The haunting swoosh of the eighty-eight-pound blade falling down rang in her ears, along with the sound of the crowd of humans and Daimons cheering their deaths.
But the weirdest, most disturbing part of her dream was the image of Alexion sitting to the side of the crowd, a la Madame DeFarge, knitting a list of all their names so that the executioner (Acheron) would know who next to murder.
Damn you, Charles Dickens, for that image! Her own memories of the Revolution were bad enough. The last thing she needed was for someone to add to them.
Danger lay in bed, clutching at her throat. The horrifying screams of the past rang in her ears. Over and over, she saw the faces of the innocents who had been killed by a hungry mob bent on vengeance against an entire social class of people. It had been decades since she'd last recalled her human life.
Her death.
But now it tore through her with stunning clarity and acidity. Even worse, she remembered the time not long after the Revolution when it had been fashionable for Parisians to hold Victim's Balls where the only people who were allowed to attend were those who had family slain by the Committee. The attendees all wore red ribbons tied around their throats in remembrance of Madame La Guillotine's handiwork. It had been gruesomely morbid and had sent her fleeing her homeland, never to return.
She hated these memories. She hated everything about them. It'd been so unfair to lose everything because of one man's greed. A man she, herself, had brought into the family. But for her, her father and his wife and her brother and sister wouldn't have died.
Why had she ever believed Michel's lies? Why?
The guilt and shame of that was still raw inside her.
She had killed her own family because she had fallen in love with a lying, beguiling asshole. Tears gathered in her eyes as her throat closed so tight that she could barely breathe.
"Papa," she sobbed, aching anew for the loss of her father. He had been a good man who had taken care of the people who worked for him. Never once had he neglected either her or her mother. In fact, he had wanted to give up his noble titles so that he could marry her mother when she'd become unexpectedly pregnant.
Had he done so, his life would have been spared… But her mother had refused his suit. Self-reliant and bold, her mother had never wanted a husband to tell her what to do. She was one of the most renowned actresses of her day, and her mother had feared that her father would insist she give up the stage for home and family.
Even after her rejection, her father had pursued her mother, begging her to marry him while he made sure that both of them had everything they needed. It was only after Danger had reached maturity that he had given up hope of her mother ever changing her mind.
It was then he'd found himself a lady to wed.
Even then, both he and his lady-wife had always been kind to her. Her stepmother had welcomed her into their home with open arms. Maman Esmée had swathed her in love and devotion.
Not much older than Danger, the lady had never looked down on her illegitimate status. She'd quickly become one of her dearest friends and confidantes.
Even now she could see their faces as they lovingly teased each other. See Esmée's face as she took her shopping for hats—Esmée's one great weakness in life. Never could she pass by a shop without dashing in to see what they had. She would spend hours in the haberdashery trying on every bonnet and hat they had while her father watched her and laughed.
Danger had loved them both so much…
And then in the dreaded heat of summer, the Revolution had swept through France worse than a plague. Thousands had died in a matter of weeks.
Her brother, Edmonde, had only been four, her sister, Jacqueline, less than a year old, and her countrymen had brutally slaughtered them. None of her family had deserved the deaths they had been granted.
None of them.
Except for her husband. He had earned every wound she had given him for his cruel betrayal. And all because he had coveted her father's home and wanted it for his own. He'd gotten it, all right, and she had seen to it that he hadn't lived long enough to enjoy it.
Shaking with anger and grief, she pushed back her red and gold covers, then parted her gold curtains so that she could leave her antique tester bed.
Alexion could rot in hell before she ever helped him go after the DarkHunters or anyone else. She would never be part of such a witch hunt. If Acheron wanted them dead, then he could do it on his own.
She wasn't about to help Alexion judge anyone. She'd seen enough of that in her human lifetime.
With her conviction set, she quickly washed her face, dressed, and went to find him to give him a piece of her mind.