The will of the Born is strong, apparently. Fueled by their hatred of the crown.

Larkin didn’t get much of any information out of the three Born he found. Only vile words about the fall of the crown now that Cyrus was dead. Only that times would change.

Larkin returned to the secure location one day to find two of those Born dead, and the other long gone, with a stash of supplies and a vehicle taken.

I told him he couldn’t stop looking for that last Born.

He left to hunt the man down.

Within seven days of my fake interrogation with Matthias, no less than six more Court members confess to being vampires, bringing the total up to thirteen. Thirteen immortals, used to living an easy life at Court, who will be banished from here forever. That is thirteen Houses around the world that will be given a new member to keep an eye on for the rest of their immortal lives.

In the end, we’ll be smaller, but we’ll be safe.

I’ve just walked back into the castle from a long afternoon talking with my grandsons when Cyrus steps into the entry, a fat man in some kind of clergy outfit, and an older woman with silver dreadlocks trailing behind her.

I stop in place, eying the strangers warily.

“Cyrus?” I question. My knees bend just slightly, and it’s everything I can do to not let my eyes ignite brilliant red, ready to hunt.

“This is Father Patrick and Grace Stevens,” Cyrus says, extending his hand in their direction. “They are here at my request.”

I raise an eyebrow slightly, still confused and questioning.

Cyrus reaches for my hand, and I can’t quite turn my back to the two human strangers as Cyrus guides us through a passageway toward the Great Hall. Neither of them seems bothered by my distrustful behavior.

Cyrus pulls a chair out for me at the huge banquet table. I don’t want to sit, but Cyrus seems so relaxed and unconcerned. So I sit, trusting him.

The strangers sit across from us.

“Father Patrick and Grace arrived just this morning at my request,” Cyrus begins to explain. “They both have experience with the unexplainable.”

My brows furrow and I look at Cyrus. Annoyance creeps up my throat, and it tastes a lot like betrayal.

“I asked them to come here and speak to us about curses,” Cyrus says bluntly.

My eyes snap back to the two strangers, and for a moment, there’s a painful little surge of hope in my chest.

“My father used to put his hands on my mother when I was a child,” Father Patrick says. His voice is heavily accented in Italian. “But one day, when he wrapped his hands around her throat, as he always did when he was angry, the air choked out of his own lungs. He staggered away from her, and once more he could breathe. But every time after that, when he tried to lay his hands on her, he would choke.”

“Like he was cursed,” I muse, awe in my voice.

Father Patrick nods. “A year later, after a fit of rage because he could not hurt her, he turned his hands on me. Just a young boy, I thought I was dead. But finally he relented. The next morning, my mother woke up screaming.”

He looks up at me, his eyes very calm, very even. “My father had choked to death in his sleep, and there were bruises around his neck in the shape of his own hands.”

Goose bumps flash over my arms. I swear the temperature of the room has dropped ten degrees.

“When I went into the ministry, I spent my time looking for other cases like my father’s. I sought out others who could not fully explain their experiences. I searched for acts of God that righted wrongs committed against the innocent.”

“Have you found others?” I ask.

He nods and offers a small smile. “Oh, yes.”

I blink.

I’m actually a little astonished. For centuries Cyrus has always promised he would find a way to break our curse, and while he has tried in the past, nothing has seemed solid.

But here, here is someone else who has had experience with them.

“And Grace has quite the story to tell as well,” Cyrus says, nodding his head to her.

My eyes shift over to the older woman. She’s black and her hair hangs long, in silver streaked dreadlocks. There are wrinkles that cut deep into the corners of her eyes.

“I worked as a nurse in Ganslaw, New Orleans for eleven years,” she begins. Her accent is distinctly Southern, but it’s different than Elle or Ian’s. Deeper, with darker roots. “One night, every ambulance in the area was dispatched to an old, backwater church. The paramedics brought in eight men, and one dead little girl.”

My stomach rolls. I don’t even know much of the story, and already I feel sick.

“To this day, I do not know what those men did to that little girl,” Grace continues, letting her eyes slide closed for a moment. “I did not want to know. But those men were brought in to the emergency room. Every one of them had blood pouring from their noses, their ears, and their eyes.”

An image flashes across my vision, violent and gruesome, blood pouring from every opening.

“I was the managing nurse on duty that night,” she continues her story. “And as I tried to help those sinners, as my hands were coated in their blood, I felt this…darkness creep inside of me. I could feel it attached to each and every one of them. It was as if we were connected. I don’t know how to explain it. Almost like…the exact opposite of them being a brilliant light, a beacon in the dark. All I could see was their darkness.”

I feel cold. So, so cold.

“I knew they were going to die that night. Like a ticking clock was inside of me. We never found what was wrong with those men,” Grace says. “And one by one, throughout the night, each of them bled to death.” She folds her hands on the table, staring off into the distance, not really seeing anything. “From then on, there would at times be individuals who came into the hospital, and I could feel that same darkness in them. Like the darkness that poisoned me that night would reach out and shake hands with the darkness in them. And I always knew within minutes when they were going to die.”

“You can sense when a curse is going to claim someone?” I ask in a whisper. Emotion fills my eyes. I feel my entire body tremble.

We could know. We could have warning.

My eyes flick over to Cyrus. His expression is grave and his face is pale. I reach out and take his hand, clinging to it like it’s my last lifeline.

We could have warning.

“I thought they could help us,” Cyrus says. “They may not have the answers we need on how to break it, but it’s a start.”

A breath escapes my lips, a cry or a laugh, it isn’t really quite either. “It’s more than a start, Cyrus. It’s more than we’ve had all this time.”

There’s timid hope in Cyrus’ eyes. He reaches up, placing a hand on my cheek. I see his promises, and my heart swells at his action in keeping them.

He looks over at the two individuals. “We have many questions for you.”

---

We spend hours asking Father Patrick and Grace questions. How many curses have they each encountered? Patrick’s answer is twelve, and Grace says seven in addition to the men the night she made the connection with them. Of what nature have the curses been? Grace has never known very specifically, because they all died within hours of coming to her. Father Patrick’s answers are varied. Anything between possession and the inability to consume food and the extreme fear of children.

Have either of them seen a curse broken?

They look at one another, as if afraid to give the answer. They each shake their head.

I lean forward, across the table. “Do you feel a timeframe when you look at me?” I ask Grace, begging her with my eyes to give me an answer.

Grace sits forward, studying me. Like she can read a date hidden somewhere on my skin, her eyes rove over me.

“I sense a recent death,” she says, her brows furrowing. “Very recent. And not just that of a loved one. Your own.”

I nod, but I can’t offer anything else. Telling these two everything is just one more complication at the moment.

She accepts it, though. She continues studying me.

“When someone is close to death, I feel this…oppressive darkness. Like it’s dropping down from the ceiling. It’s heavy. It chokes the air out of the room. I’ve only ever detected death when it’s been hours away.” She sits back, looking from me, to Cyrus, and back to me again. “I don’t feel that weight.”

Cyrus actually lets out an audible breath. A sigh of relief.

I’m being a bitch when I think that’s stupid. We’ve always had a bit of a warning before, when I starve and wither. I’m obviously not on the brink of death now.

“But I feel that darkness,” Grace says. Her voice darkens, grows thicker. “Like I said, it’s like a connection. Like there is a tether that stretches between me and it. I’ve never felt it so strong. The curse on the both of you…” She trails off, looking at us with darkness.

“I did something unforgiveable,” Cyrus says. There’s regret in his voice. It’s quiet and ashamed. “A very long time ago. And I’ve spent years paying for my mistakes. As has my wife, even though none of it was her fault.”

“I have seen it before,” Father Patrick says. His words are at times difficult to understand, his accent is so thick. “That a victim has become a part of the curse. That they have had to pay for the sins of others.”

“And have you ever found a way to help them?” Cyrus implores. His tone is desperate.

“We have lessened the symptoms,” the man says, but there’s something about the tone of his voice that makes me question if his words are true.

“Please,” Cyrus begs. “Tell me what it is you did to do so.”

Father Patrick sits forward, staring deeply into Cyrus’ eyes. “You must seek forgiveness from God. Only then will he relieve your burdens.”

Oh, no.

Oh, no no no no no.

As if in slow motion, I see Cyrus’ expression change from that of grief and desperation, to rage. Unfiltered rage.

“Do you think that I have not tried that?” he bellows. He stands, slamming his fists down on the table. There’s a great crack, and a huge split shoots down the table. “Do you think I have not spent decades of my life, praying to a being, asking for forgiveness for my sins? Do you think I have not served the penance of a thousand men seeking absolution?”

Father Patrick cowers back in his seat. He’s bone white. His body trembles from head to toe.

As he should.

Cyrus’ eyes have ignited brilliant red, and black veins sprout all over his face. The tendons in his neck strain out against his flesh. His fingers have dug holes into the table’s surface.

“I brought you here because you made me believe you had answers for me,” Cyrus seethes. “So tell me that you have other suggested methods beside begging God for forgiveness.”

My stomach twists in knots. I feel so sorry for the man, and Grace, who looks scared, but not to the same level as Father Patrick. But the man…I’m sure he’s bound to have a heart attack at any second.

But I feel the raging disappointment, too.

We need answers.

But this man has none.

“I…” he stutters. “I beg your forgiveness. This…this has been the only form of relief I have found in my years of research. Please…” he bows his head, fear trembling every inch of his body. “I beg your pardon, sir.”

Cyrus’ face is the physical depiction of rage. It isn’t contained. He leaves it all on display.

“Get. Out.”

Cyrus, too, trembles. He stares at Father Patrick with his eyes glowing brilliant and terrifying.

The man’s eyes widen for just a moment, and I smell his fear peak once more. But he shoves back, knocking his chair right over.

He never takes his eyes off of Cyrus as he walks around to the end of the table, which points to the exit of the Great Hall. With one last look over his shoulder, Father Patrick turns, and runs.

I look back to Cyrus and see him staring down at the surface of the table. His breathing is hard and labored, and I know how hard he’s trying to gain control once more. For ten full seconds, we all are frozen, waiting as Cyrus reclaims himself.

“You will live out the remainder of your life here at the castle,” Cyrus says as his eyes flick up to Grace. “You will be generously compensated, and you will have a life of ease. But you are our only solid connection to a possible warning for my wife, and so I cannot allow you to ever leave. But I will make sure you are taken care of.”

Cyrus turns and swiftly walks away from the table, aiming out of the Great Hall.

With my mouth hanging open slightly, I look from him and back to Grace.

She blinks twice, and I can tell, her brain is trying to catch up to the life-changing words Cyrus just spoke. She opens her mouth, but no words come out.

My heart breaks for her, because in this, I know I won’t be able to change Cyrus’ mind.

Grace Stevens will live the rest of her life here at Court because Cyrus believes he can use her to gain a warning for when the end will come for me.

When it comes to me, he will do anything.

“I’m so sorry,” I offer with the shake of my head. I stand, feeling a little lost. My brain is running a million miles an hour trying to sort out the ramifications of everything that’s just happened.

“Don’t…” I stumble over my words. “Don’t try to leave.” I look over at Grace. She looks surprised, taken off guard. But she doesn’t look as terrified as I think she should. “I’ll make sure you’re taken care of. Just…don’t try to leave, I beg you. For your own safety.”

I take one step back, toward the exit.

“Take the stairs down the hallway,” I say as I back away. “Go up to the next floor. Down the hall a little ways there are a series of bedrooms. You may take any of them you like as your own.”

Grace stands, uncertainty and worry in her eyes.

“I’ll be there to see you soon,” I promise as I stop in the doorway. “I will figure this out. Please…” I beg once more, because I know what will happen if she doesn’t listen to me. “Just don’t try to leave.”

If she does, Cyrus will make her pay.

He’s in pain right now. He’s disappointed.

Cyrus does bad things when he’s experiencing those two emotions.

Finally, I get the confirmation I’m so desperate for. Grace nods, and I see it in her eyes, she means it.

I listen, and a crash upstairs tells me Cyrus is in his office. Up the stairs I slip and down the hall. And then quietly, I step into the doorway.

There’s a vase lying on the floor by the fireplace, shattered into a thousand irreparable pieces. It was old. Expensive. And now it’s a ruin.

Cyrus stands in the middle of the room with his back turned to me. He breathes hard, his shoulders are tight. I can tell, he’s ready to snap at any moment.

My initial reaction is to yell. To swear at him and demand what the hell? Logan wants to argue, Sevan wants to be angry at his extreme reactions and for hijacking that woman’s life.

But I—as a whole person—someone who is many but one—I can’t pretend that I don’t know this man. I can’t ignore thousands of years of knowing him, of being witness to his reactions. I can’t pretend that wasn’t the exact reaction I was expecting to what just happened.

I don’t excuse Cyrus’ behavior.

But I do understand it.

I step into the office and slowly cross the space. When I reach him, I tuck myself into his chest, wrapping my arms around his waist. I lay my head on his chest, listening to his heart race an angry sprint.

I tuck myself tighter to him as his arms come up and wrap around me. And I listen, count each beat, as his heart begins to slow.

Cyrus is a man of passion. He’s so filled with it. He’s a mountain filled with explosive gas, and all it takes is one small strike to make it all explode.

But here, in this small space of reality, he’s just Cyrus.

He’s just the man I love.

“There will be time to get more answers,” I say without looking up. “I’m not going anywhere any time soon. We’ll figure this out, together.”

Cyrus tucks his face into my hair and squeezes me tighter. It’s an admission of pain, of sorrow. Because for seven other lifetimes, we’ve spoken similar words. And we’ve never yet figured it out. We’ve never gotten answers.

“I just want us to be happy right now,” I say as I look up at him. Cyrus’ eyes are bloodshot, angry tear trails still wet on his cheeks. “I don’t want us to feel desperate, because there is no need. I just want us to have normal, happy moments where we aren’t worried about an end. It’s just us here, Cyrus.” I reach up, touching his face, cupping his cheek. “Just be with me, im yndmisht srtov.”

Little by little, I see his eyes soften. And I know the power I have. Cyrus is capable of so much. He can change lives with just a few words. He’s created something unimaginable. But with my own words, I calm the man. I sooth his tumultuous heart.

Together, here, I feel him calm. I feel our souls bend into one.

“I love you,” Cyrus whispers, and his words are filled with pain and promises.

“I know,” I answer.