Chapter 18 · The Night He Buried

Dorian hit the auction hall wall hard enough to crack marble.

The sound cut through everything. Alarms. Screaming bidders. The silver chains snapping loose from the ceiling.

His hand was clamped over the wound in his side, but blood kept pushing between his fingers. Dark blood. Too dark. Steam lifted off it where it touched the silver dust on the floor.

"Dorian." I grabbed his jacket.

He turned on me too fast.

For one ugly second, his eyes weren't human.

Gold swallowed the gray. His pupils cut thin and black. His upper lip pulled back over teeth that had gotten a lot sharper since the last time I'd checked.

"Mara," Sable snapped from somewhere behind me. "Back up. Right now."

I didn't.

Because he looked at me like he didn't know who I was.

And because the old photograph was still in my fist.

Little Dorian. Maybe eight, maybe nine. Dirty face. Torn black coat. Holding a baby wrapped in a yellow blanket.

Me.

I shoved the photo against his chest.

"You knew me."

His jaw locked.

The whole room smelled like burnt wiring, blood, and whatever expensive perfume the rich people had sweated out while running for the exits.