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platters—breads, cheeses, and pastries—were now only crumbs. Roasted duck had been reduced to a carcass. Dessert was a cake made by Andre’s parents, the local bakers. Everything had been delicious and they all ate their fill, leaving spirits high.
    “No. No, my dear boy,” Henri said, quieting the room. “Not a French tradition—a Hunter tradition.”
    “I was there, the night the tradition began.” Belle looked at her father, absently fiddling with a curl at her shoulder.
    “Were you?” Grabbing his napkin, Henri wiped the foam from his hands. “At your age, you should have been in bed.”
    Belle chuckled. “The town was at war with Hell and my inventor father was Commander of our army. The LeClairs didn’t sleep much in those days.”
    “So, how did the tradition start?” Jack prompted.
    “It’s a good story,” Gastone said, watching Belle. There was warmth in his eyes that caused her chest to tighten. “She told it to me once.”
    “Well, I want to hear it!” Jack insisted, flinging out his hands and the other Hunters vocally agreed.
    “We were still living at the inn then.” She didn’t speak loudly as she started her story. The men would quiet for her, just as they did for Henri. “I’d slipped out of my room and hid on the stairwell, peaking through the railings. I could taste the despair coming from the men gathered below. A large pack had crossed the border and far more men than we could spare had died. The doc was there, I remember, he walked around the group, administering treatment.”
    She paused to thank Friar Clemens as he handed her the first glass. No one spoke, they hung on her words. “Père stood before them, holding his bottle of champagne. He spoke of the battle and of the men that were lost. It was the best thing I’d ever heard. Grown men had tears in their eyes. Père finished his speech with a booming voice like I’d never heard before. He tried to open the bottle so they could drink to their victory—”
    “Damn thing refused to open,” Henri added with a grin. He held his glass in one hand and rested his other on the hilt of his sabre.
    “It made him so angry.” Belle went on over the men’s chuckles. “He unsheathed his sword with a slur of horrible curses and sliced off the top.” She tilted her head to look up at her father. “When the applause died you said that you’d stand by them. No matter the loss, you’d stand by your Hunters.
Till my heart stills
, were your words. And they repeated them back to you. It was the moment I decided to become a Hunter.”
    “Well.” Henri held up his glass. “To that then!”
    Everyone joined in with the toast, tipping the champagne into their mouths.
    “Who’s in the mood for some music?” Andre asked, flicking back one of the spiraled locks he called dreads.
    “Splendid idea.” Henri swallowed down a mouthful of drink. “Should I crank the piano or would Jean like to do us the honor?”
    Without any further urging, Jean moved to the piano bench. He checked the gorgeous gold and green scarf wrapped around his neck, making sure it still covered the ghastly scars beneath. Where once Jean could have been an operatic singer with his voice gifted by angels, he was now mute—his voice taken, instead of his life, by a hellhound. Pushing back the piano cover, he poised his hands above the keys.
    Then his fingers were moving, twinkling over the keys with the grace of a dancer. It was beautiful. All of the talent Jean had once contained in his voice must have transferred to his hands. Transfixed, they all watching him, listening as the music filled the room.
    A hand appeared in front of Belle. Her eyes traced the arm up to its owner. Gastone stood there, happiness shining in his eyes. She’d been so distracted by Jean’s playing, she hadn’t even noticed Gastone move.
    “Care for a dance?” There was something in his voice. Something new. A softness perhaps.
    Belle placed her hand in his. “I would.”
    He