Gravehouse (Cursed Lovers Duet #2)

Prologue

Thud.

His head rolled under the grand piano.

Le Boucher Sans Loi watched blood spread across the marble and gather around his boots before it ran on toward the dead man’s severed hand.

The study had been arranged to announce power to anyone who got past the walnut doors.

Shelves climbed two stories. Leather chairs faced the fireplace at careful angles.

A crystal decanter waited beside two glasses, set out for the civilized conversation rich men preferred before arranging another person’s death.

One chair had overturned during the struggle. The dead man’s torso lay against it, shoulders wrenched back until it gave.

Le Boucher drew a cigar from inside his coat. His gloves left a dark smear across the wrapper. He inspected the damage, clipped the cap, and struck a match against the underside of the desk.

The flame caught, and smoke filled his mouth, bitter and warm, before he pushed it out through his nose. Beneath the tobacco sat the dense metal odor of fresh blood, opened bowels, and fear.

Death had a scent long before decay claimed it. Blood was a word that was easy to digest, but Blood was only the beginning.

No one would find this rot. He planned to leave it here until the ground took it back.

He lowered the match into one of the crystal glasses, killing the flame in the remaining whiskey.

The head beneath the piano faced the wall. Dark hair covered most of the cheek.

If he was being honest, Le Boucher didn't plan for the man to leave with his life, but he didn't expect to kill him so quickly either. Guess that was what he got for thinking Le Boucher was some hit man

His hand went to the back of his neck without permission. The muscle had knotted there, hard enough to ache. He rolled his shoulders once beneath his coat and took another pull from the cigar.

He looked toward the desk. One drawer stood open. A compact pistol lay half inside it, caught against a leather ledger. The dead man’s fingers had missed the grip by less than an inch.

“That went well,” Le Boucher murmured.

The dead were excellent confidants.

Crossing to the body meant stepping around the deepest blood. His soles peeled off the marble with each step. He crouched, setting the cigar across the rim of the clean glass. The dead man wore casual clothes, his collar open on a narrow strip of skin. No pulse there. Head under the piano aside.

Two fingers into the inside pocket found a wallet. Cards, cash, and a photograph folded twice.

He opened the photograph.

Three people huddled together, one a child. Le Boucher studied the child for one breath, then folded the picture along its old lines and returned it to the wallet.

Children deserved better.

He searched the outer pockets. Keys in the left. A small folding knife in the right. Two receipts, one from a private club and another from a jeweler. The jeweler’s total carried enough zeroes to buy affection from anyone willing to rent it by the hour.

A dark rectangle pressed against the fabric near his right hip.

There.

He drew out the phone and wiped the bloody edge against the dead man’s jacket before moving to the head and taking hold of the hair. The strands were damp between his gloves. He turned the face toward the ceiling.

The eyes were open.

One had filled with blood where a vessel had burst. The other stared past Le Boucher at the painted cherubs above the piano. The mouth hung open around a breath it never finished.

The neck had been cut cleanly. His weapon was made for that work, though human bone always demanded commitment. Anyone who claimed otherwise had only watched from a safe distance.

Le Boucher held the phone above the face.

The lock opened.

He lowered the head carefully. It rolled an inch before the cheek settled against the floor.

The phone showed a stack of notifications: missed calls, messages, a banking alert.

None carried the name he needed.

Back on his heels, he opened the messages. His thumb moved through conversations while the cigar burned behind him.

Most were useless.

Reason to believe failure. She has been infected. Nonna made sure of it.

Le Boucher opened that exchange.

Ah. So this is how we got to this point.

His jaw tightened. The cigar smoke no longer covered the odor rising from the rug. He stood and carried the phone to the desk, where the reading lamp threw a narrow pool of yellow across the ledger and pistol.

We will call in Le Boucher. He will handle it.

Arrogant bastard.

Killing him this early had made everything ahead harder. Le Boucher didn’t care. He had patience, and in time she would come apart the way everyone comes apart.

Under his knife.