Page 130 of Gravehouse

My stomach caves at the name.

Asher was eleven years old, soaked from the sea and fumbling with ropes. He stood in the conservatory with my blood on his hands. He watched me run through the snow.

I grab one memory and hold it.

Emeric’s burned mouth bends. “He’s always helped with recruiting, Ivanya. Children trust other children. Parker understood that. Asher became quite good at bringing frightened little girls into reach.”

“You’re lying.” My voice cracks, giving him the satisfaction of hearing it. “Parker never called him his son. I never met Asher before then.”

“Parker didn’t call you his wife either.” Emeric releases me, pulling the Codex from the chair. “Titles change. Purpose survives.”

He opens the book, pressing a finger against a page covered in names, ranks, and arrows. The letters crawl when I look at them.

“La Maison du Mal has three houses,” Emeric explains. “Delacroix presents the clean face. Companies, charities, family empires. They invite powerful people through the front door and decide which ones leave indebted.”

His finger moves to a name printed above the rest.

ASHER.

Beneath it is a title.

LE PARRAIN.

Emeric taps the ink. “Your lover boy that is nothing like the men you despise?”

I shake my head, making the page smear. “He...” I want to saykills them.That can’t be right. He was a child. He can’t be Le Boucher. He has to be what Emeric says.

“Shall I continue?” Emeric’s smile widens around ruined skin.

His finger slides across the paper.

“Monét owns the dark corners. Intelligence, technology, Ciphers, Watchers, Fantômes. They bury records, build identities, and send people through locked rooms without leaving a footprint.”

His finger moves to another family.

“And Dubois handles the mind.” Emeric lifts his gaze to mine. “False memory implantation. Personality fracturing. Trauma harvesting. They take a life apart, rewrite the useful pieces, and hand it back.”

My wrists twist against the straps.

“That boy helped me.” The rest of his lecture passes unheard while I hold tight to that one thread.

“That boyrecruitedyou,” Emeric says, closing the book. “He then gave you hope so Parker could teach you what it feels like to have it ripped away.”

A sob catches behind my tongue.

Emeric leans closer, his burned cheek filling my vision. “He is La Maison du Mal, Ivanya.”

Water clouds my eyes again. His face blurs, the scarred skin smoothing at the edges until a beard and a familiar nose take shape.

I blink, and the burns return.

High heels clap against the concrete, pulling a sneer across my mouth.

“Why are you messing around?” Camille says. “Just say the trigger word and let the crazy play.”

Emeric’s eyes shift toward her. He straightens. “No, not yet. She’s not ready.”

“Fine. Let me try.” She pulls up a chair.