The person who had fallen close to my feet was not Desmond, as I feared. It was Benedict Astor. The old man was curling in pain, though he had no visible wounds. Astonished, I moved myself and my sister away from him. He was so occupied with groaning and crying in pain that he didn’t look our way once. Had we won the years-long battle against the Astors? Or was Benedict shamming? I received a positive answer when Desmond emerged from the door. My demon was wearing a fierce look of revenge. ...