Chapter 24
IMPERFECTION
Poppy
Morgenstern Manor is a behemoth structure standing silent sentry over the sunlit bay like a slumbering giant.
From here, the city is a portrait of winter paradise.
At the arched doors of my childhood home, there are columns engraved with flora and fauna.
Statues of gargoyles and pegasuses, angels and cherubs.
Gardens, lush and flourishing even in winter’s grasp, sprawl around it all like a sacred forest.
“You grew up in a castle?” Bronte gapes as the valet parks his car beside my bike in the circular drive brimming with enough luxurious vehicles to fill any motorhead's wet dreams.
Purple smoke trickles from my scowl. “It’s just a house.”
“My house is just a house. That thing is the Colline du Chateau of America.”
“Which is…?”
“What do you think, Petit Diable?”
“A house?”
Bronte suppresses his throaty chuckle, but he can’t stop the edges of his eyes from crinkling.
Fuck, I missed looking at him. He’s in his fitted cargo pants and black tee, his work jacket unzipped to show off the generous V of his tattooed chest. The gash in his cheek, pink and puckered, only makes the coroner hotter.
The wound I gave him is a perfect imperfection in a masterpiece.
I stare for a few moments too long to be polite. I look away, but not before he notices.
His expression frosts. “Why am I here, Poppy?”
“Moral support.”
“Lie.”
I sigh a cloud of steam, in no mood to play this game. “My parents are about to learn that Quinn is a member of Leviathan. They will be pissed. You, as Quinn’s friend and colleague, are guilty by association. You are here to prove you’re an ally.”
His brow flattens. “I don’t need to prove anything.”
“You do if you want to live past noon.”
“Is that a threat?”
“It’s a promise, Bronte. If you leave now, there’s no chance in hell they’re not sending me after you to drag you back here for a far less casual visit.”
“Drag me back?” He folds his thick arms over his broad chest. “I’d like to see you try.”
“I think you already know I’m capable.” I glance pointedly at his scar.
“You caught me by surprise, that’s all.”
“Will you just do as I say for once?” I snap, exhausted and freezing my ass off in the brutal winter wind.
“When we’re done here, we’ll go our separate ways.
You have my word, this is the last you’ll see me.
Emi will continue to funnel updates, but you and I will otherwise never cross paths again. Consider our bargain fulfilled. Deal?”
“Deal.”
My eyes burn. It’s not his answer that twists the knife between my ribs; it’s his lack of hesitation.
I pocket my vape and thumb my damp lashes dry as I lead him inside.
Candlelight and merry conversation greets us, the scent of old paper and aged wine on its heels.
The vast foyer opens to a sprawling staircase.
A vintage Gothic chandelier hangs from the vaulted ceiling.
Ornate candelabras line the ebony wood walls, flickering buttery light over servants in swallowtail coats carrying silver platters of drinks and hors d'oeuvres through the growing crowd of suits and gowns.
I pluck a pair of wine glasses from a passing tray and hand one to Bronte as I take his arm like he belongs to me, uttering, "Act natural.
Mama and Papa should be here somewhere."
To my surprise, he doesn't fight my hold. Nor does he argue.
We circle around the foyer, meeting my aunts and uncles and cousins that flash curious smiles at the coroner while we search for my parents.
He's unnervingly skilled at slipping on an easy smile while sharing pleasantries with my family of criminals.
When we first met, he was tense and clearly had no interest in being around the living.
He'd seemed to have been one of those people who wished to have been born anything but human. There’s something different about him now.
Since I cut him deep and gave him that scar, he's changed—almost like I'd cut him free from his unseen bonds.
I may have been the one in the mask he'd been hunting for ten years of his life, but he was hiding just as much as me.
Is this the real man beneath the antisocial coroner exterior?
How long, I wonder, has he been hiding himself away?
Choosing to ice out the warmth of humanity rather than bask in it?
The man is a lone wolf. Isolated, solitary, fiercely protective of those he loves…
overburdened by the responsibility mantled on his shoulders to keep his family safe.
Just like me.
“Impressive,” Bronte remarks as we pause in a secluded corner with a snarling gargoyle statue, setting our empty glasses on a passing tray. “Even the kids are sharpwitted and silvertongued.”
“They are Morgensterns,” I muse, only half-grinning.
Because most of them are like me when I was their age and already have a running tally of graves they’ve filled.
It sickens me, but I don’t let it show. Not here, in front of my own family.
“I don't see Mama and Papa. Let's try the library upstairs. "
As I steer us up the staircase, passing the oil paintings immortalizing generations of Morgensterns poised in regal gentry, he utters, "Not a cult, huh?"
My eyes roll. "No."
“Where’s your portrait?”
“Mine will be painted when I inherit Papa’s throne.” If there’s a throne left to inherit.
“When do you ascend?”
“When I find my king or Papa retires. Whichever comes first.”
“No arranged marriages, then?”
I toss a glare over my shoulder. “Don’t insult us. We’re not the Mafia.”
Bronte lifts his palms in surrender, mumbling to himself. We reach the top landing, and I let muscle memory lead us down the long hallway lit by more wall-mounted candelabras.
“What about your mother’s side?”
I pivot in place, jabbing a finger at his chest. “Why are you suddenly so curious about ma famille, monsieur?”
His shoulder hikes. “If I’m going to meet your parents, I should at least know the basics.”
“You already know the basics.”
“I don’t even know your mother’s name, Petit Diable.”
“Rin Morgenstern, formerly Hayashi. Her kin still live in Japan.”
“Do they visit?”
“No.”
“Do you visit them?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
I huff impatiently. “To put it mildly, the Hayashis disapproved of Mama’s courtship with Papa and shunned her for loving a ‘demon’ and carrying his ‘hellspawn.’ They cut us out like we were cancer.
Never even gave me a chance.” My eyes water again.
I drop them to my boots before he can see the tears.
“Mama said they simply didn’t care, but I knew they thought I was evil. ”
They weren’t wrong; I am the daughter of Salem’s most notorious crime lord.
My stare lifts to a demon on Bronte’s throat. Its glare is nefarious, its smile serrated as much as it is vile. It’s like looking in the mirror.
Is that why Leviathan is targeting my family? Has this been not a war, but a crusade? It would explain Quinn’s involvement; she’s a justice-seeker, after all.
How many lives are saved when a crime ring falls?
Warm, calloused fingers crook beneath my chin, tipping my head up. “You’re not evil, Poppy. I’ve seen true villains, and you hold no flame.”
It’s none of my business what happened to him and his siblings to make him say such things. I’d be lying, though, if I said I’m not more curious now than I’ve ever been.
The question is prancing on my tongue when he suddenly palms my jaw and leans down, planting a firm kiss to the hollow of my cheek.
My lungs fill with his bittersweet musk as he lingers there for a long beat.
I don’t know how he makes something so innocent feel so sinful.
It’s agonizing in its torture, succulent in its sweetness.
It only leaves me wanting more.
The urge to capture that tempting mouth with mine is unbearable.
I fist my knife to hang onto my own diminishing willpower.
I shouldn’t want more. He’s made his feelings clear.
It’s why I said what I did, why we need to remain distanced.
I can’t fool myself into thinking we’ll ever be anything more than a criminal and coroner stuck in a reluctant alliance.
But I also can’t deny how right he feels this close to me.
I want him closer. I want him to push me against the wall. I want his hand on my throat and his body molding to mine as he steals a kiss then another and another.
Bronte inches back, pinning me with his smolder. He doesn’t withdraw. Confusion hazes over me as his thumb arcs the height of my cheekbone. He’s not looking at me like he doesn’t want me.
No, he’s looking at me like he wants to kiss me, too.
I lift my chin, my nose flirting with his. His free hand moves to my waist, fingers curling into my jacket pocket to tug me closer. My mouth opens in time with his—
“Aren’t you a little old to be sneaking in with a boy?”
We jerk back like a pair of teenagers caught with their clothes off, whipping our heads to see Mama looming in the dim hallway.
A thin kimono of glossy black drapes around her elegant curves like liquid ink, the sleeves off-shoulder.
Her skin is starlight, and her sleek hair is a curtain of the deepest shade of night.
Candlelight dances upon the black and pink ink of the parent tattoo to mine: a Japanese dragon and cherry blossoms twining up her right shoulder.
Her polite smile doesn’t quite reach her sharp, quicksilver eyes.
“Mama.” I bow before the queen of Salem’s underworld, motioning for Bronte to do the same. “Pardon the intrusion. This is Bronte Bourbon, a friend. We were on our way to speak with you and Papa.”
"We will be down in a minute."
"Actually, we were hoping to speak to you in private."
“What for?”
“We have a lead on Leviathan.”
“I see.” Distaste leaks from her tone as she turns toward the shadows ahead. “Follow me.”
Mama wordlessly guides us to the manor’s library, pushing through the double doors and ushering us in.
Thick tomes cram the shelves built into the walls.
Windows tinted black and spiderwebbing with frost overlook the city.
A hearth straight ahead glows with flames blazing bright, warming a lightly furnished lounge area.
Papa is in his leather wingback, a glass of wine in his grip. He’s the spitting image of Grandpapa Lucian: rich umber hair, a jawline that could break knuckles, piercing blue eyes set in a perpetual leer. Like Grandpapa, he carries a cold presence with him; like the reaper lurks in his shadow.
Seated in the chair beside him with his own glass is a man I don’t recognize. A man with a pistol holstered at his hip and a badge on his belt.
My blood freezes, locking my limbs in place.
Why the hell is my father drinking with a fucking cop?