Page 1 of All Saints Day (Lucifer and the Saints #2)

Quentin

W e never thought this day would come; Seb, Caz, Louie and I all seated together at a small round table; the rest of the ornate banquet hall bustling with family, friends, and other obligatory guests you invite to your formal bonding reception.

Seb looks incredible in his shimmering black velvet jacket and black satin bowtie, Caz is a pastel portrait of pale skin, sharp cheekbones, and intricately embroidered powder blue moire satin tuxedo jacket–the two of them still outshone by Louise—her bare, sculpted shoulders and delicate clavicles glowing in the light of the chandelier; her ivory silk cowl-necked dress shimmering like her cascade of auburn hair.

I blink, and we’re in the center of the dance floor—Caz and Sébastien hooting and hollering from the pack table as Louise and I take a turn around the ballroom; muted trumpets and the gentle tiss-tiss of brush-sticks on hi-hats guiding us through our dance steps.

She runs the flats of her hands up the black satin shawl collar of my white dinner jacket—stopping only to adjust a large purple and white iris in my lapel, the golden pollen just dusting the tips of her long, clever fingers.

“It’s so beautiful here.” Louise sighs, resting her head against my chest as I press my lips into the part of her silky red hair.

We move in small, looping circles, even as the music begins to warp, to slow.

“I just wish I could stay—but I don’t have long,” Louise’s voice wavers, already watery with tears.

“Stay here, with me–with us, forever,” I whisper against the shell of her ear, holding her body close to mine.

“I want that more than anything,” she weeps quietly, her tears falling onto my crisp white shirt.

Then I see him—lit in a doorway on the far end of the ballroom; the bright light around him turning him to the flat black of a silhouette.

“You know I can’t.” Louise pulls back from me, pressing onto her toes to place a tender kiss on my lips. “He’s coming. Can’t you feel it?” she simpers.

Suddenly Seb and Caz are on either side of us—closing in protectively around her.

“We’re going to save you—it won’t be long now,” Caz assures Louise, pressing his lips to hers quickly before Sébastien crushes all three of us against his broad chest, tears streaming down his face.

“Just hold on, Loulou, you’ll be back—safe with us before you know it.”

Outside the moonlit windows, I see another shape in profile—seeking, searching hands running over the panes of frosted glass.

“I have to go,” Louise’s voice trembles, tears falling from her beautiful cinnamon eyes.

In the distance I see the figure in the lit doorway, his hands bracing the frame; his body a large “X” made in shadow.

I can’t see his face, but I speak his name—hoping he hears the black hatred that drips from the word. “Frank.”

Louise gasps, and a shadow falls over us all.

I wake soaked through with sweat, barely able to catch my breath, Caz and Seb leaning over me in the cool blue light of night.

“Tin-tin, are you alright?” Sébastien soothes, laying a large, tattooed hand over my bare chest, over my heart.

My head bobs up and down, but I’m struggling to swallow down my tears—the barely leashed panic that threatens to spill over at any second.

Caz, with his hollow-looking cheeks and dark-circled eyes, reaches down to brush away the hair plastered to my forehead with sweat.

“I know it was bad—just try to take a few breaths,” Caz croons as Seb turns to the nightstand, producing a tall glass of water.

Each of them helps me to sit up, propped against the headboard.

“Only a few hours—then we really start being able to make moves to get her back,” Caz adds, steadying himself as much as me.

“Yeah, you’re right—of course.” I take the glass of water from Seb, drinking deeply.

“Just hard when we get those glimpses of her across the bond… it’s worse when she’s actively suffering or being…

” The words dry on my tongue, and I take another slug of water, attempting to keep my mind from those darker places.

“I know, I know.” Seb takes the empty glass from me and places it back on the bedside table before crawling across the bed to scoot himself between me and Caz—pulling us into him with his massive arms like some huge bird gathering its young under its wings.

“Let’s try to get some rest, eh? Tomorrow is going to be a long and difficult day. ”

“He’s late,” Caz grumbles from his place slumped in an ornate metal patio chair, a pair of mirrored bug-eye sunglasses obscuring his icy gaze.

None of us had slept well, especially not after seeing Louise across the bond in our dreams.

“The city’s a shitshow today; it would have taken him forever to get anywhere, even if he weren’t hobbling around.

” Sébastien did his best to talk Caz down—even though he was adjusting every untouched item on the table that he’d set out for high tea for the sixth or seventh time in the last ten minutes.

Poor Sébastien has had to shoulder the brunt of the emotional labour in the pack since Caz and I have increasingly gone to pieces in the wake of our separation from Louise, our pack lead.

While I’ve been increasingly fragile, Caz has been all but undone.

Never in my life have I seen him so withdrawn—a mere shell of himself.

“Using the marathon as a racer wasn’t a bad choice of cover.

Compton’s been sniffing around Dennis since the Windmill captured Louie, but everyone knows that McBride’s been an insufferable marathoner and tri-athlete type since he joined the bureau.

Like you said, Cazzy, one look at his online footprint would seal the deal for anyone in terms of alibi—but I’d imagine Seb’s right.

Athletic though he may be, he did just run almost 30 miles.

He’s probably making his way here as expeditiously as possible through the crowds and his own exhaustion. ”

Caz obviously finds our reasoning insufficient, pushing back from the table with a loud scratch of metal chair legs on stone.

He crosses his arms over his chest and moves to the metal railing of the penthouse terrace; the fanciful landscaping of plants and early-blooming spring flowers dancing in the breeze around him as he glowers down at the streets below teeming with people.

“What happens if he gets here and doesn’t want to cooperate?” Caz blurts out, gnawing anxiously on his nails and cuticles as he scans the crowd for Dennis’ strawberry blond coif.

“I don’t think that’s going to happen, Caz,” I sigh, exasperated. We’ve had some version of this conversation so many times in the last few hours, let alone in the months since Louise’s capture. Apparently, we’re going to go through the motions again.

“If we just tell him outright that he’s one of our fated mates—there’s no possible way he can say no.” Caz whirls on us—pacing back to the bistro table laid with all the goodies Sébastien has prepared, the cloudless blue sky overhead at odds with our gloomy moods.

“For the last time,” I grumble, pinching the bridge of my nose in a vain attempt to keep my patience.

“We know that he’s already committed to helping Louise.

Even if he doesn’t know that he’s one of her fated mates—he’s in love with her.

It will be enough to get him on board. We don’t know what else he’s been getting up to; we don’t want to bite him in until we have the full picture…

” I trail off, unable to put words to the rest.

Both Caz and Seb understand without my having to say anything. All of us had been hoping that Louise would bite Frank into our pack that fateful morning we left her on the yacht—thinking we’d make our escape.

How wrong we were.

It’s been a long road just to get to this point. We narrowly escaped our own capture by the Windmill back in December of last year.

That first night in that shitty Oklahoma motel was like hell on earth. None of us could quite believe what we were seeing down the bond, but were quickly forced to accept the painful truth: Frank was working for the Windmill all along.

Those initial days on the run, I could blot out everything else and focus on my immediate survival, the survival of my pack.

None of us quite understood why Frank let us go that day at the docks, why he didn’t just let us walk straight into our deaths—neat and tidy, loose ends all tied up.

In foolish hope, I had thought Frank might have been biding time—waiting to turn the tables on the Windmill and escape with Louise, bringing her back to us; everything some big misunderstanding.

Oh, if we could be so lucky.

Instead, every day and every night for the last one hundred and thirty days—we have experienced shades of Louise’s torture at Frank’s hands—somewhere deep within one of the Windmill’s secret, secure locations.

It didn’t take long into those hellish 18 weeks for me to start to pick at the realization; from the very first minute I met him, everything I knew about Francis Stone was a lie. For Christ’s sake, I’m not even sure if Francis Stone is his real name.

I had caught glimpses of a darkness in Frank, but had always fancied that I knew the ‘real’ Francis Stone—that the stranger I caught flashes of in those dark blue eyes had been a fleeting visitor that sometimes eclipsed the genuine article.

Now I know that I was only seeing shards and shreds of what monster might be harbored in the shadow of that man.

My hubris.

Quickly, Seb, Caz and I agreed that we’d have to bring in Dennis if we had any hope of success.

Through care and diligence and an inhuman amount of self-control, he had managed to retain his cover at the FBI.

Without question, having a man on the inside would be of value—especially if we are planning on using Compton to get access to wherever Louise is being held.