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“Oh, go on, tell me all about it,” she drawls, gesturing with her drink. And I still—still—cannot resist the drunken seduction in her voice. “Tell me how the Golden Age is coming, how nothing will ever be the same. But I warn you—” She sways and catches herself on the bar top, steadies, cursing gravity, and continues, “—I warn you, nothing good will come of it.” Ava Delacroix, the love of my life. The inebriated angel of my dreams. I still remember seeing her for the first time, the electricity of that moment jarring my senses from head to toe.