Page 134

“Mila tried to keep me in check. She was the only one who sympathized. Even Odessa never understood why I couldn’t justcontrolmyself. She pored over her books searching for an explanation, a cure, but in the end, Mila is the one who suggested we visit La Dame des Sorcières.”

My hand freezes on the doorknob. I don’t know what to say, what tothink, as my mind struggles to comprehendvampiresseeking out Louise le Blanc for help—the same woman who totters around as the Crone, cackling and pinching Reid’s backside. But perhaps it makes sense. Lou is the most powerful witch in thekingdom, and shediddefeat the most evil woman in history. “She would’ve helped you,” I whisper despite myself.

“I wrote to her about my affliction.” Dimitri shakes his head in disgust, still carefully motionless otherwise. “Or at least, I wrote to Saint-Cécile.”

“Youwhat?”

“I didn’t know where else to reach her, and even on Requiem, we heard of her marriage to the Chasseur.”

“Michal collected every detail of my entirelifein a single night. Surely he could’ve found her address? Why would youeversend a letter to Chasseur Tower asking for magic? They might’ve evolved since the Battle of Cesarine, but they aren’t that evolved.”

Dimitri sets his chin, a trace of stubbornness returning to his gaze. “I didn’t want to involve Michal. He wouldn’t have allowed us to go—and when La Dame des Sorcières wrote back with a time and place for our meeting, Mila insisted on coming along.”

“That doesn’t make any sense.” Frowning, I gradually loosen my grip on the doorknob. “Lou moved out of Saint-Cécile last year. She wouldn’t have received any letter delivered there.”

“No.” Cautiously, as if appeasing a wild animal, he reaches into his coat and pulls forth a folded piece of parchment. He extends it with a single hand, forcing me to cross the room to take it. “She didn’t.”

I snatch it hastily before retreating back to his desk.

The words themselves don’t penetrate as I unfold the parchment. No. It’s the handwriting. My eyes seize upon it, and my heart drops like a stone at the familiar pen strokes, masculine and altogether chilling. Because I’ve only seen it once before—in the love letter folded within my sister’s locket. “It wasn’t Louise le Blancwho met us outside Saint-Cécile that night,” Dimitri continues. “A man in a hooded cloak attacked from the shadows, and I—I lost control.” His eyes grow distant with the words, and I know they now see a different scene than his macabre bedroom. “I should’ve smelled the magic in his veins, should’ve recognized the man as a blood witch, but instead I just... reacted.”

“What happened?” I whisper.

“I bit him.” He cringes slightly as if reliving the exact moment, the exact taste of the Necromancer’s blood. “And as you know from Les Abysses, the blood of a Dame Rouge—or in his case, a Seigneur Rouge—acts as poison to their enemies. Even vampires. I barely escaped with my life.”

“And Mila?”

He shakes his head. “Babette joined the hooded man with some sort of injection. It must’ve been more of their blood because she dropped instantly. I couldn’t do anything but watch as they worked a spell from the grimoire and drained Mila dry.” His voice cracks at the last, and horrid pressure builds in my throat as I too imagine the scene—it would not have been painless or quick. “When they finished with her, they swept the alley, baiting me with their grimoire. Promising me they could bring her back, could give me the spell I needed to cure the bloodlust. I had to just—I had to leave her there, Célie. I had to leave Mila, or I would’ve died. They would’ve killed me too. The three of us fled just as the Chasseurs arrived.”

My throat grows too tight to speak.

It just isn’t fair.

Even in death, Mila hadn’t wanted to speak the truth. And itisn’tfair—she endured a horrible execution while seeking a curefor her cousin, and Dimitri escaped unscathed. He left her corpse in the garbage behind Saint-Cécile—he has murderedhundredsof innocents—yet he survives to mourn her. To mourn himself. If I had anything at all in my stomach, I would’ve lost it in this moment.

Carefully, I hand back his letter and murmur, “I’m sorry.”

I cannot look at him. I cannot think of anything else to say.

“I loved my cousin.” In the blink of an eye, Dimitri stands before me, fire blazing in his brown eyes. I jerk the knife upward instinctively. “I loved her, Célie, and I’ll do whatever is necessary to avenge her death. I’ll rip out the Necromancer’s heart myself. I’ll light the pyre for Babette.” Knocking the knife aside and clutching my shoulders, he forces me to look directly into those burning eyes. To trulyseehim. “But first I need their grimoire. I need to regain control, and I need to ensure Saint-Cécile never happens again.”

And his face looks so sincere, sofierce—the perfect marriage of the Dimitri I knew and the Dimitri I met in Les Abysses—that I know it’s his true one. I know it deep in my bones. He’s done awful things, yes—unforgivable things—but then again, so has everyone.

Even Filippa.

If someone doesn’t help him,trulyhelp him, he’ll continue to kill, and his gruesome collection will continue to grow until it crushes him beneath its weight.

“I’ll help you find the grimoire,” I tell him.

I pray I’ll live long enough to regret it.

Chapter Forty-Four

A Butterfly of Silver

My parents never wrapped presents for Filippa and me—that task always fell to Evangeline, who had the unfortunate habit of waiting until Christmas Eve to wrap a single gift. It drove my mother mad, but for me, it became a yearly tradition: when the clock struck midnight, I would wake Pippa, and together—usually pretending to be pirates—we would sneak into my father’s study to inspect the loot. I even cobbled together eye patches and a rather misshapen parrot to sit on her shoulder. She named him Fabienne and insisted on carrying him everywhere until my mother intervened, shrieking about filth and tossing him in the garbage. Filippa and I cried for a week.

Of course, as the years passed, Pippa grew more reluctant to pretend with me. Her smiles became less indulgent, disappearing altogether the year Evangeline left us. The next year, our new governess—a pinch-faced, sallow-skinned woman who loathed children—stowed our gifts in a locked closet outside her bedroom. When I still woke Pippa, determined to continue our game, she dragged the blanket over her head and turned over with a groan. “Go away, Célie.”