Page 174 of Smoke, Mirrors, & Misdemeanours

“Shameless,” she agreed, leaning into his side. “Tall, dark, and brooding. You’d probably disapprove.”

He closed the small distance between them, his presence blocking the gentle wind. “On the contrary. He sounds like a demon of impeccable taste.”

“Oh? And do you know if this demon plans to follow through on his tradition?”

His arms tightened around her. “I dare say he’s been planning it all evening.” He ducked his head, his breath warm against her ear. “In fact, he’s been remarkably patient.”

A thrill shot through her. They walked some more, snow crunching softly beneath their boots. She could still feel the heat of his words against her ear, the promise coiled in his voice. Patient, he’d said. She wondered how long that patience would last.

“You know,” she said, aiming for casual, “you never told me why you don’t drink caffeine.”

“You never asked.” A pause. Then, quietly: “Would you like to know?”

Yes, she thought. Very much. But she didn’t want to give him the satisfaction of sounding eager.

“I already asked Lilibeth.” She pressed her lips together, suppressing a laugh. “She said . . . caffeine can be a strong aphrodisiac for pureblood demons. Overwhelming, even.”

He was quiet for a moment. “Lilibeth has quite the imagination.”

She laughed. “Is it true?”

He stopped and turned to face her. The lantern light caught his eyes—half gold, half shadow—and the look he gave her was slow and deliberate. Intimate.

“Would you like to find out?” he murmured.

Her pulse skipped. Delicious heat bloomed low in her belly. She wanted to push him. Wanted to see how far his restraint would stretch before it snapped.

So she tilted her chin up. “Why? Do you need a cup of coffee? It is the longest night, after all.”

A low sound rumbled in his chest as he seized her waist. He held her there, in the circle of his arms, beneath the falling snow. The kiss he finally gave her was slow, deep—a promise of what was to come. A vow whispered against her lips. A seal upon the future they would build.

In the silence that followed, Cassia couldn’t help but think how strange and beautiful it was. She’d started Yulefrost in an orphanage that needed saving. Now she was ending it wrapped in wool and starlight, the children safe, beside the one person who made even the coldest winter warm.

They walked on, hand in hand, into the longest night.

EPILOGUE

The corridor stretched long, panelled with dark wood.

Gaslamp sconces flickered against the panels, their light barely enough to hold back the dark. A young woman sprinted along, her footsteps muffled by the rug. Ancestral portraits in gilded frames watched from both sides, painted eyes tracking her frantic journey.

At the end of the hallway, she flung open a pair of double doors. Sunlight should have streamed through the arched windows, but the day had brought only mist. Murky grey light filtered through the stained glass instead. Beyond the panes, rows of pear trees stretched across the grounds—their branches heavy with glossy leaves and swollen fruit, impossibly lush for the heart of winter. The forest beyond lay black and wet with dew, the green swallowed by the gloom.

A woman stood before one of those windows, her black dress a point of focus in the grey. Her vivid red hair, streaked with only a few strands of silver, was another. She did not turn.

“Dama,” the young woman said, panting. Her fingers clutched the newspaper tighter. “You need to see this.”

Finally, Dama turned. Her bright green eyes took in the young woman from head to toe—the damp red curls, the same shade as her own, plastered to the forehead; the dishevelled clothes; the bodice rising and falling with every laboured breath. Her brow creased. Her skin was smooth as polished bone, her hands steady as stone—and she’d looked the same for as long as anyone could remember.

She’d been old long before the young woman was born.

Without a word, she crossed the room, the hem of her long black skirts skimming the floor. She took the newspaper with steady hands that betrayed nothing, her wrist dripping with black lace. Immediately, her eyes found the photograph on the front page.

A woman with bright red curls and unmistakable green eyes smiled up at her, arms full of laughing children. Red hair. Green eyes. The colours of their bloodline—the colours that had been carefully cultivated, hoarded, treasured. And here it was, staring back at her from the front page of a city newspaper, laughing.

Her breath caught.

She stared at the image for a long moment, her thumb moving back and forth across the woman’s face as though touch could make her real. Outside, the mist clawed at the glass, swallowing the pear trees and the gardens and the world beyond.

When she finally spoke, her voice was soft, full of the wonder the house hadn’t heard in fifty years.

“Carpathia.”