, and drove the two-hour journey to the Deniauds' estate outside of the city limits of Ascendria.
And here I was, staring at the mansion, suppressing the urge to reignite the engine and drive the hells away, fast. I was stuck here for two days. Fuck me.
Valarie sat in the passenger seat beside me. Her shoulders were hunched over as she tried to scratch at the flecks of paint crusted beneath her thumbnail. I slapped my palm over her hand, stopping her.
Valarie glanced up, surprise etched on her features. Her anxious gaze slid from mine to my hand resting on top of hers before she turned over her free hand, curling her fingers into her palm as she inspected the paint-speckled fingernails. A despondent sigh left her throat. "I sh-should h-have done my n-nails."
"Who gives a fuck?" I said, shrugging. Sure we'd be walking into a room of polished and primped faces doused with glamour spells, but my sister was a natural beauty and, better than that, real. She painted, why try to hide it? Her art was the place of solace in which she lost herself. Growing up, we'd been inseparable. Now, working for the Horned Gods, I was away from home a lot, but whenever I was back I'd find her outside, wherever she'd set up an easel, or lying on her stomach across a blanket, fingers blackened with charcoal or smeared with paint. A crease of concentration between her brows, teeth chewing on her bottom lip, as she captured whatever held her attention and brought it to life. I'd lie down beside her on my back, arms tucked beneath my head, and listen to the soothing strokes of her pencils on quilted paper or bristles on canvas.
I let go of her hand and rested it instead on the steering wheel.
Her violet eyes, gone a darker shade with unease, darted over her shoulder to the mansion. "I-I-I—I'm not s-sure about this." She had no control over her stuttering, no matter how many speech therapists she'd seen over the years.
"What? The whole selling you off to Byron like a broodmare?"
Her gaze shot back to mine, long thick eyelashes parting wide. Her fingers bunched in the silky fabric of her dress on her thighs, and her red-stained lips curled down on one side in disbelief. "He's n-not interested in m-me."
