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“What are you doing up here?” I asked. “Why do you look so worried?”

The man glanced over at me, his eyes openly surprised.

Then he frowned, pulling the baby tighter against him.

“The devil’s possessed her,” he said. His words were gruff, but I could hear tears in his voice. “He’s taken my wife. I think the devil has finally got her.” He bounced the baby lightly when it started to cry, trying to sooth it with his arms and hands. “She has lost her mind entirely… beyond any limits…”

Dexter let out a disbelieving snort.

“You just now figured that out, bud?”

“She wants me to give up our child. She says now she only had it for that reason, that Armel is the only child who matters. She calls this one a ‘spare.’”

The male gave us a disbelieving, disgusted look I swore I could sense real feeling behind.

I wondered if that feeling came from Denis or from his son, Brick.

“Our own children!” Denis gritted his teeth, shaking his head. “It is one thing when she is casting her spells with servants’ brats and orphans. Bastards borne of slaves and criminals. But our own child? No. I won’t have it…”

“What is the child’s name?” I asked him.

“Antonia,” Denis said, looking at me.

His eyes returned to the bundle in his arms, and I saw love in them.

It shocked me, frankly.

I don’t know if I’d seen any hint of love in this house before now.

Not even between Virginie and Denis themselves.

“I must take her away from here,” Denis muttered, bouncing the child. “I must take her far away. I know Virginie will follow us, but Armel will help me. We may have to kill her. We may have to send her back to the Devil ourselves––”

There was a banging on the door and he jumped.

He looked over at as, but now he seemed to look right through us, at someone else he could see.

“Ginny, no!” he growled. He held the baby away from whoever stood there.“No,curse you! You cannot take my own blood! Find some beggar’s brat to give them! They will not know the difference… or care!”

“You are wrong,” a calm voice said.

Dex and I watched as she seemed to appear right on the other side of us, like she’d walked through us. Virginie D’aureville walked towards him, gripping the gleaming scythe, her posture utterly relaxed. She stopped in the middle of the room.

She stood there, perfectly still, her auburn hair floating behind her.

“Give Antonia to me, Denis,” she said. “Give her to me now.”

“No! You cannot have my child!”

“Denis.” She sighed with the utmost patience, as if tired of a longstanding and useless argument. She brushed her unruly hair out of her face, hooking it behind one ear as she gazed at her husband. “My love. You know we must do this. You know. It is part of the pact I made. It is so the three of us can live forever. It is so that our enemies can never touch us again. I will bring you another baby… a little girl. But theymusthave this one. I havepromisedher to them. They have made it clear they will not take anything less––”

“You do not know this!” He gripped the little girl tighter. “You do notknowthat they need this!”

“I do, Denis. I am sorry.”

She really did sound sorry.

The reality of that made me feel sick.