LOGAN
Nicholas ran a hand through his hair, frustrated. “When did this all get so complicated?” “Girls are always complicated,” I told him. “You know that.” He half smiled. “Some more than others.” I thought of the scars on Isabeau’s arms and the haunted look in her eye. “Got that right.” We got to work, mostly following Duncan’s lead because he almost had a clue as to how to fix a wall. When we needed plaster for some reason I couldn’t quite fathom, I went out to the garage to find some. On my way back, I paused, goose bumps suddenly lifting. A noise in the woods. Something quiet, subtle. And unwelcome. I couldn’t alert my brothers without alerting whoever was lurking in the woods as well. I set down the bucket of plaster dust and doubled back toward the front door and woods on the other side of the lane. I peered into the shifting shadows of the rosebushes and cedar trees. The faint moonlight glinted off the Jeep in the driveway. The lamps burned softly at the windows. I smelled roses, newly cut oak logs, blood, and lilies. Lilies were never a good sign. Montmartre smelled like lilies. And while I doubted he was loitering in the woods outside our farmhouse, I had no problem believing he’d sent minions to do his dirty work. He was after Solange again, just as she’d said. He wanted her to be queen, as the old prophecy claimed, and
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