Demon Marked

ask you to do. I’m not ready yet. I have to find the Gate, I have to prepare. So listen to them. But above all else, follow the Rules. Don’t kill them, don’t hurt them. Don’t prevent them from exercising their free will. If you do, you’re dead—and I’ll be in that frozen waste. So don’t break the Rules. Don’t!
    —telling her how to stay safe.
    Ash’s heart pounded. She closed her eyes, shutting out the image of the woman’s face.
    This was a memory. Not from Before, which she couldn’t remember at all, but from almost three years ago, before Ash and Madelyn had arrived at Nightingale House . . . and after they’d left the dark figure behind. A memory ravaged by terror and buoyed by relief—and Ash recalled that she’d been so sorry.
    Regretting the bargain already.
    Ash shook her head. What bargain? What had she agreed to do? Though she tried to recall, that hole in her memory remained.
    But she had felt regret. Ash remembered that clearly now. Regret and relief, which meant that terror wasn’t the only strong emotion to hold her in its grip after . . . whatever had happened to her. Why hadn’t she felt regret or relief since then?
    A shiver raced over Ash’s skin when she looked at the painting again. Madelyn didn’t appear dangerous, yet Ash’s instincts screamed at her to run. Perhaps she hadn’t felt regret or relief after being admitted to Nightingale House because she’d had no reason to feel them—but Ash apparently had reason to fear this woman.
    If only she could remember why .
    A quick search of the library didn’t tell her. Ash returned to the foyer and took the stairs. The snap of her boot heels echoed on each wooden step. That seemed odd. Shouldn’t a stair runner muffle the sound? Perhaps one had, once. When she reached the second-floor landing, the door to Madelyn’s office already stood ajar, as if inviting her in.
    Unlike the timeless elegance of the first-floor décor, the office told the story of its owner’s long absence. A heavy, outdated computer screen took up a fourth of the desktop. A fax transmission from the day of Madelyn’s disappearance still sat beside the keyboard, listing the current values of several oil company stocks.
    Six years ago, Nicholas St. Croix had succeeded in taking over his mother’s company and tearing it down. But if Madelyn still owned those shares, she didn’t need to worry about cash when— if —she returned.
    A second, smaller room lay beyond a connecting door—Rachel Boyle’s office. Unlike Madelyn’s office, all of the tables and cabinet surfaces had been cleared of papers. Ash opened the drawers and looked through the shelves, hoping to find a personal item of Rachel’s. Anything. A single object to touch, to hold—and to see if it felt familiar.
    She finished the search and came up empty. Nothing of Rachel remained here, and Rachel’s own apartment had been let to someone else shortly after her disappearance. She’d been survived by her parents in America; her belongings had probably been shipped to their home. Which meant Ash had nowhere left to look for answers—at least not in London.
    So her next step would be finding Nicholas St. Croix.
    Was it odd that no evidence of Madelyn’s son existed in this house? Ash thought it must be. No pictures of Nicholas as a boy graced the tables; no family photos depicted happier times. Did Madelyn order them removed from her sight—out of spite or pain—or had they simply never been a part of the décor?
    Curious, Ash followed the hallway to the master bedroom. Maybe Madelyn hadn’t expunged Nicholas’s presence from her house; perhaps she’d simply kept the evidence somewhere more private.
    Or perhaps not. Ash opened the door to another expensively appointed room devoid of any personality other than “tasteful.” Aside from Madelyn’s painting in the library, the entire house could have been anyone’s home—except that anyone else would have left more of an impression on their surroundings.
    Unless, of course, this house did reflect Madelyn’s personality: sophisticated, disinterested . . . perfect.
    But not everything was perfect. Something seemed wrong. Ash studied the room, trying to determine what didn’t fit—and for the first time, not searching for something familiar, but just looking . Her gaze landed on the bed. The blankets stretched unevenly over the mattress. A pillow lay askew and dented at its center.
    Someone had been sleeping in that bed. How