Dorian smiled down at her. “It’s a family tradition,” he said.
The words stole into Beatrice’s heart with a slow, giddy warmth. The whispers at the bottom of her mind quieted, pressed back by the brief, perfect moment. She curled more fully into his side, closing her eyes.
“Weirdest family ever,” Beatrice murmured. But Dorian tightened his arm around her, and she knew she wouldn’t have it any other way.
Dorian’s thumb brushed idle circles in her shoulder. “I received another call from your company today,” he said. “They have upped their offer and proposed to give you a corner office.”
“A corner office,” Beatrice said sardonically. “That’s great. I’ll have to keep that in mind. Did you tell them I’m still busy with the eldritch realm trying to take over my mind?”
“No,” Dorian replied, bemused. “I believe I told them you were taking a sabbatical for the sake of your health.”
“Right,” Beatrice yawned. “That works too.” Her eyelids fluttered lazily.
“You are not watching the screen, Lady of Whispers,” the Lady of Briars observed in a solemn tone. “Tradition suggests that you should be watching the screen.”
Beatrice couldn’t help it. She burst out into a choked, helpless laugh.
“The current scene is not amusing,” the Lady of Briars murmured. “Why are you laughing?”
Beatrice opened her eyes to slits. “I have no idea what it was I thought faerie lords did,” she said. “But I’m pretty sure that this never crossed my mind.”
“Most faerie lords do not have family traditions,” the Lady of Briars said gravely. “For most of them have no family.”
Beatrice regained herself slowly. There was a misty smile on the Lady’s face, and a fond nostalgia in her tone.
“Yeah,” Beatrice agreed quietly. “I guess that’s true.”
They watched a few episodes in a row—Beatrice had to play catch-up on the last few seasons of the show, but Dorian was only too happy to oblige her questions. He had, she discovered, a surprisingly encyclopedic knowledge of the entire series and its cast. And you never wanted to watch television before, she thought with bemusement.
The strangest evening of Beatrice’s life ended far too soon. There was an incredibly awkward moment as people began to leave, where Zoe gave her a hug.
It wasn’t a bad hug. It was, however, embarrassing enough to make them both go red.
“I’ll, uh… see you soon, I guess,” Zoe told her self-consciously.
“With any luck,” Beatrice told her, “you will.”
The Lady of Briars lingered for a moment behind her warlocks. Her too-green eyes fixed upon Beatrice.
“You must return soon to your realm,” the other faerie lord observed. “The separation begins to harm you.”
Beatrice shrugged uncomfortably. The mantle felt heavier about her shoulders than usual—she’d begun to feel weak and uncertain, which was normally a good sign that she was reaching the end of her leash. “I’ll head back tomorrow,” she said reluctantly. “I’m just… enjoying having a clear head for a bit. Besides, my warlock therapist tells me it’s good for me.”
“I do not understand,” the Lady of Briars admitted. “My realm loves me, and I love it dearly in return. But I suppose… your realm is somewhat uglier.”
Beatrice coughed into her hand. I think she’s trying to be nice, she thought. “There’s not a lot of sunlight in the Labyrinth,” Beatrice said. “Bad for my vitamin D.” She considered the Lady for an extra moment. “…I still owe you a debt,” she said. “I’ve been meaning to offer you your secrets back. I don’t really like having them, to be honest.”
The Lady of Briars tilted her head at that. “Your debt to me is minor,” she observed. “It does not rise to such a valuable level.”
“I know,” Beatrice told her. “But what you said to me before, about being afraid… it meant a lot to me.” She shoved her hands into her pockets. “I don’t know if I would have gotten as far as I have without it.”
The Lady blinked very slowly. The words had clearly surprised her.
“I’m never going to just wake up one day and magically feel safe,” Beatrice said. “I know I never should have believed that I would… but you pointed that out to me when I needed it.” She smiled ironically. “Maybe that’s a weird thing to feel relieved about. I don’t know.”
The Lady of Briars frowned. “I told you that I wished to be without fear,” she said.
Beatrice nodded. “And you said you didn’t know how to do that. And I figured… if even you’re still afraid, then I don’t need to keep asking myself how to feel perfectly safe. There’s other things I could be focusing on instead.”
Beatrice summoned up the weakened whispers in her veins and blew into her palm. A very important secret writhed its way between her lips, settling upon her skin like a wisp of smoke.
“This is the knowledge of your Infection,” Beatrice said. “It won’t ever enter my realm again.” She met the Lady’s too-green eyes. “I want you to take it back. But I also think you ought to consider talking with the others like you. Being human is a lonely business.”
The Lady reached out toward Beatrice’s palm with long, hesitant fingers. As her fingertips touched the edge of the black secret in Beatrice’s hand, it melted away entirely—dissipated into the air.
“I do not like the others,” the Lady said softly. “They are cold and dark and untrustworthy.” She smiled faintly at Beatrice. “You are all of these things as well. But I do like you.”
Beatrice blinked at that. “Uh,” she murmured sheepishly. “I guess there’s no accounting for taste.”
The Lady turned for the door once more. As she did, one of the tendrils of her willow hair snatched at the last kernel of popcorn in the bowl.
Beatrice closed the door behind her. She leaned her forehead against the wood, suddenly overwhelmed by a wave of exhaustion.
Dorian closed his arms around her from behind. She sank into his warmth with a relieved sigh.
“Ça fait du bien,” Beatrice told him. “Being in the real world more often. It wears me out… but the breaks are good for me.”
Dorian pressed his lips to the back of her neck. There was always a tired resignation in his manner whenever she brought up the subject. “I wish that none of this were necessary,” he said softly. “I cannot help but feel that you have taken on a burden that should have been mine.”
Beatrice turned in his arms. “I took the choice away from you,” she said bluntly. “And I’d do it again—all over again, even knowing what this is like.”
Dorian smiled down at her, in spite of himself. “You have always found a way to get what you want,” he observed. “I never stopped admiring that, no matter how much it frustrated me.”
Beatrice smiled back ruefully. “You always bring out my competitive side,” she said. She wound her arms around him, pressing her cheek to his chest. “Tonight was really nice. I think it was exactly what I needed.”
Dorian pressed his lips to the top of her head. “There will always be another time,” he promised her. “Quand tu veux.” Whenever you need.
Beatrice hesitated. “About tomorrow,” she said self-consciously. “Are you… will you coming back with me?”
Dorian squeezed her reassuringly. “Yes,” he said. “I will stay as long as I can. I do have secrets to search out for certain acquaintances of ours… but I suspect I will soon require the help of someone with expertise in computers.” He raised an eyebrow at her. “Do you happen to know anyone with that skill set?”
Beatrice’s lips curved into a smile. “I might know a guy,” she said. “But it’ll cost you.”
Dorian smiled back slowly. “Make me an offer,” he said. “We have all night.”
It was a very good night.
THE END
Thanks for reading Crown of Whispers! Don’t worry—the faerie tale is far from over! Keep reading for an excerpt from Jasmine Basak’s story in book 6,
Crown of Madness.
Already craving more wicked faerie tales? You can keep reading to get access to Crown of Gold—a free, exclusive Book Zero, set before the beginning of the Faerie Lords series.
If you enjoyed Crown of Whispers, I would be greatly obliged if you left a review. I promise—I read them all.
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Crown of Madness
Detective-Sergeant Jasmine Basak was readying strong words for whichever inconsiderate son of a bitch had committed murder in the middle of Montreal’s record-setting heat wave.
“They could have at least killed the poor bastard somewhere with air conditioning,” Jasmine groused to herself, as she quickened her steps toward the police tape in front of her. She wiped the fresh sweat from her forehead, fanning uselessly at herself with one hand.
A handful of lookie-loos still lingered up and down the street near the alley in question, in spite of the humidity. Jasmine pushed her way past drunken bar-hoppers and college students with technicolored hair, ignoring the occasional hiss at the sight of her badge.
The alleyway stank of blood. The sickly-sweet copper smell assaulted her so immediately that she took an involuntary step back, covering her mouth with her hand.
Blood had sprayed all across the back wall of the bar—the splatters were high enough that she knew without having to ask that someone’s artery had been cut open. A thicker pool of blood had formed around a corpse, still laying out in the heat.
Jasmine stood for a moment just inside the police tape, unable to move forward. Five years as a detective and longer as a patrol cop had more-or-less inured her to the sight of disgusting things. But the sheer, mangled glee of the scene managed to sideline her this time. Her stomach churned in disgust, and worse… just a little bit of hunger.
Jasmine’s hand stole down to a blunted iron nail on a bracelet at her wrist. Warmth spread through her body; that awful hunger dulled very slightly, tamed by the magic in the charm. Jasmine hadn’t made the charm herself—in fact, she still sometimes wondered if she even believed in magic—but the woman that had given it to her had seemed confident that it would keep Jasmine’s hunger pangs at bay.
Not that I could fill that hunger even if I wanted, Jasmine thought darkly. I only got one taste of vampire blood, after all. She forced herself to step into the alleyway proper, careful to search the ground for potential evidence each time she took a step.
“Allô, Jaz!” A short, cheerful man in a patrol uniform waved her over, just next to the body. Brown-haired and ebullient, her coworker Thomas Gauthier had never met a dark situation he couldn’t joke about. “I have good news and bad news,” he said, as Jasmine approached. “Which would you like to hear first?”
Jasmine winced, but she played along dutifully. “What’s the good news?” she asked.
Thomas grinned. “I found a student ID,” he told her. “Our victim will not need to worry about his next tuition payment.”
Jasmine pursed her lips, glancing down at the body. The corpse was a young black-haired man, probably not much older than one of the violet-haired girls that had just hissed at Jasmine in the street. The dead boy’s eyes were wide and terrified. “I’m sure the victim would find that comforting, if he were alive,” Jasmine said. She paused. “What’s the bad news?”
Thomas shrugged his shoulders. “No immediate witnesses,” he said. “And no cameras I can see, at least back here.”
Jasmine sighed. “You found an ID,” she said. “What’s the name on it?”
“Alexis Simard,” Thomas told her. “McGill University. Twenty years old. He has a baby face, doesn’t he? I would have guessed him for a high school student.”
“He looks like a baby to me too,” Jasmine muttered. “I feel old, Thomas.”
A brief, uncomfortable silence fell between them—Jasmine had made the mistake of admitting to a less humorous observation out loud. That helpful layer of separation between them and the horrible scene strained at the edges. For a second, Jasmine wondered how terrified Alexis must have been in his last moments. Had he realized before he died that he was taking his last few breaths? Had he begged for his life—
“At least he got a last drink, hey?” Thomas murmured.
Jasmine shook herself sharply. “Yeah,” she said. “At least there’s that.” The moment of unwilling emotional connection had done one good thing, at least—she wasn’t in the least bit tempted by the blood that still dried on Alexis Simard’s neck. This is a person, Jasmine thought. I don’t want to eat a person.
Alexis looked as though he’d had his throat slit—though they wouldn’t know for sure until a professional made a closer examination of the body. The blood around his neck was smeared, as though someone had tried to staunch it. Could this possibly have been an accident? Maybe a drunken fight that went too far?
“Uh oh,” Thomas muttered.
Jasmine glanced up at him. He was looking just past Jasmine’s shoulder, toward the street behind her. She turned—and immediately cursed.
It was impossible to mistake Jean Belmont for anyone else, even in the middle of a dark alleyway. The man was tall, slender, and powerful, and he carried a sharp-edged feeling with him wherever he went. Jasmine couldn’t quite make out the little details of Jean’s dark hair and silver eyes, but he was wearing a perfectly-tailored set of slacks and a button-down shirt that flattered the lines of his body.
His fine Italian leather shoes were already past the crime scene tape.
“What the hell is this?” Jasmine demanded. She glanced back at Thomas. “You didn’t call him, did you?”
Thomas blinked at her, flustered. “What?” he said. “No. Why would I?”
“I am right here,” Jean murmured, just next to Jasmine’s shoulder. His voice was low and warm, and vaguely amused. His upper-class Parisian accent grated on Jasmine’s nerves. “You could always ask me, Detective.”
Jasmine startled, and nearly jumped aside—but some shred of her detective’s instincts must have remained, because she remembered at the very last second that doing so might disturb the scene. She turned slowly in place instead, and found herself standing chest-to-chest with the man behind her, with only a few inches to spare between them.
Jean was much taller than she was; Jasmine had to crane her head just to look up at him, which only served to annoy her further. A faint smile played along the edges of his lips. The fancy European cologne that he always wore sank in around her, blending with the tangy scent of blood. Somehow, the mixture stirred Jasmine’s hunger again, and she flinched.
“No questions, then, Detective?” Jean observed. He raised one delicate eyebrow at her. “How disappointing. You’re normally much more eloquent than this.”
Jasmine caught her breath belatedly at that, as a surge of anger rushed through her. “Listen here, you walking blood-bag—” she started hotly.
“Ah, there we are!” Jean said, bemused. “You are clearly just tired this evening, due to the hour.” He took her hand in his, closing long, cool fingers around her skin. A moment later, Jasmine found a tall, frosty coffee cup pressed into her palm. “Have some coffee, Detective,” Jean advised her with a smirk. “Iced, of course. The weather has been better.”
“You’re in my crime scene, you son of a bitch!” Jasmine blurted out. The anger in her stomach now pounded behind her eyes, stealing her breath. “I don’t know what the hell kind of game you think this is, but I don’t want you coming to my station, and I sure as fuck don’t want you messing up my murder scene, and—and who in god’s name let you in, anyway?”
Jean stepped back carefully. His silver eyes glinted in the darkness. “I have many favors owed to me, Detective,” he said. “As you are well aware.”
Jasmine set her jaw at that. Her fingers cr
inkled dangerously on the coffee cup in her hand. The hard truth was that Jean Belmont could go anywhere he wanted in the city of Montreal. Jasmine had only really dipped her toe into the secret supernatural underbelly of the city, and even she knew that Jean Belmont owned Montreal.
The vampires here called Jean monseigneur—a French affectation given to feudal lords. Most of the other supernaturals deferred to him similarly, at least out of general courtesy. Jean had only been in charge of Montreal for a few years now, and his grip on the city was far from complete… but he already had his fingers into every corner of Montreal’s bureaucracies, and he’d made at least one significant alliance with a resident warlock.
“Do you want me to throw him out?” Thomas asked Jasmine.
Jasmine glanced back toward her fellow officer. Thomas was staring at Jean with a mixture of deep dislike and mild wariness. Thomas was purely mortal, and blissfully unaware of things like vampires and faerie magic… but even he had to know that Jean was someone very important.
“No,” Jasmine told him shortly. “If anyone is going to drag him out, it will be me.” She reached forward to close his fingers around Jean’s wrist and started very carefully for the crime scene tape.
Jasmine felt Jean’s bemusement as she tugged on his wrist. He didn’t resist her grip—but they both knew that he could have. Jean Belmont was the most powerful vampire in the city. Had he exerted his considerable strength, it would have been nearly impossible for a mortal like Jasmine to move him.
“Try not to spill that coffee,” Jean murmured, as Jasmine lifted the police tape with the arm that held the coffee cup. “It is very good coffee. If you don’t intend to drink it, then I might do so myself.”
As soon as they were safely beyond the crime scene, Jasmine whirled on him. “How many times do I have to tell you to leave me alone?” she demanded in a hiss. “Is this funny to you, monseigneur?” Jasmine layered a hint of scorn onto the title. “Every time I turn around these days, I find you hovering over me. You’re like a bad stalker in a nice suit. Half of the station thinks I’m in your pocket, you son of a bitch!”
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