Midnight Dynasty Books 1-3: Crimson & Clover Collections, #9

By Sarah M. Cradit

There are no secrets in this family. Only survivors. From USA Today bestselling fantasy author Sarah M. Cradit comes Midnight Dynasty Books 1-3, the first three novels in the dazzling paranormal romance series, Midnight Dynasty. Begin at the start with this collection, and dive into the secretive, ancient, and powerful world of the Deschanels and Sullivans. New and long-time fans alike will fall in love with our consummate bad boy as he leads the Deschanels through their greatest trial yet.

 

Included in this set:

A Tempest of Discovery (Book One)

A Storm of Revelations (Book Two)

A Torrent of Deceit (Book Three)

 

"Absolutely riveting!"

"Cradit's delivery of mystery and intrigue is flawless."

"Be still my heart. Nicolas Deschanel is back and better than ever."

"A must for any Fantasy, Supernatural and Thriller fans."



Nicolas Deschanel spent three decades holding court as the princeling of New Orleans and heir to his family's dynasty, pleasure his only obligation. A dance with rock bottom leads him back to his family, and redemption in contrite service.

Here, his life intersects with Lauren, whom he loves and respects, but knows he doesn't deserve. She approaches their working relationship with the same careful pragmatism she affords his misplaced affection. Nicolas forces his feelings aside so they can launch their first mission together, which sends his cousin Charlotte to Paris to investigate siblings causing supernatural trouble.

She's only there to observe, but Charlotte's fearlessness leads her perilously close to one of the siblings, enigmatic philanthropist Lawrence Henry. Her vague reports home keep Nicolas and Lauren in the dark, allowing them to shift their focus to something confidential—and perilous.

But a violent, unexpected threat leaves Nicolas and Lauren in stunning defeat. While they tend their wounds and reassess, Charlotte's inability to resist Lawrence's allure leads her beyond her family's aid.

When the dust settles in both New Orleans and Paris, chilling truths will surface in the aftermath. Truths that will change the lives of the Deschanels forever.

 

The Saga of Crimson & Clover:
A sprawling dynasty. An ancient bloodline. A world of magic and mayhem.

Welcome to the Saga of Crimson & Clover, where all series within are linked but can be equally enjoyed on their own.

Series List:
The House of Crimson & Clover Series
The Seven Series
The Midnight Dynasty Series
Vampires of the Merovingi Series

• Language: English
• Publisher: Storyville Press
• Release date: Apr 7, 2022
• ISBN: 9781393866121

Sarah M. Cradit

Sarah is the USA Today and International Bestselling Author of over forty contemporary and epic fantasy stories, and the creator of the Kingdom of the White Sea and Saga of Crimson & Clover universes.   Born a geek, Sarah spends her time crafting rich and multilayered worlds, obsessing over history, playing her retribution paladin (and sometimes destruction warlock), and settling provocative Tolkien debates, such as why the Great Eagles are not Gandalf's personal taxi service. Passionate about travel, she's been to over twenty countries collecting sparks of inspiration, and is always planning her next adventure.   Sarah and her husband live in a beautiful corner of SE Pennsylvania with their three tiny benevolent pug dictators.     Connect with Sarah:   sarahmcradit.com Instagram: @sarahmcradit Facebook: @sarahmcradit

Book preview

Midnight Dynasty

Midnight Dynasty

BOOKS 1-3

SARAH M. CRADIT

Copyright © 2018-2022 Sarah M. Cradit

All rights reserved. This book or parts thereof may not be reproduced in any form, stored in any retrieval system, or transmitted in any form by any means—electronic, mechanical, photocopy, recording, or otherwise—without prior written permission of the publisher, except as provided by United States of America copyright law.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Cover Design by Sarah M. Cradit

Map by Raven Quinn

Publisher Contact:

[e-mail]

www.sarahmcradit.com

Contents

Preface

Notable Names & Locations

Garden District Map

Family Trees

Deschanel Family Tree

Fontenot Family Tree

Laviolette Family Tree

Sullivan Family Tree

Weatherly Family Tree

Henry Family Tree

Book One: A Tempest of Discovery

New Orleans, Louisiana

1. Nicolas

2. Charlotte

3. Lauren

4. Julian

5. Nicolas

6. Lauren

7. Charlotte

8. Nicolas

9. Julian

10. Lauren

11. Charlotte

12. Lauren

13. Nicolas

14. Julian

15. Nicolas

16. Charlotte

17. Julian

18. Lauren

19. Charlotte

20. Nicolas

21. Julian

22. Lauren

23. Charlotte

24. Nicolas

25. Charlotte

26. Julian

27. Lauren

Epilogue: Charlotte

Book Two: A Storm of Revelations

Prologue: Charlotte

1. Lauren

2. Charlotte

3. Nicolas

4. Charlotte

5. Julian

6. Colleen

7. Charlotte

8. Lauren

9. Charlotte

10. Nicolas

11. Charlotte

12. Lauren

13. Charlotte

14. Julian

15. Lauren

16. Charlotte

17. Nicolas

18. Charlotte

19. Lauren

20. Nicolas

21. Nicolas

22. Lauren

23. Charlotte

24. Nicolas

25. Julian

26. Lauren

27. Charlotte

28. Lauren

29. Charlotte

30. Nicolas

31. Colleen

32. Charlotte

33. Lauren

34. Nicolas

35. Charlotte

Epilogue: Charlotte

Book Three: A Torrent of Deceit

Prologue: Charlotte

1. Julian

2. Nicolas

3. Lauren

4. Colleen

5. Lauren

6. Nicolas

7. Lauren

8. Nicolas

9. Alpha

10. Charlotte

11. Colleen

12. Charlotte

13. Lauren

14. Nicolas

15. Charlotte

16. Lauren

17. Charlotte

18. Nicolas

19. Lauren

20. Charlotte

21. Lauren

22. Charlotte

23. Lawrence

24. Ashley

25. Charlotte

26. Nicolas

27. Charlotte

28. Lauren

29. Oz

30. Alpha

31. Colleen

32. Charlotte

33. Nicolas

Epilogue: Charlotte

Also by Sarah M. Cradit

About the Author

Preface

Fans of The House of Crimson & Clover series will recognize many familiar faces in Midnight Dynasty, and this series might feel like easing back into an old, favorite pair of slippers. Those new to the series won’t miss a beat, for these stories are brand-new and all their own.

Those who are new to the world of Crimson & Clover, and enjoyed this story—or the characters within, like the ageless antihero, Nicolas—may also like to go back and read The House of Crimson & Clover. The evolution of Nicolas is detailed across those twelve novels. But that journey is not necessary to appreciate where he’s come, and where he will go next. The history of where the Deschanels and their sprawling relatives get their gifts is also covered in that series, should you ever find yourself curious about their origins.

A Tempest of Discovery is split between two locales: New Orleans and Paris, two cities with a rich, intermingled history. New Orleans I’ve been to many times over the years, both in pursuit of research for my stories but also because my heart beats its hardest and fastest there. I’ve only been to Paris once, but my memories of that trip were fresh in my mind when I lifted the pen—or fingers to keys—for the first time in this story. All descriptions are my own, just as all errors are my own.

This series, as with all Crimson & Clover books, was born of my combined love of family lore, witches, and a good mystery.

Happy Reading,

Sarah

Notable Names & Locations

DESCHANEL FAMILY

The Deschanel (pronounced Day-shah-nell) family are the line of heirs of the great Charles Deschanel of France, who settled the Deschanel dynasty in Louisiana in 1844. All current day descendants of the original Charles are either of the line of August or Blanche. Deschanels are of the line of August, and all others (Fontenots, Broussards, Guidrys, etc.) come from Blanche. August had seven children: Charles, Augustus, Colleen, Madeline, Evangeline, Maureen, and Elizabeth. Only Augustus, Colleen, Evangeline, and Maureen survive today.

The present-day Charles had six children. Nicolas, from Charles’ legitimate marriage to Cordelia. Nathalie, Giselle, Lucienne, and Adrienne, from his affair with Lisette Duchene. And finally, Anne, another daughter of an illicit affair, with Angelique Fontaine.

The rights of inheritance of the Deschanels follow the tradition of the eldest son, so Nicolas, son of the late Charles, grandson of August, is the current heir. Nicolas is childless, and if he does not choose an heir, the distinction passes to his uncle, Augustus, and then through his line.

Charles (d.) & Cordelia Deschanel (d.)

Nicolas

& Lisette Duchene (d.)

Nathalie (d.)

Giselle (d.)

Lucienne (d.)

Adrienne (d.) m. Oz Sullivan (issue: Christian)*

*Adrienne had one child by her husband Oz Sullivan, Christian. She adopted his daughter from a prior marriage, Naomi.

& Angelique Fontaine (d.)

Anne m. Jonathan St. Andrews

Colleen Deschanel & Noah Jameson

Amelia m. Jacob Donnelly (issue: Moira)

Benjamin (d.)

Ashley*

*Ashley was married to Christine, and they had three children. After their daughter, Katey, tragically passed, Christine ran off with the other children, and they are currently presumed to be deceased as well.

Augustus & Ekatherina Deschanel (d.)

Anasofiya m. Finn St. Andrews (issue: Aleksandr)

Augustus is currently married to Barbara, and they have no children.

Other Siblings of Charles, Augustus, & Colleen

Madeline (d.)

Evangeline

Maureen

Elizabeth (d.)

FONTENOT FAMILY

The Fontenot family (pronounced Fon-tuh-no), are cousins of the Deschanel family, equal in wealth and prestige. Where the Deschanels are descendants of the line of August, the Fontenots are descendants of the line of Blanche. Luther, Llewellyn, and Lowell are brothers, the sons of Eugenia and Wallace Fontenot, and grandsons of Blanche and Claudius Broussard.

Luther & Josephine Fontenot

Fleur & Remy (twins)

Theodore

Llewellyn & Sophie Fontenot

Charlotte

Annette (d.)

Lowell & Julia Fontenot

Julian

Courtney

Noelle

WEATHERLY FAMILY

The Weatherly family is considered new money by New Orleans standards, currently on the third generation of their esteemed Weatherly Department Store business. Daniel Weatherly Sr. established the upscale company in the 1950s, and upon his death, control passed to his son, Daniel Jr., who in turn has selected his eldest daughter, Cassidy, to be his eventual successor. His second daughter, Lauren, has shown no interest in being involved in the family business, and instead pursued a career as a lawyer, working at Sullivan & Associates. She is currently on indefinite assignment with the firm’s biggest client, the Deschanels.

Daniel & Mary Weatherly (d.)

Cassidy m. Cameron Sullivan (issue: Ainsley, Willow)

Lauren

LAVIOLETTE FAMILY

The LaViolettes are a wealthy, mysterious, matriarchically-led family with business in most of the industries that keep New Orleans afloat. They are cousins of the Deschanels, stemming back to their origins in France, but no kinship exists between the branches. The current head of the family is Harlowe LaViolette, a formidable woman known for her disinclination to abide enemies. The LaViolettes have representation in politics, law enforcement, and the justice system, and for these reasons are believed to be untouchable. All men who marry into the LaViolette family take the surname of their wives.

Harlow & Percy LaViolette

Adrien

Armand

Anessa

HENRY FAMILY

Archibald Henry is the founder of the Henry Investment Group, a firm representing high-profile clients in New Orleans. Their investments have come under scrutiny due to the extensive nature of tax shelters and pass-through businesses used to assist their clients in moving their money around. Archibald’s only son, Lawrence, does not have the same nose or passion for the business, and his involvement is limited to his work with The Henry Fund, a non-profit charity for families displaced by natural disasters.

Archibald & Henrietta Henry

Lawrence

Gabrielle

DESCHANEL MAGI COLLECTIVE COUNCIL

The Deschanel Magi Collective Council is the governing body over the Deschanel Magi Collective. There are nine council members, to preserve a voting majority. The Council discusses matters before taking them to the broader Collective.

Sacred vows: In power, obligation. In obligation, commitment. In commitment, solidarity. In solidarity, enlightenment. And the Council also lives under governance, through enlightenment.

Council Members

Colleen Deschanel (Magistrate)

Luther Fontenot

Jasper Broussard

Evangeline Deschanel-Gehring

Pansy Guidry

Nicolas Deschanel

Imogen Broussard

Chelsea Sullivan-Landry

Connor Sullivan

SULLIVAN & ASSOCIATES

Sullivan & Associates is a family-owned law firm, and one of the oldest and most trusted in New Orleans, founded in 1839 by Aidan Sullivan. Comprised mostly of Sullivans, the firm is considered something of a birthright for any Sullivan looking to go into law. The handful of non-Sullivans working there have had to work hard to prove themselves. Lauren Weatherly is one such attorney.

Notable Sullivan & Associates Attorneys

Lauren Weatherly

Cameron Sullivan

Oz Sullivan

Quillan Sullivan

Rory Sullivan

Colin Sullivan, Jr.

HOMES & PROPERTIES

The Gardens

The colossal mansion of Colleen Deschanel at Jackson Ave., taking up an entire square block between Coliseum and Prytania in the Garden District. The Gardens also houses the cavernous chambers where the Deschanel Magi Collective and the Collective Council meet to discuss family business. The architectural style of the estate is Italianate, and the most notable feature is the extensive, exotic garden wrapping around the property, shielding the home from outside view.

Ophelie

A large plantation and surrounding lands purchased by Charles Deschanel I, built in 1844, and currently occupied by Nicolas Deschanel, who inherited it as the heir to the estate. Located near Vacherie, an hour west of New Orleans, the Greek Revival ivory mansion on the Mississippi River is secluded from the road by gates and foliage. The estate has forty-five rooms and large ornate gardens, as well as two hundred outbuildings from when the property was a working plantation.

Nicolas’ French Quarter Flat

A flat atop a jazz club, on Frenchmen near Dauphine, where Nicolas sleeps when he’s been out partying, to avoid the long drive back to Ophélie. The flat has two bedrooms, a spacious living area, and opens up on the backside into a shared courtyard.

Lauren’s Apartment

Lauren’s traditional French Quarter apartment, located on Ursulines near Iberville. The apartment is two stories, and has a private courtyard.

The Weatherly Estate

The vast, columned Uptown home of Daniel Weatherly, gifted to his father for his patronage of Tulane. The estate is located behind the sister universities of Tulane and Loyola, near the Ursuline’s Academy.

Magnolia Grace

A beautiful, traditional Greek Revival mansion in the Garden District that once belonged to Fitz Deschanel (the second son of Charles I), and has ever since been passed down through the second sons. August Deschanel was the last second son to inherit the property, and he gave it to his daughter, Anasofiya, upon her marriage to Finnegan St. Andrews. The property is located on Prytania, near Eighth.

Femme Forte

A sprawling Northshore mansion along Lake Pontchartrain, considered the birthright of Blanche and her descendants. The property is currently in possession of Luther Fontenot, who is the eldest son of Blanche’s favorite child, Eugenia.

Map of locations in Garden District

View full size at www.sarahmcradit.com

Family Trees

Deschanel Family TreeFontenot Family TreeLaviolette Family TreeSullivan Family TreeWeatherly Family TreeHenry Family Tree

Book One: A Tempest of Discovery

No, Miss Manette; all through it, I have known myself to be quite undeserving. And yet I have had the weakness, and have still the weakness, to wish you to know with what a sudden mastery you kindled me, heap of ashes that I am, into fire—a fire, however, inseparable in its nature from myself, quickening nothing, lighting nothing, doing no service, idly burning away.- Charles Dickens, A Tale of Two Cities

The human heart has hidden treasures, In secret kept, in silence sealed; The thoughts, the hopes, the dreams, the pleasures, Whose charms were broken if revealed.- Charlotte Bronte, Evening Solace

You should look like an innocent flower, but be like the snake that hides underneath the flower.- William Shakespeare, Macbeth

NEW ORLEANS, LOUISIANA

PRESENT DAY (2007)

Nicolas

Nicolas Deschanel sat alone in the sprawling mahogany chambers of the Deschanel Magi Collective, surrounded by the distant comfort of old heritage and lemon furniture polish. His hands folded over one another in quiet, but intense, contemplation. His mind was free of torment, for once, but it was not free of thought.

The heir to the Deschanel dynasty caught a distorted glimpse of his reflection in the polished silver of one of twelve candelabras lining the chamber table that went on farther than his gaze could carry in the dim, window-less room. He was not the same man he was when he first stepped foot in this hall of antiquity, the great meeting place of the Deschanel Magi Collective, or, more simply, where the family witches and wizards came to discuss the business of witches and wizards. Hell, he wasn’t the same man he was yesterday, and he hoped tomorrow would bring about more revelations and changes.

The way the silver elongated his face and stretched his features into macabre manifestations reminded him of watching that old movie, The Picture of Dorian Gray, the one with Hurd Hatfield and Donna Reed. Of how the portrait reflected the spiraling of Dorian’s soul as his depravities swelled deeper and darker.

Except for Nicolas, it was the other way around. His depravities were behind him—though not so very far, not yet—and, hopefully, his best years ahead. He imagined his own portrait, the one that hung sentry over the double parlor at his plantation estate, Ophélie, unfurling the gnarled wrinkles lining his life sins like stalwart rings on a tree trunk, and dissolving the wickedness in his mischievous eyes. Both bringing him to the point of this new rebirth, born of experiences no one but him could ever understand.

Many suspected this new Nicolas was a transient sidetrack on the way to yet another depraved adventure. He was determined to prove them wrong, and in doing so, reinforcing for himself that he was no longer that man, afraid of commitment… afraid of family.

Like Dorian, his mind had a knack for playing tricks on him, conjuring reminders and advisements using those he most loved, and most wronged. Oz, his former best friend and voice of his pragmatic conscience, reminded him only time and continued effort would show his family and friends he was a changed man. Anasofiya, his once beloved, his cousin he had desired in a manner that nearly killed them both, chided him for watching movies when the books were always better.

They were both gone from his life now—building their own lives, without him—and a part of his darker past. He loved them both enough to let them stay there.

Nicolas returned his thoughts to the matter at hand.

Aunt Colleen, magistrate of the venerable Deschanel Magi Collective Council, and perhaps the only one who believed Nicolas could and had changed, had tasked him with something that went beyond his call of duty as a Council member. It went beyond any usual family business. Whatever motivation lay behind her asking, when she spoke of the special assignment, she was no longer the polished, cool woman who’d led this family through its most turbulent years. The fear behind her steady eyes broke through. She seemed old and startlingly penetrable.

Following those turbulent years, Colleen shifted the business of the Collective toward growing their base of knowledge. The vaults in The Gardens boasted perhaps the greatest collection of paranormal files in the country, if not the world. Genealogy charts as old as Methuselah, diaries, files, logs, pictures. The collection was seemingly endless, and Colleen had a vision that spanned even further. Nicolas and Lauren Weatherly launched Project Apocrypha together, a coalition to send willing Deschanels out into the world to investigate the files that were incomplete, and build both their database and their catalog of magical allies across the globe. It was the furthest the Collective had ever strayed from their usual business of nurturing their insular family unit. Project Apocrypha opened up a world beyond the Deschanels, and the potential was undefined yet.

However, the research she wanted done on the LaViolette family was different. Colleen’s nervous mannerisms when speaking about them was enough of a tell, but her request that Nicolas and Lauren handle it privately and outside the purview of the rest of the Council, left him wondering just what the hell these people had done to Colleen.

From outside, Nicolas heard the faint beeps of the garbage truck on Jackson Avenue. In the cavernous room closed off from the world—no phones, no watches, not beyond the double doors; it was better and easier to surrender to the loss of bearings—this was his only indication of time. Sometime around six in the morning, he deduced. Lauren would be there in roughly an hour.

Lauren. Her name sent a silent, thrilling chill through each of his limbs.

Nicolas and Lauren Weatherly had one more mission to begin, and then they could shift their focus to the elusive LaViolettes. Nicolas had no financial motivations to work, nor his late father’s mind for business, and until this point in his life had actively avoided doing so, but he would give his all to helping his aunt collect whatever she needed on that family. For her, he’d volunteered himself when the seventh and final spot on the Deschanel Magi Collective Council opened, knowing it would be for the best if the heir had a more active role in the family business, but also that it would give her needed peace of mind. Colleen was the closest thing Nicolas had to a parent. Both his were dead, and four of his five sisters with them. An orphan in the truest sense. More money than he’d ever know what to do with, and no one to share it with.

For a family as prolific as the LaViolettes, Nicolas was surprised how little he actually knew about them. Powerful families stuck together in New Orleans. He went to private school with a few LaViolettes, just as he had with Weatherlys and the rest of the New Orleans elite. Each of these families had a niche for their wealth. The Deschanels were real estate and investment tycoons. The Weatherlys were the heads of a prestigious department store dynasty. But the LaViolettes were… everywhere. They had no single business they excelled at, but had their hands in many. They dabbled in real estate, but also commodities, transportation, construction, food service. Their stamp of success could be felt in half the buildings in the city. They sat in City Council roles, school boards, law enforcement, and one was even a state senator. If you can’t be great at one thing, be good at many, Nicolas’ father once said, and that seemed to be the LaViolette creed.

The LaViolettes shared a bloodline with The Deschanels, though the two families seemed to possess the knowledge exclusively, as no connection had been attempted from either side. Colleen and her Council had only recently discovered the relation, but she was positive the LaViolettes had known for over a century.

Why wouldn’t they try to get to know us? Nicolas had asked his aunt.

That is precisely what we need to find out.

The LaViolettes, like the Deschanels, were powerful witches. Though Colleen and the Council hadn’t known of the familial connection until recently, the LaViolettes had been on their radar for many years for other reasons, at the center of myriad unexplained incidents across the city. The leader of the family, Harlowe LaViolette, was a force of nature, always in the news for some business venture or another. Colleen had never approached them before because she suspected they had a reason for not reaching out and bridging the family connection, and until they understood that reason, they were at an impasse.

So, why now? asked Nicolas.

A witch can easily detect another witch. I couldn’t risk the danger to our family. Until now, we never had an outsider in our fold beyond those who married in.

Lauren, of course, was the outsider. Remarkable in many other ways, but not this one. I won’t risk Lauren’s safety, either.

Colleen offered her most patient smile. Nor would I, Nicolas. She will be well-protected when you two are ready for her to make contact. We will afford her the protection and respect we afford anyone of our own blood. But she can undoubtedly get closer than we can and may make progress before they are the wiser about who she’s working with.

Nicolas trusted his aunt Colleen more than almost anyone else in the world, but after thirty-two years in a family of witches, he knew full well there was no such thing as well-protected. Supernatural warfare was nothing short of mayhem. You didn’t bring a gun to a magic fight.

And Nicolas’ own instincts sliced a chill straight to the bone when he thought of the LaViolettes. A mystic had their own warning bells. His sounded off the charts.

Nicolas and Lauren still had time. They still had to get their next researchers off to Paris for the last mission. They could be days away from shifting their focus to the LaViolettes. Weeks.

The mansion trembled lightly with the weight of a heavy door closing somewhere on the other side of the home. Had an hour really passed since he last noted the time? Had he been that lost in his own head?

The oaken double doors of the Collective chambers yawned open. Lauren stepped through and shifted her weight to heave them closed. Nicolas stood to help, but she had it done before he could.

Hey, Lauren. I love you. I don’t know how to show you. I’m not worthy of you. It’s painful to be near you so often, knowing the man I used to be is why you could never love the man I am now. I live in an endless loop of this conundrum, over and over and over.

Hey, Nic. She grinned, a gesture he never knew how to read when she aimed it at him. He feared reading too much into it, when he knew better. You’re here early.

I’m always early now. I slept better when I was an asshole. Just getting a jump on things. Colleen has a duo in mind for Paris. She’s meeting with them today or tomorrow, so we need to finalize our notes.

Lauren slid a coffee across the table. It landed in his cupped hands. Super. Let’s get caffeinated and get this show on the road.

Charlotte

Charlotte Fontenot spent her day taking care of unfinished business.

First, she submitted her letter of resignation from her legal internship at the Louisiana ACLU. It was a recent assignment, and they offered to hold a spot, as they had for her last trip away from home, though she told them she didn’t want special favors.

Second, she visited the dean of Loyola to let him know her law program studies would be on hold indefinitely. A Fontenot always has a place at Loyola, he said, same as he’d said the time before, and she smiled as she wondered if this time she’d decide not to return after all.

When this was done, Charlotte stopped by Lafayette Cemetery No. 1 and laid a wreath of lilies at the Fontenot tomb, where her younger—only—sister Annette was recently interred. Our Darling Annette, the inscription read, just above, aged nineteen years.

Last of all, she stopped into the firing range, off Joliet in Mid-City. The guy at the counter was new and asked her—as she approached the desk in her yellow sundress, pulling the bubblegum pink Ruger .38 Special from her clutch—if she needed instruction. She only smiled and handed him her credit card. My information is on file.

Charlotte spent the next hour of her life firing round after round, hitting bull’s-eye after bull’s-eye, channeling her sadness and angst into a cloud of gun smoke.

Gone, gone, gone.

Since the time Charlotte was a small child, she’d always feared the formidable Colleen Deschanel. She couldn’t explain this feeling, as Colleen had been nothing but kind and accommodating. Then, as she grew older and more aware of herself, Charlotte realized her fear was not of Colleen, but of herself, and the worry she could never live up to the enduring legacy of a woman like her father’s cousin.

Legacy was everything in a family like theirs. Charlotte envisioned herself one day being the head of the Fontenot branch, as Colleen was for the Deschanels. She had older cousins who had more hereditary right to the claim, but Charlotte was the only one who took her position in the family with any degree of solemnity. Much like Colleen, who was the third born and by all means should not be the one to step up and lead, Charlotte was the third oldest of the Fontenot cousins. That similarity had to count for something.

As she stood on the wide porch of The Gardens, preparing to meet with Colleen, Charlotte was acutely aware that every moment, every word, had a purpose. She must choose her words and moments wisely. Everything was a test.

A woman named Aria escorted Charlotte through the marbled foyer, winding back into an endless hallway. From the outside, The Gardens resembled a gentrified fortress, with heavy wrought iron gates spanning the massive circumference, dense flora obscuring all but fleeting views. Inside, the mansion pulsed with secrets and subterfuge; sturdy mahogany and curling parchment.

Colleen Deschanel held court in her velvet wingback chair. Her reading glasses perched perfectly on the bridge of her hawkish nose as she reviewed the contents of a file.

Miss Fontenot to see you, Aria said. She backed away, following a nod from Colleen.

Colleen rose. She held out both arms and took Charlotte’s shoulders in her slender fingers as she regarded her. After two quick pecks, one on each cheek, she smiled. Charlotte. You look radiant in yellow. It’s so nice to see you, as always.

Thank you. Charlotte swallowed back the words programmed to follow. Would her cousin prefer to be called ma’am? Mrs. Deschanel? Colleen? Last time when she sat before Colleen to receive her first assignment with the Collective, she stumbled in the same place.

How are Llewellyn and Sophie? More relaxed now that you’ve returned from Ukraine?

Mom and Dad are well, Charlotte answered. She took a seat across from where Colleen had settled back into her own. And yes, happier now that I’m back. They weren’t like this when Annette was still here, but everything is different now.

You were never in any real danger in Pripyat, though I’m sympathetic to their fear of losing another child, having lost my Ben years ago.

Charlotte pulled her cardigan tight, shifting in the plush seat. I’m sympathetic as well, but it’s not up to my parents where I go, or what I do. Not anymore. I’m twenty-four. She said the last with an unintentional edge. It was an argument she’d made to her parents directly, many times. She was acutely aware such a protestation actually drew a finer point on her age, rather than detracting from it.

Colleen raised both brows. Indeed. She closed the folder and pushed it across the desk to Charlotte. This new assignment should put their minds at ease. I’ll admit, it’s not as glamorous as the ruins of the Chernobyl village, but given this is your mother’s home, and you’ve been many times yourself over the years…

Charlotte’s eyes widened as she read. Paris.

You’re very familiar with the city, and while that isn’t a requirement of our missions, any advantage is always welcome.

And Ashley is on board?

No, Colleen said. She shifted her eyes to a picture on her desk. Colleen, her husband, Noah, and their two surviving children, Amelia and Ashley. As you know, Amelia had her daughter recently. Ashley wants to stay put for a while and spend time with them both. His niece will only be a baby for so long.

I understand.

You’ll be traveling with Julian.

Charlotte balked. "If you think my parents have a fit over me traveling overseas, Uncle Lowell and Aunt Julia are in a whole other dimension."

It isn’t up to them, Colleen replied, using Charlotte’s earlier words. He’s twenty-one, now, I believe.

He is, but—

You two get along fine, I assume?

Of course, but… Charlotte trailed off. But what? Was she hoping Ashley might change his mind, so she could keep her close connection to All Things Colleen? He had a good reason for staying home, and she loved Julian, but…

Julian was too young. Too innocent. Too sweet. The world hadn’t yet ripped the magic carpet out from under his idealistic feet. Charlotte and Ashley had both been wrung through the hands of fate and came out people who understood one another because of it.

Julian was the sweet boy hanging out ten paces behind when they were children, in case something went wrong.

Would you like to hear the assignment?

Charlotte nodded. She shelved her concerns. If nothing else, this time she’d get to take lead on an assignment, and that alone was worth the price of entry.

Colleen gestured to the folder in Charlotte’s hands. Two siblings have hit our radar. Gabrielle and Lawrence Henry. They’re actually from New Orleans, and I believe I’ve met their father, Archibald, at some point, though he left no memorable impression on me. The siblings are in Paris on some extended business, the nature of which is not entirely known to us, but we’re working on that. We haven’t yet caught wind of much activity on Lawrence, but Gabrielle has caused a stir. She is known in her circles as the ‘Many Faced Heiress,’ as people have sworn she changes appearances.

Charlotte studied the picture. Gabrielle resembled Charlotte, with long golden hair and delicate features, but the likeness stopped there. Behind Gabrielle’s eyes was an iciness that belied something darker and colder hidden beyond. She’s an illusionist?

That’s the prevailing theory. We have at least five private testimonies, from different people in different locations around Paris, claiming this has happened.

Testimonies? Were they interviewed by police?

Three were. All were dismissed on the assumption their claims were drug-induced. The other two came from connections we have in Paris, who tailed siblings when the stories surfaced.

If there are people in Paris already tailing them, why send Julian and me?

Connections give us valuable intelligence from time to time, Colleen patiently explained, but they have their own mode of operation. Who knows if they simply wish to scribble their notes into a binder or make lasting connections? Our goal is to broaden the allies of the Deschanels, but also to prevent the development of future enemies. As of now, we don’t know which of the two Gabrielle and Lawrence have the most potential for.

Charlotte slowly nodded as she absorbed the information. You want us to make contact and determine this. Friend or foe.

"I want you to first assess whether the contact is safe. As with before, Lauren and Nicolas will lead efforts back home and will help determine your next course of action as you send information back. You aren’t to make any meaningful moves without their blessing. Colleen pushed her chair back and stood. Julian has already signed on. I only need your commitment now."

Charlotte went to close the folder, but Lawrence Henry’s vibrant, passionate eyes caught hers. The photo was black and white, but she had the strong sense that his eyes were blue. Crystal, sea blue, like the Gulf of Mexico in the summer. His features were not as soft as his sister’s, but what lay behind his unfocused gaze pulled her in as if being lifted from her feet and transported into the picture to his side. She had an inexplicable urge to be wherever he was, though she didn’t know him and their paths had never crossed before.

Her stomach clenched at this sudden, visceral reaction to a photograph. Perhaps Lawrence was an illusionist as well, with a specialty in persuasion. It was a far subtler illusion than Gabrielle’s changing of appearances, which might explain why no one had yet reported stories of Lawrence’s paranormal feats.

Charlotte?

She snapped the file closed and glanced up in a daze. I’m in.

Lauren

Lauren Weatherly had been a student, of one subject or another, her entire life. She moved smoothly from High School Valedictorian to Magna Cum Laude at Loyola undergrad and then law school, and after passing the bar, she wondered with a pang of anxiety precisely how she was going to survive in the world when she was no longer the consummate student.

She was pleasantly surprised when the life of an attorney proved a series of new and interesting lessons, from learning how to study people to how to maneuver what was ultimately a very political world. Most of the lawyers practicing at Sullivan & Associates—the vast majority of them Sullivans, called to what they believed was their birthright—treated the profession with an embarrassing level of prestige, their success defined by the names on their client roster. Lauren viewed her career with her eyes perpetually open, as an opportunity and privilege to study the world around her from a unique vantage point.

Her career took an unusual shift when Colleen Deschanel requested her permanent presence as an outside legal resource for her Deschanel Magi Collective. Sullivan & Associates had represented the Deschanels for over a hundred years, with a handful of their attorneys more involved than others, but this was only the second time in that history they had requested something like this. Colleen had a vision, and Lauren had a role in that vision, even if the specifics were still unclear. I need an outsider. Someone who does not share… our gifts. Someone pragmatic, not tainted by all our family has seen and experienced.

In other words, Lauren had been hired to work for a family of witches because she possessed not a drop of magic herself.

First, she’d led a small team of researchers in sorting through the massive Collective vaults, turning journals, scrolls, pictures, and scribbles into a digital, searchable database. From there, they identified opportunities for field research that would grow their knowledge—and their list of allies—even more. Lauren didn’t fully understand what Colleen and her Council planned to do with that knowledge or allies. Bragging rights on having the biggest paranormal library? Collect allies for some magical war?

Both seemed ridiculous, but no more so than reading through files on vampire sightings written in earnest. Everything was relative when working with the elusive Deschanels. The ability to suspend disbelief without pause was a prerequisite.

Nicolas Deschanel, the heir to the whole enterprise, was Lauren’s partner in these endeavors. He had no need to work, and until this point in his life had decided that was quite all right. She hadn’t been given a choice in the selection, or she would have asked for someone who took life more seriously. What was more, he seemed to be in the middle of an existential crisis, and had assigned Lauren an auspicious role in the whole thing. Along the lines of, you make me want to be a better man.

Lauren had no interest in being a plot device in the narrative of a man who’d spent three decades having the world handed to him. She secretly believed he’d find this social experiment of his boring, and return to his life as a smoothly operating libertine. But she was pleased with the work they’d accomplished together, and he respected her boundaries of work and friendship. For the time being.

With their last research team preparing to launch into the field, their work shifted to something very personal to Colleen Deschanel.

Lauren opened the LaViolette file. If time was kind, she could have half her reading finished before Nicolas showed up.

All the travel is finalized for Charlotte and Julian. Paris is about to gain two researchers, and she doesn’t even know it. Nicolas conveyed the words without greeting or pleasantries. He tossed his jacket on a nearby table and dropped his hands on Lauren’s corner desk. They leave tomorrow. Or maybe it’s the next day. He wrinkled his nose. Hell, details aren’t my thing, but they’re leaving, and that’s what matters.

Lauren tried to smile. She could tell by his tone he was being playful, but her mind was elsewhere, and his words slipped into the silence of the room as he detected her mood wasn’t a match for his.

Something wrong? He leaned over her shoulder. Ahh. The file’s a monster. I tried to read it, too, and you don’t have to be a psychic to guess how well that went.

Lauren closed the file. She sighed. My focus isn’t the problem.

You don’t look well. Nicolas shook his head. "I didn’t mean you look bad, exactly, just that the look on your face is one people get when they’ve eaten something unpleasant."

It’s fine. Don’t hurt yourself. She took a swallow of the warm water sitting, until now, untouched. The LaViolettes are, if nothing else, crooked as the Mississippi. There’s no doubt in my mind they’re cleaning an obscene amount of money, and they’re using our city to do it. You know that, right?

Nicolas shrugged. New Orleans wrote the book on vice and corruption.

Lauren slid the file across the desk. "Daniel Weatherly, my father, is listed as a significant business associate of the LaViolette family."

You’ve wanted nothing to do with the family business.

Lauren glared at him from over her shoulder. I may not have wanted to work for Weatherly Department Stores, but it doesn’t mean I want to see it get dissolved and seized by the government, and my father thrown in prison.

Nicolas grabbed the file and moved it to another table. We’re not working for the FBI investigating white-collar crimes, Lauren. Colleen asked us to look into what connects the family to ours.

You don’t think we have a moral and ethical responsibility to say something?

No.

Are you serious?

He shrugged. "Even if we tried, you don’t think they’re smart enough to cover their tracks? The LaViolettes have been doing their thing since the days the Storyville district still had the best whores in town. The FBI knows, and they either can’t get them, or they’re in their pockets, too."

She twisted her mouth. Vulgar.

Conspiracy or whores?

They’re dirty, and you’re not concerned at all.

Everyone’s dirty with the lights on.

No, Nicolas, not everyone.

Look, he said, I’m not suggesting you’re wrong. Just that it’s been going on for a century, and their lack of business scruples is not our assignment. If you want to be worried, be worried about the fact they’ll probably kill us once they figure out we’re tailing them.

Lauren pushed herself away from the table. Discussing this matter left a pit in her stomach, made worse by Nicolas’ complete lack of scruples. I have to go see Cassidy.

It’s a little premature to be warning your sister of her impending prison sentence, don’t you think?

Eye-rolling was the lowest form of response, but Lauren fought against it in almost every single conversation with Nicolas. We have a standing lunch date.

Tell me if I’m off base—

You’re always off base.

But isn’t it a little weird to have a standing lunch date with a sister you have nothing in common with and can’t stand to be in the same room with?

Family is family, Lauren explained to the man who should already know this, as the heir of his own. Isn’t there anyone in your family you’re not close to but still make an effort with?

Nicolas folded his fingers over his chin. He looked up, pretending to seem thoughtful. Let me see… nope.

I don’t believe you.

He laughed. Have we met?

What happened to turning over a new leaf? she accused.

I said I wanted to be a good man, Nicolas defended. Not a liar. I feel a sense of duty to my family, sure. To protect them, provide for them if needed. Not bring great shame to them… anymore. What kind of person pretends to like someone?

Lauren gave him a pointed look.

Fine. I’m having dinner with my sister, Anne, tonight. I can’t say I like her all that much, but she’s the only sister I have left, so seems like maintaining that relationship is better than ditching it.

She didn’t know the rules of engagement when it came to talking about Nicolas’ family. He might belong to of one of the largest and oldest clans of New Orleans, but his immediate family was nowadays nonexistent. Nicolas had lost his parents and four of his sisters, and his fifth, a half-sister, Anne, had only surfaced in his life in recent years. Their relationship was still undefined, two very different people attempting to force a kinship where there was no basis for one other than blood. So, you do understand.

She’s pregnant, he explained, a little too nonchalant.

Lauren noted this happened when the conversation turned too personal and risked revealing his vulnerabilities.

I’m going to be an uncle.

Congratulations! A first time uncle? Lauren chastised herself for not knowing this, but then reminded herself she had no reason to know the personal details of his life.

Third. Adrienne had two children before she died.

Oh, right. With Oz Sullivan. You two have been friends forever. I’ll bet there’s no one else he’d rather have as uncle to his kids.

I don’t know about that.

I’m sure they love seeing you.

The children, Nicolas said flatly. Not Oz.

Lauren wanted to disappear into her shoes. Nicolas already told her about the indefinite break he and Oz were on after over thirty years of friendship, which had been one of the many casualties of the old Nicolas. I’m sorry. My head isn’t really in it today.

It’s nothing, Nicolas said, but had turned his head so his expression was a mystery. So, I need to try to be a brother to a sister I hardly know, and then try to be an uncle to the kid I might have to one day make my heir.

What do you mean?

Nicolas reached for her glass of water and took a drink. I don’t have an heir, and the estate says I can’t keep delaying appointing one. They left me alone in my twenties, but now they’re acting like I’m knocking on the door of an AARP membership. I don’t want kids, so that means I have to find someone else’s. I tried pawning it off on my cousin Anasofiya’s son, but he turned it down.

But why not one of Adrienne’s two children? Lauren asked.

That would make the most sense, he said. The glass slipped from his hands. He wiped them on his jeans, and Lauren noticed the sweat on his brow, too. But Adrienne made it clear she didn’t want her children in that position. She wanted them to lead normal lives.

Lauren studied Nicolas. The beads of moisture all over his face, his fidgeting hands. He was nervous about this dinner, and was not a man known for questioning anything. Nicolas Deschanel pressed forward in life without concern for consequence. Everything will be fine. Anne will be so pleased to see you, and to know you want to be a part of her child’s life.

Nicolas finished off her water. You’ll be late for your lunch with your sister.

Lauren tied her sweater around her waist and pulled her keys from her purse. She was both ashamed for not being a better friend and relieved to be free of him. If he wasn’t being an asshole, he was tugging at her heartstrings. She couldn’t keep up. You. Me. LaViolettes. First thing tomorrow morning?

It’s a date, he said, but his words lacked his usual zest.

Cassidy Sullivan and her husband, Cameron, lived well beyond their means.

It wasn’t that they didn’t have money. Cameron was an attorney at Sullivan & Associates and drew a fair salary. Cassidy was worth far more, as both the Chief Operating Officer of Weatherly Department Stores and their public face. Her beaming, expensive smile and bottle blond curls greeted commuters from towering billboards, whether they were cruising through Metairie, or exiting I-10 into the Garden District. Cassidy was a local celebrity, known for her grinning, plastic face that cost more than Lauren’s annual rent.

The word enough had no meaning to Cassidy. Nothing was ever good enough. She was never happy enough. When she suspected she might be nearing this unfortunate territory, the bar rose higher, and her standard of living rose with it. This lack of satisfaction with anything was at the foundation of both their piles of loans and her inability to stay faithful to her husband.

Lauren twisted the gold-plated handle on the wrought iron gate leading up to Cassidy’s Italianate mansion in the Uptown neighborhood of the Garden District. Even more gold twined through the Ionic columns flanking the porch. The front door was a glittering gold keyhole.

Cassidy intended these affectations as a message to her neighbors declaring herself, in a world of bountiful and plenty, the most bountiful and plenty of them all. Lauren saw them as a blinking light, directing thieves.

Cameron answered the door. Cassidy’s shrill orders echoed beyond. The long-suffering frown painting his face turned to a smile when he saw Lauren. Elle. He pulled her into a quick embrace. Come on in. Cass is in the dining room already.

Willow, that shirt is terrible for your complexion! You have warm skin tones, and the pink washes you out! I’ve told you this a hundred times, and you never listen. You are not leaving the house like this, Cassidy shrieked from the other end of the house.

That’s the standard T-ball uniform, dear. She has to wear it. We’ve been over this. Cameron sighed and forced a smile through his clenched teeth. He radiated tension from head to toe, and Lauren thought he might throw a punch if someone snuck up on him. For the love of God, she’s only five, he muttered under his breath.

Lauren put a hand on his arm. How about I distract her, and you help the girls get ready for T-ball?

God be with you, Cameron teased, and jogged up the stairs.

Cassidy’s bare legs were propped upon the polished mahogany dining table. A young woman hunched over Cassidy’s toes, dutifully painting crimson swashes across her nails.

The pinky has tiny bubbles. This isn’t champagne, or I’d be drinking it already, she chastised. In one move she rolled her eyes at Lauren as if they were conspirators in the admonishment. You’d think pedicures were rocket surgery.

Science, Lauren corrected. Is this a bad time?

Why would it be?

Lauren held back her response and slid a chair out from the other side of the table. We can go out to lunch another time.

Obviously. Cassidy wiggled her toes, causing the young woman to lose her focus. A bright red blotch appeared on the flesh below her big toenail. She kicked her foot at the aesthetician. I pay for a flawless pedicure, not your art classes. Do better.

Lauren’s hands clenched into fists. Nicolas’ words from earlier burned at her, because he wasn’t wrong, and she was a fool for thinking time with her spoiled older sister would ever be anything more than an exercise in frustration. I can come back another time.

Cassidy swatted at the woman to back off. Why do you keep saying that? Jesus, Lauren. It’s like you don’t want to be here or something.

You seem busy, is all.

Her sister inspected her finished nails. She excused the young woman without so much as a thank you, then turned to Lauren. "I’m always busy. One of us has to help Daddy run the family business. That same one of us also has to raise two children."

Lauren thought of poor Willow, who she could hear upstairs, crying. Her sister, Ainsley, probably hadn’t fared any better. Are you not going to their game?

Cassidy balked. T-ball? She reached for an uncorked wine bottle and poured a dark red liquid into her glass. It isn’t like they’re going to win any damn awards. What would I even wear to something like that?

Most people just wear jeans and a shirt, Lauren said, then immediately regretted it with the look her sister leveled.

Most people. Cassidy wiggled her toes in the air, drying them in a bizarre scissor motion. "You should go with Cameron. I’m sure he would love that."

Lauren ignored her. She wasn’t going there with Cassidy. Not today. Not ever.

So, Daddy is finally proud of you. Didn’t see that coming. I suppose in his mind he’s daydreaming that your work with the prestigious Deschanels will make you see the light about working for him. Daddy never was very smart. Cassidy dropped her feet to the plush carpet. She kept her toes pointed at the sky. What are you going to wear to your party?

I haven’t thought about it.

"What? It’s your party. You can’t just walk in wearing anything you currently own, I imagine. Cassidy’s nose scrunched. I’ll find you something."

That’s really not necessary.

Not from my closet, of course. You wouldn’t fit into anything of mine.

Lauren didn’t point out she was a size smaller than Cassidy and always had been. I’ll find something.

Daddy will expect you to be the belle of the ball. I know you’re not used to that, but this is about you, Lauren. For once. Cassidy tilted her head and regarded her. You’re not ugly, you know.

I’m aware of that, Lauren replied. Her own toes curled in anger and regret. Over the years, Lauren had slowly learned to keep from her life those who caused her more harm than joy. She hadn’t yet figured out how to do this with Cassidy.

More importantly, Cassidy droned on. Who are you bringing as a date?

Tiny feet pattered through the foyer. Cameron appeared in the doorway. Date? Oh, the party. Do you need one, Elle?

"Lauren probably has a date. She doesn’t need our help. Isn’t that right, sister?"

Lauren eyed the bottle of wine with tremendous self-control. I hadn’t really—

What about Nicolas? Cameron asked. He waved to his daughters and told them one more moment.

Nicolas who? Cassidy demanded.

Lauren tried to send Cameron a silencing look, but he was lost in the thought. Deschanel. You two seem to get along all right, and imagine the look on Dan’s face when you show up with the heir to New Orleans. Might even keep him off your back for… oh… at least a year.

How do you know Nicolas Deschanel? Cassidy asked. Her interest in the conversation peaked to a new level.

As you said, I’m working for the Deschanels, Lauren replied, a touch defensive. That work is mostly with Nicolas, but sometimes with others.

Nicolas Deschanel hasn’t worked a day in his life.

He does now.

Cassidy exchanged a look with her husband that evinced her disbelief. Cameron, darling, don’t encourage her to get her heart broken. She’s not his type.

And he isn’t mine, Lauren declared. She stood so quickly the chair teetered, and she caught it just before it fell. She glared at Cameron, unable to discern his motivation in the suggestion. She doubted it was entirely altruistic.

Not his type? That’s not what I’ve seen, Cameron said. After a quick scan of both his wife and sister-in-law, he finally seemed to realize the impact of his helpfulness. All right, then. They have the team field trip to NBC Ballpark after the game, so we’ll be home by eight.

Ugh, Cassidy whined. "I’ll be so glad when this T-ball nonsense is over and we can eat at normal times again."

Cameron lobbed one more jab before jogging out the door with the kids. Damn these healthy, character-building activities we put our children through in order to give them enriching, happy lives.

Cassidy threw a middle finger at the empty doorframe. I only gave birth to them, asshole.

Lauren pressed her palm to her cheek. Her skin was on fire. She needed to leave, and the feeling was stronger than ever, stronger than usual. I have to go, she announced.

"Where could you possibly need to go? You just got here, Cassidy said. We still have to plan your outfit, because The Father, The Son, and the Holy Spirit all know it will be a disaster if we leave it up to you."

It’s work, Lauren said. I have to get back to The Gardens.

Work? Why did you come at all if you had to work? You make no sense. Who would make you work when you’re having lunch with your sister?

Lauren pressed her hand to the pocket in her blazer, where her phone rested. Nicolas, she said. He needs me.

The furious envy in her sister’s eyes was gratifying. But as Lauren fled the mansion of gold and splendor, she also loathed herself for employing the same cheap tactics her sister had spent her life using on others.

Julian

I told you, Mama. Someone has to look after Charlotte.

Julian Fontenot re-packed, with great patience, everything his mother continued to pull from his suitcase. He engaged in a light tug-of-war with her over a red sweater, until he gave one last rough, decisive tug and buried it in the pile of packed clothes. The look he gave her was his best attempt to express his adulthood, but all he felt across his flushed face was the usual contrition.

"Well, why is Charlotte going, then, if she requires such protection? Hm? What does your aunt Sophie think of this one?"

Charlotte’s an adult. She didn’t have to ask permission.

Julia Fontenot snorted. She whipped both hands to her hips as she pivoted around the room, as if searching for an ally in the face of her son’s unbelievable disobedience.

Just like she didn’t ask when she went to that awful place in the Soviet Union, Julia sputtered on. She glared at the suitcase Julian guarded with his body. Julian knew better, but he still tensed as he imagined her boring holes through it with her fuming eyes.

It hasn’t been the Soviet Union since the Iron Curtain fell apart in 1991, Mama, Julian said, tempering his frustration with softness. And anyway, she was in Ukraine.

You think you know more than me, Julia huffed. "Before you go getting all smug, Julian, you might remember I was the one who spent twenty-seven hours in labor bringing you into this world."

There were few facts about his life Julian was more acquainted with than the arduous hours of his birth, of which he, of course, had no memories of his own. He said nothing and sped through the remainder of his packing, keenly aware his mother might, at any time, undo all his work again.

Ukraine, Julia said under her breath, as if the word alone was offensive. And why can’t Colleen’s kid go this time? Huh? Why does she insist on sending my baby into the fire? Is hers too good? Then, again under her breath, Ashley and Amelia, with their lily-white hair and perfect bone structure. Hm. That woman and the devil must have a lot of tea, is all I’m sayin’.

It was Ashley’s decision not to go this time, Julian mumbled. He didn’t know why he even bothered defending anything with her. When his mother had an idea in her head, logic and reason were no tools against her histrionic world view. And it’s not Afghanistan. It’s Paris.

Julia wrapped her arms around her plump body. Her eyes rolled and then leveled upon him a satisfied, knowing look. "Oh, I see. Paris. That makes it all better. You want to go eat croissants and swoon over the Eiffel Tower, while your father, sisters, and I slave over our plebeian life in New Orleans?"

Julian tensed. His teeth clenched down so hard his jaw ached. There was nothing plebeian about life as a Fontenot. Contrary to what his mother might insinuate, escaping these reminders was a significant part of the appeal of leaving for a while.

He was incapable of saying anything that might wound her, so he said nothing. He still needed to pack his bathroom toiletries, but was afraid of leaving his suitcase unattended. Once she finally left his room, he intended to put his TSA lock on, in case she decided to sneak in while he slept. This wasn’t a fear without teeth. She’d done it once before, when he was headed to summer camp at thirteen after weeks of pleading. He never made it to camp, and Julia baked two dozen brownies to celebrate the victory.

What do you even know about packing a bag? Probably forgot the medicine kit and the bug spray. There’s little chance you packed enough underwear… Julia’s recitation of all the things her son had likely failed to do would go on forever if he didn’t do something to stop it.

That Julian, the only son in the family, was named after his mother and not his father said everything one needed to know about the dynamics in the Fontenot household.

Mom! The kitchen is full of smoke!

The shrill call of Julian’s younger sister, Noelle, was what finally pulled Julia away from the scene of his great escape. She appeared genuinely torn over whether a potential kitchen fire or adding more roadblocks to her son’s life was the more pressing matter, but when Noelle shrieked again, this time even louder, Julia backed out of the room with a look so intense that Julian couldn’t even enjoy the temporary relief of her absence.

She’d be back for more.

Julian’s claim of wanting to protect his older cousin was not untrue. The desire to leave his overbearing mother and their overbearing life in New Orleans was strong, but no sooner than Colleen mentioned the assignment did Julian have the first of his visions.

They were unclear, but oh, how they were strong.

He saw dark, dingy sewers, devoid of life and devoid of anything but sorrow. He saw water, lots of water, and was overcome with a sense of eternal dampness, a world shrouded in moisture. Sometimes, at the end of the tunnel would be a figure. Sometimes two. Neither of these individuals filled him with warmth. The message was foreboding, and it was a warning, but of what, against what, he didn’t know.

His visions were often like this. Imprecise, but potent. The optics vague, but the sensation all-consuming. Even as a child, Julian had never been a very precise seer, but he’d always known when danger was