Total pages in book: 100
Estimated words: 95475 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 477(@200wpm)___ 382(@250wpm)___ 318(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 95475 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 477(@200wpm)___ 382(@250wpm)___ 318(@300wpm)
Except his image in the glass, which no longer quite belonged to him.
A challenge had been issued using the one weapon guaranteed to make him respond—the threat of harm to a soul he’d failed twice already and could not—would not—fail again.
He had one week to find the Shadowglass Mirror.
One week to prepare for whatever trap awaited at the Rousseau Auction House.
One week before someone forced Delphine to remember everything at once and shattered her mind in the process.
He’d make it count.
Chapter
One
Bastien adjusted his name tag—Mr. Duvall in neat script—and stepped into the Rousseau Auction House seven nights after the threat arrived.
The registration desk sat just inside the entrance, staffed by a young woman whose polished professionalism extended to checking his forged credentials without comment. She handed him a paddle numbered seventeen and gestured toward the viewing room where other collectors had already begun assembling. Bastien tucked the paddle under his arm and moved through the foyer, his mind cataloging details the invitation had deliberately omitted.
The building occupied a renovated space on Chartres Street, its interior maintained at the precise temperature and humidity levels that expensive artifacts required. Whoever managed the Rousseau Auction House understood how to preserve paper and leather without degrading wood or metal. Professional operation. Legitimate on the surface, though the catalog for tonight’s sale included items whose provenance wouldn’t survive serious scrutiny.
He’d spent the past week preparing for this moment. Forged credentials. Sigil work that left his fingertips aching. Research that confirmed his worst suspicions about the envelope’s seal—mirror-forged ink, the kind Charlotte had theorized but never implemented because she’d understood the danger. Someone with knowledge of her work, someone who understood the Lacroix bloodline well enough to weaponize that understanding, had orchestrated this auction specifically to draw him here.
The viewing room opened before him, two stories tall with walls lined in mirror panels framed by dark wood. Gas sconces retrofitted with electric bulbs cast amber light that made objects appear more valuable than morning sun would reveal them to be. Perhaps forty people occupied the space, their clothing marking them as serious collectors who treated occult artifacts with the reverence other wealthy patrons reserved for vintage wine.
A raised platform dominated the far end of the room, velvet ropes creating a barrier between viewers and displayed items. Bastien’s attention fixed on the central pedestal, where a glass bell jar protected a grimoire bound in leather so dark it absorbed light. The book measured perhaps nine inches by twelve, thick enough to contain substantial content, its spine marked with a sigil that made his celestial nature recoil the moment his gaze registered the pattern.
The seal from the envelope. Exact match.
The grimoire radiated energy. Not death magic, precisely. Something adjacent though, something that used reflection and resonance to manipulate the boundary between physical form and spiritual essence. He’d encountered similar techniques in Charlotte’s most experimental work, but this felt older and more refined. As though someone had taken her theoretical framework and developed it across centuries rather than decades.
His phone buzzed in his pocket—silent mode, but he felt the vibration through his jacket. He ignored it. Delphine had texted twice today asking if they could reschedule the dinner they’d been attempting to have. Not quite a date… But almost… At least he hoped she thought so as well. He’d promised to call her after the auction, once he knew what he was dealing with. He needed to determine in the immediate whether the threat naming the Lacroix bloodline was theoretical posturing or something that required immediate containment.
The mirrors lining the room caught his attention as he positioned himself near the back wall. Polished surfaces that should have shown accurate reflections of the assembled crowd instead presented images that lagged microseconds behind their sources. A woman turned her head, and her reflection completed the motion after her flesh had already faced forward. A man raised his hand to adjust his collar, and his mirrored gesture trailed the original by the span of a heartbeat.
Mirror Bleed. Already active.
He scanned the crowd, looking for the kind of focused attention that would mark whoever had sent the envelope. His gaze caught on a man standing near one of the mirrored walls, positioned where he could observe both the displayed artifacts and everyone who entered the viewing room.
Mid-forties, perhaps. Six feet tall with aristocratic features—high cheekbones, straight nose, defined jawline softened only slightly by age. His build balanced strength with lean efficiency, the physique of someone who maintained discipline without vanity. Dark hair showed silver threading through at the temples, distinguished rather than diminishing. Steel-blue eyes tracked movement across the viewing room with steady focus, attention that assessed without appearing to strain. His charcoal gray suit had been cut to precise measurements, bespoke tailoring that emphasized broad shoulders and trim waist.
The man watched Bastien with the kind of frank interest that suggested recognition rather than curiosity. No attempt to conceal his attention, no pretense of casual observation. Just direct assessment, as though Bastien’s presence confirmed a hypothesis that had required testing.