The second official time Ben went to Rothman House, he was greeted at the front door by the very same butler whom he’d offended a few days before. The man gave no indication of knowing who he was. Ignorance or a good poker face? Sometimes it was hard to tell with experienced day people.

“Mr. Benjamin Vecchio and Ms. Chloe Reardon.” The butler announced their names at the entrance to the drawing room where Cormac O’Brien, Gavin Wallace, and Adele Samson, the Lady of Normandy, sat waiting for them. Cormac and Gavin rose. Adele didn’t.

Her face was unveiled, and the Labyrinth Trilogy hung behind her.

Ben stared at them, finally seeing the story in its entirety. The pale woman entering the labyrinth at dusk, her hair tied back neatly and her dress unmarred. The creature with the bloodstained lips fighting off the demons at midnight. The exhausted woman at dawn, stumbling out of the labyrinth with bloody feet and tangled hair, a monster of her own creation. Every shadow and twisted vine told a story. Every demon had blood on their claws.

“They’re perfect.” Ben tore his gaze away from the macabre and beautiful artwork and turned it toward Adele, who was very clearly the woman modeled in the painting. “Your brother was very talented, Ms. Samson.”

“Thank you.” Adele’s voice was entrancing. “It’s been so long since anyone called me by that name, it sounds foreign.”

“But I hope not unpleasant.”

“No.” Her face was utterly placid. “Not unpleasant at all.”

He examined Midnight Labyrinth. Emil Samson had perfectly rendered Adele’s luminous skin, her pointed fangs, and the craving in her eyes. “Your brother knew about you, didn’t he?”

She smiled, and it was beautiful and frightening at once. “Not everything, but enough. Unfortunately, my transformation wasn’t enough to save my family.”

Her eyes were golden brown with an edge of blood-red burgundy that made them completely otherworldly. Ben had never seen eyes quite the same color and wondered if that was part of the reason she wore a veil. Her nose was too prominent to be called beautiful, but she was striking—a dramatic model for any artist. Ben had little trouble understanding why some called her a muse.

“I understand that you and your partner specialize in retrieval,” Adele said. “Mr. Wallace was kind enough to explain the situation to me, but he declined to tell me why I should not reward you. I did not hire you, yet you have returned Midnight Labyrinth to me, no doubt at some expense and trouble to yourself. I do not like to be beholden to another, Mr. Vecchio.”

“There is no debt,” Ben said. “And there never will be. Since the moment I first saw the paintings, I only wanted them together and with their rightful owner.” It had been a carefully constructed response. Not a lie, but not the whole truth either. “Now they are, and it is an honor to see them. That is all the payment I need.”

From the look in Adele’s eyes, she knew there was more going on, but she nodded, content to let the details remain ambiguous. “You understand, of course, why Midnight Labyrinth cannot be displayed.”

“The resemblance is… unmistakable. If you have any kind of public life in France—”

“I do. I’m sure I won’t always, but for now I do. If that was taken away, my business would suffer and my competitors would be emboldened at a very… delicate time.”

“Then we have the privilege and honor of enjoying your brother’s genius privately,” Ben said.

Adele examined him carefully, came to some conclusion, then nodded. “You will pass along my thanks to your partner.”

“I will.”

“I was hoping to meet her tonight.”

“She’s horribly bad at being social.” Ben gave her his most charming smile. “So I brought our assistant, Chloe.”

Chloe nodded, having been instructed not to shake hands. “It’s so nice to meet you. I’ve loved Emil Samson as an artist for a long time. I’m incredibly honored to meet you.”

“You work with Mr. Wallace also, do you not?”

“I help out at the pub, yes.”

“I thought you looked familiar.”

Gavin finally spoke. “Chloe is also a very talented dancer, my lady. She’s working with a new choreographer on a modern ballet scheduled for production next spring.” He walked over and handed Chloe a glass of wine, ushering her into the chaise at Adele’s right hand. “Perhaps the next time you visit New York, you’ll be able to see her perform.”

“I am a great lover and patron of the arts,” Adele said. “It is how I believe my brother would have wanted me to spend my eternity. I would be most interested in hearing more about your show.”

Ben let Gavin and Chloe talk to Adele about the ballet as Cormac sidled up next to him.

“No Tenzin tonight?”

“You know how she is.”

“I do.” Cormac sipped a glass filled with amber liquor. “Your explanation to Adele was very… politic.”

“I try.”

A flash of anger in Cormac’s eyes. “Don’t test me, boy.”

Ben’s smile faded. “I’m not trying to test you. I never was. I’m trying to do the right thing.”

“Just remember, there’s nothing more dangerous than a man who knows half the truth.”

Ben blinked. “That was almost wise, Cormac.”

The vampire downed the rest of his whiskey. “Now you’re trying to piss me off.”

“No, it was.” Ben glanced down at the glass. “Can I get a drink?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“Because I don’t like you.”

“How’s Ennis these days?” Ben asked. Since Cormac already didn’t like him, he might as well go for broke. “I haven’t heard much about him.”

Cormac’s face went eerily still. “That’s because he’s dead.”

Ben felt the cold radiating from the vampire. “I’m sorry.”

“So am I.”

* * *

“All in all,” Emmanuel said, “you’ll make a very tidy profit.”

“How much?”

“With the pieces you bought and the current market frenzy, I’d anticipate your profit at around two million euros.”

For oil paint and canvas? Tenzin shook her head. The world truly was an odd place.

Emmanuel was still talking. “The prices of the Samsons have gone through the roof. I don’t know how you anticipated it, but I’d love to share the tip with my other clients. Perhaps those more interested in long-term growth.”

Tenzin tapped her chin. “Give the paintings one more month. I think the price will peak at that point and then arrange to sell them. After that, you can tell anyone you want.”

“As always, you’re an extremely savvy buyer, my dear.”

“Fine.” She’d already become bored with the conversation. “Convert the money to gold when you’re finished, then send it to me.”

“Are you sure you don’t want to hear about the other opportunity I mention—”

“Goodbye.” She hung up the call. He was so chatty.

* * *

Ben sat on the couch in the loft with a glass of bourbon warming in his hand. He was… drunk. Not as bad as champagne drunk, but moving well past buzzed. He stared at the wall of weapons that decorated his home. Weapons from China and Iran. Weapons from Chile and Kenya and Romania.

He took a long sip of bourbon. “My uncle’s house is full of books.”

“I remember.” Chloe spoke from the kitchen. She’d been mellow all night, glowing and happy since their reception at Rothman House. Both Adele and Cormac had been enchanted with her, though Gavin had clearly staked a claim. They talked about dance and theater. Gavin had smiled more than Ben could ever remember seeing.

Ben was happy for her. He was happy she was happy. Chloe was an amazing person who deserved to be happy. She deserved to have people appreciate her. She deserved to be a star if she wanted to be.

He’d never felt more conflicted about bringing her into his world.

“My uncle’s house is full of books,” he said. “And my house is full of weapons.”

Chloe took a deep breath. “It is. But they’re… historic weapons. They’re like art.”

“Every single one of those weapons has probably killed someone,” he said. “Have you ever thought about that when you walk through a museum with an arms and armory display? Every one of those historic swords has probably killed someone. Maybe a lot of people. And if they haven’t, that’s what they were designed to do. Art designed to kill things.”

“No, I haven’t thought about that,” Chloe said. “But you’re right.”

“I was designed to kill things.” He finished his drink and set the glass down on the table. “You know that, right? My aunt taught me the fastest way to kill someone with a sword when I was fifteen. We used dead pigs because they’re the closest to human flesh and bone.”

“Ben—”

“That wasn’t even the beginning. Not really. She taught me to steal first.”

“Your aunt?”

“No, my mom.” He desperately needed another drink.

Which meant he really didn’t need another drink. Not if he didn’t want to end up like his dad.

Chloe asked, “Your mom taught you to steal?”

“And pickpocket. I was good at it.” He brought his hand up and waved. “Long fingers. I bought the groceries. She paid the rent with what she stole, and I bought the groceries with what I could get.”

“So if you didn’t pick pockets—”

“We didn’t eat.” He closed his eyes and rested his head on the back of the sofa. “Don’t worry. I didn’t go hungry very often.”

Chloe said nothing. What could she say? He’d dumped all his baggage on her when she’d been having a nice night.

He was a shit friend.

“How did I get here?” he murmured.

Chloe sat next to him on the couch. “We took a cab.”

“You know what I mean.”

“I do,” she said. “And I don’t. This is all new to me, Ben. It still feels fantastic and forbidden. Like I’m in a special club. You’ve been living this life for longer than you’ve known me.”

“I’ve been putting up with this… bullshit”—he spat out the word—“for thirteen years now. I’m tired of it. Walking on eggshells. Watching every word. Weighing every move.”

“Sounds exhausting.”

“It is.” Ben stretched out, putting his head in Chloe’s lap after she scooted down the couch. “I don’t like fighting.”

“I know you don’t.” She stroked his hair. “In school, you were always the guy with the joke. Make ’em laugh when tempers and egos get hot. Do you know how many kids probably didn’t get beat up because of you?”

“No.” He closed his eyes. “I never thought about it.”

She kept stroking his hair, lulling him into relaxation as he drifted in an alcohol haze.

“You talk about being designed to kill things,” Chloe said, “but that’s not what I see. Maybe life has thrown that at you—put you in horrible situations where you had to fight to survive—but that just made you less violent, not more.”

“I know things…” He closed his eyes and saw vomit and gore. He saw headless bodies and blood. So much blood. “I just know things I wish I didn’t, Chloe. And you will too. Not now, but you will. Please don’t hate me. I’m really afraid you’ll hate me.”

“If I promise I won’t, will you believe me?”

It was a valid question. “I’ll try.”

“Then I promise I won’t hate you, Ben Vecchio.” She bent down and kissed his cheek. “I don’t think I could ever hate you. You saved my life.”

“You saved yourself. You were the one who walked away.”

“Yeah, I did,” she said. “But I could only walk away from Tom because I knew you’d give me a safe place to land. That’s what you do, Ben. You help people.”

Ben felt the rush of guilt rise up and choke him. “I was trying to do the right thing.”

“With Emilie?”

He hated that name now. Hated her. Hated feeling like a complete fool. “Yeah.”

“I know you were trying to do that right thing,” Chloe said. “I think everyone knows that.”

“But I fucked everything up.”

“And then you fixed it.”

“With Tenzin.” He rubbed his eyes. “Once again, she bails me out of trouble.”

Chloe took a deep breath. “From what I hear, half the time you’re the one bailing her out.”

“Half’s probably… a really high estimate.”

“It doesn’t matter. Know why?”

“Why?”

She put her hand on his cheek. “Because no one is keeping score. That’s not what friends do. That’s not how it works.” She lifted his head and stood up, propping a pillow under him before she rose. “I’m exhausted, Benny. Bed for me. You gonna be okay?”

“Yeah.” He closed his eyes. “Just gonna sleep here, I think.”

“You need a new couch.”

“I know.” He tried to get comfortable. “This one sucks, but it looks cool.”

He heard her laugh as she walked downstairs, turning off the lights behind her.

Ben lay in the dark, thinking about Chloe’s words.

“…no one is keeping score. That’s not how it works.”

Right.

That was always how it worked, whether people wanted to admit it or not.

* * *

Ben woke when she flew him up to her loft. She’d grabbed him under the armpits and was dragging him because he was completely dead weight, but she laid him down gently.

“Tenzin?”

“Go back to sleep.”

“But why—?”

“I don’t sleep,” she said, arranging pillows around him. “And you’re inebriated. Stay on your side. I will watch you to make sure you don’t get sick.”

He wasn’t drunk. In fact, he was mostly sober since he’d slept a few hours. But he wasn’t going to tell Tenzin that. Ben rolled over and turned into pillows that smelled like her. Cardamom and honey.

The bitterness that rested on the tip of his tongue melted away at her scent, and he stretched his arm out. “Come here.”

Her voice was soft. “I’m reading.”

“Then read next to me,” he said with his eyes closed.

Tenzin said nothing, but she went and lay next to him, resting her head on Ben’s arm.

“Read to me,” he said.

“I’m in the middle of the story. If I read to you, you’ll be lost.”

“So start over.”

“Selfish.”

“If it’s a really good story,” Ben murmured, “you won’t mind reading it again.”

Tenzin paused for a moment, and he heard her turning the pages.

“‘There was once a witch who desired to know everything,’” she read. “‘But the wiser a witch is, the harder she knocks her head against the wall when she comes to it. Her name was Watho, and she had a wolf in her mind. She cared for nothing in itself, only for knowing it. She was not naturally cruel, but the wolf had made her cruel.’”

Ben drifted to sleep as Tenzin read. He dreamt of full moons and labyrinths made of tangled branches that grabbed his legs and shredded his skin, leaving him bloody. He dreamt of the burning sun and heat so intense it seared the flesh from his body. He heard the rumbles of wolves and thunderstorms. Felt the brush of flower petals against his skin.

When he woke in the blue light of early morning, Tenzin was lying with her back to him, still reading aloud in a soft voice:

“‘No, no,’ persisted Nycteris, ‘we must go now. And you must learn to be strong in the dark as well as in the day, else you will always be only half brave. I have begun already—not to fight your sun, but to try to get at peace with him and understand what he really is and what he means with me—whether to hurt me or to make the best of me. You must do the same with my darkness.’”

It was dawn and the sun was rising, but no light reached the loft where they hid. Ben reached over and ran a finger up Tenzin’s spine, playing with the velvet hair that lay against her nape.

Tenzin stopped reading. She lay completely still as Ben touched her, her amnis prickling against his fingertips.

“‘To be trusted,’” he whispered, “‘is a greater compliment than being loved.’”

“Wrong book.”

“Right author.” He was only half awake; his eyes fluttered open, then closed again. “What did you call me once? Your shining boy?”

“Yes, I called you that.”

“Not so shiny anymore.”

“No, you’re not.”

Ben’s hand froze when he felt Tenzin’s amnis reach toward him. It was a tentative touch, like the lick of summer wind against his skin.

“I have been a hero and a villain in the same moment,” she said. “If you live long enough, you’ll understand what that means.” She reached back and lifted Ben’s arm, drawing it over her waist. “Sleep, my Benjamin. I’ll stay with you until nightfall.”

Ben tucked Tenzin against his chest and relaxed into the pillow, letting himself fall back into darkness as daylight breached the horizon.