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“Just do it.” Refusing to bare my throat—refusing to search for those needle-thin knives on his person—I glare up at him. He might take my life, but he will not take my dignity. “Pierce myskin. Drain my blood. Use it for whatever foul purpose you used the others’.”

With that same distasteful expression, he crouches, and his sheer size conceals me from the rest of the crew.Not that it matters, I think bitterly. The men still move strangely, like puppets on a string. Not a single eye has flicked in our direction since Michal arrived.

He studies me intently now. His expression reveals nothing. “I have never met one so eager for death as you.” When I do not speak, he shakes his head. “Never fear, however—I am nothing if not a gentleman. Who am I to deny a lady such as yourself?”

A lady.

The word sparks like kindling under my skin, and I sit up with a snarl, nearly striking his nose again. I have never been a violent person. Indeed, I usually abhor the sight of blood, but when a porcelain doll breaks, she is nothing but sharp edges. A strange, secret part of me wants to hurt this man. It wants to draw blood. Stifling the vicious reaction, I speak between clenched teeth. “Do it, then. Why wait?”

His lips curl in a smile. It doesn’t reach his eyes. “Patience is a virtue, pet.”

This close, his distinct lack of scent is unnerving—like snow or marble, or perhaps poison slipped in wine. I cannot stand another second in his presence. “I am not yourpet”—I spit the words in a voice I hardly recognize—“and do not pretend to understand virtue, monsieur. You are no gentleman.”

A low noise of agreement rumbles through his chest, or is it—my eyes narrow incredulously—is it laughter? Is helaughingat me?“Enlighten me, mademoiselle. What does make a gentleman?”

“You patronize me.”

“It’s a simple question.”

When I lurch to my feet in response, cold amusement glints in his black eyes, sparking brighter as I stumble and catch his broad shoulder for balance. My hand recoils instantly. I feel sick at that touch—at the rage in my stomach, thehumiliation. I am not who he wants. Not truly. I am not even important enough to kill.

Taking advantage of his vulnerable position, I try to dart past him, but again—between one blink and the next—he moves in front of me, blocking my path. My gaze darts to the double doors.

I try again.

He reappears.

Clasping his hands behind his back, he speaks with cruel levity. “I can only assume your next step is to seek my cousin, appeal to her compassionate—perhaps maternal—nature. Let me spare you the disappointment: Odessa is the least maternal creature alive. Even if shedidsympathize with your plight, she would not help you. She answers to me.” He pauses with that dark half smile, inclining his head toward the men around us. “Theyallanswer to me.”

My heart thrashes in my ears as I stare at him.

One second.

Two.

When I pivot and lunge for the railing, he appears before me once more, and I skid to a halt to avoid colliding with his chest. The humor in his eyes gradually fades at whatever he sees in mine. “As you care so little for your own life, allow me to expedite this foolishness.”

With the wave of his hand, every sailor on the ship ceases hisduties, lurching upright and marching toward the handrail on the starboard side. They don’t stop there, however. Without hesitation, without aword, they proceed to climb until they stand in a neat row along the handrail, balancing in the gale and awaiting further instruction. The wind heightens to a crescendo as I watch them in horror. Because they look like—like tin soldiers standing there, and suddenly, I don’t see their empty faces at all.

I see mine.

Morgane once rendered my body equally powerless. With her magic, she forced Beau and me to duel each other, forced us tohurteach other in order to send a message to her daughter. Even as my sword plunged into his chest, I could do nothing to stop it, and I knew in that instant—Iknew—I would never see such evil again. I knew I would never meet her equal.

When one of the soldiers sways precariously, feet slipping on the handrail, I whirl to Michal with a renewed sense of purpose. “Stop this. Stop thisnow.”

“You aren’t in any position to make demands, pet. Should you attempt to swim to Cesarine, my men will follow, and they will also—tragically—freeze to death.” His eyes harden into something foreign and frightening then, something feral, as he seizes a lock of my hair, testing it between thumb and forefinger. “Of course, anemia will shorten their life span to less than seven minutes. Perhaps four if they’re lucky. You’ll be forced to watch them all drown.” A pause. “Do you understand?”

Anemia?I retreat from the railing like it’s grown horns, trying to place the word. When I cannot, the rage in my chest flares irrationally. “Let them down,” I snap instead. “I won’t answer anything until they’re safe on deck.”

“There is nowhere safe on deck.” Though he speaks the words with quiet menace, the sailors somehow understand his intent; as swiftly and silently as they climbed atop the handrail, they alight from it to resume their eerie dance. No longer tin soldiers, but marionettes. Michal inclines his head. “Have we reached an accord?”

“How do you control them?” I ask. “The men?”

“How do you bear no scars?”

“La Dame des Sorcières cast a spell to disguise me.” The lie spills from my lips with unexpected relish. I edge to the left as surreptitiously as possible, eyes lighting on the man with his swan-shaped stake. “We knew you planned to abduct me—”

“Petite menteuse.” Michal’s eyes darken further at the falsehood.Little liar.