A startling shot cracked through the air, jerking him from whatever spell she’d put over him, and his eyes shot to the man with the gun. A faint trace of smoke lifted from the barrel and the woman in black now lay on the ground, blood pooling beneath her on the cement like a hole slowly widening in the earth. And for the first time, he realized it was real—the strange veil that had made it as a film scene, gone.

“No,” he breathed. Every sense of desire that had been forced upon him was gone, leaving the harshest of sicknesses in his gut. The mugger’s eyes found Henry’s then, expanding as he noticed him for the first time.

Before he could run, Henry was on him, fighting him to the ground, and Henry’s knuckles slid over the man’s facial sweat as he slugged him. When a well-dressed group of bystanders laughed their way by—probably leaving the concert—Henry called to them, demanding they get help. They scurried away in a panic, and after he hit the man over the head with the grip of his gun, the man’s eyes closed in unconsciousness and Henry crawled to the black-haired woman.

But she was already dead, her eyes open and mouth hanging as though she’d been frozen. How could you let this happen? her expression said.

This couldn’t be real. Could it?

He shook her, yelling for her to wake up. It was because of him she never would; really, that gun may as well have been in his own hand.

He felt the temptress’s destructive air behind him.

He looked up at her, at the way she smiled, and a breeze cooled the wetness around his eyes. “You…” he said. “What did you do to me? I never would have…”

“I didn’t do anything, Henry. It was all you, all your choices that led to this. Because of you, an innocent soul is dead.”

He shook his head, even though she was right.

“For that reason, you will forever be cursed. From here on out, the nighttime will show everyone what you really are.” She grew angry, her gleaming teeth now bared and her raspy voice a gravelly roar. “A monster, Henry Clayton, that’s what you will become.”

A mass of footsteps made him turn. Two police officers, surrounded by a crowd eager to see the destruction, ran toward them: vultures with mink shawls, silk pocket squares, and suede top hats.

“What happened?” one of the officers barked.

“He…shot her,” Henry said, his voice weak and unstable. He stood, backing up and letting them surround the dead woman in Chanel No. 5 and the unconscious mugger, the silver gun at his side. He watched them, then watched the blood on his hands.

“A monster,” a breath from behind said, and he twisted. She smiled again.

Words escaped him, since he didn’t know what she meant.

“Go home,” she commanded. “It will begin soon.”

“What will begin?”

She closed in on him, staring into his eyes without her neck even slightly craned. She was either very tall—too tall for a normal woman—or her feet hovered above the ground. Neither seemed possible. None of this did. This time he felt no desire for her cool breath—only repulsion. “The pain,” she said in answer to his question. “The excruciating pain that will accompany you the rest of your life. The rest of eternity.” Her laugh made him recoil, and he didn’t understand.

“Every curse can be broken, Monster. But you will not break yours.”

“A curse…?”

She nodded. “The only way is through a woman. A woman who is a true beauty. To get back the life you once had, you must sacrifice the life of one who is beautiful. Just as this started with a death, it must end with a death.”

He didn’t understand, stepping away from her.

“As in you must kill, Monster. Sacrifice a beauty—her life for yours—and you may have all your pathetic life once held.”

“What do you mean? I could never kill…”

She smiled with pity. “That’s why it’s perfect.” Her grin became a scowl as she grew nearer still. “But just know that if life gets too long and miserable, and you do decide to be the killing kind of monster, I will be there. I will stop you.”

Unable to respond, unable to let himself believe her, he turned and walked away, down Park Avenue with his bloody hands in his pockets because he had no choice.

“You’re mine, Henry,” she said from behind. His body began to buzz from deep within, making him sweat, so he walked faster. Perhaps when Arne, his young and dearest friend, found him, reality would ground Henry once again, make him realize this was all just a nightmare.

She laughed from behind again. He wondered if it was just his imagination or if her voice did indeed sound like a snake’s. “You’ll always be mine.”

Chapter 23

Crisp air brushed Henry’s skin—the kind that came from reality, not a dream. He groaned, moving his stiff neck, but couldn’t open his eyes. The edges of grogginess kept him prisoner, but he sensed his home all around him: his walls, old but refurbished years before. The presence of the mansion was blunt as always, containing the lingering sensation of his father that never really left the interior.

Beneath his back, the hardness of the floor, usually cool, was moist and warm, glued to his skin. He had a fever, probably. The heat that left him chilled aroused thoughts of the fire, of the way it had scorched him, of the way it had scorched Elizabeth.

Elizabeth.

His eyelids ripped open. In his hand was another hand not his own, and he filled with such relief that his exhalation felt to be the most cleansing, relaxing thing he had ever experienced. He continued to hold it, delicate and feminine and possessing more love than most people held in their entire bodies. She slept next to him, curled on her side. Her blanket was pulled high, and her hair was swept away from her neck, falling behind her. He never knew anything could be so beautiful—more beautiful than the illusory beauty he had seen in his dreams, the beauty that was no beauty at all.

It didn’t make sense that Aglaé had come, or why she’d said what she had. He’d never come close to killing a woman to break his curse. There’d been times he was tempted, and times he had to work harder against his instincts—one time even with Nicole—but he’d taken the women mostly to scare them, to keep up his pretense. And even then, when he hadn’t been close to taking their lives, he’d been far closer than he ever was to taking Elizabeth’s. If he ever was to break the curse, it would never be through her death. His brain couldn’t even wrap itself around such a thought.

So why come now? Why try to prevent him from doing something he would never—not in a thousand centuries—do?

As he watched Elizabeth sleep, watched her shoulder lift ever so gently with each breath, he tried gathering the pieces of the night, tried determining what was real and what wasn’t. Obviously, there hadn’t been real fire, on him or her or anything else. And, God, how that made him rejoice. But she was with him. Had she really stayed, promising she would never leave? Had she really saved him?

His heart dropped, every piece of reality floating to the surface of his mind. He couldn’t believe he’d been too distracted by her presence to realize she was here in the first place. She was here, in his house, sleeping beside him. Heat swelled through him, emotions he himself couldn’t even decipher: rage, humiliation, exposure, even gratitude.

He peeked beneath the blanket over him, at the stitches on his side and the scratches on his leg. She had saved him. And though it moved him—because it moved him—he grew angrier than he’d been since the moment he’d met her. Stubborn, curious, unafraid Elizabeth.

He sat upright, but an overwhelming bout of dizziness hit him in a wave, making everything go topsy-turvy and momentarily taking his sight. His limbs were weightless, shaky. Elizabeth stirred beside him, opening her eyes, and she sat just as quickly.