Page 55

With lethal speed, Michal pushes himself from the wall to stand directly in front of him. He does not lift a hand, however. He simply stares down at his cousin, cold and impassive, and waits.

And waits.

I glance to Odessa, who looks straight ahead in a refusal to acknowledge either of them. Her pupils have dilated, and she no longer breathes. Inexplicable flutters erupt in my stomach at the sight, and I move without thinking, placing a hand on Dimitri’s chest to—to calm him, somehow. To defuse this strange tension. “I didn’t starve,” I tell him quietly, “thanks to you.”

His jaw clenches in response. After another second, he swallows hard and removes my hand, but his touch remains gentle. His fingers linger upon my wrist. “Remember what I said about sweet things in Requiem.”

He steps away before I can answer, bowing stiffly to his cousin in the process. Only then does Michal slide his black eyes to me. “You should indeed take care, Mademoiselle Tremblay, if Dimitri thinks you’re sweet.” Then— “Did you really think you could creep away unnoticed?”

The relief I felt only seconds before hardens into that familiar tightness as I glare at him. “I was not creeping, monsieur. I walked out the back door.”

His eyes flash with anger, or perhaps amusement. They’re disturbingly similar with Michal. “No. A lady never creeps, does she?” Arching a brow, lifting an arm to his chest in exaggerated civility, he inclines his head to Odessa and Dimitri. His gaze, however, doesn’t stray from my face. “Leave us now, cousins.”

Though Odessa casts me an apologetic glance, she doesn’t hesitate; looping her elbow around her brother’s arm, she attempts to steer him back up the street, but he digs in his heels. “I’m the one who persuaded her to leave her room, Michal,” he says, his voice bitter. “Odessa had no part in it.”

Michal’s answering smile is chilling. “I know.”

“It was not the fault of Mademoiselle Tremblay either.”

“No.” At last, those black eyes break from mine, and he surveys Dimitri with apathy bordering on disgust. “The fault—as always—rests entirely with you, and we shall discuss it at length before sunrise. My study. Five o’clock.”

“Dima,” Odessa hisses, pulling him harder now. “Move.”

“But—”

“Please go,” I say. “He won’t hurt me. Not yet, anyway.” Though Michal’s attention sharpens at the last, I ignore him, meeting Dimitri’s gaze and adding, “Thank you for the birthday gifts, Dima, and please—call me Célie.”

His lips quirk for just a second. Then he sighs, his entire body slumping, and allows Odessa to lead him away with one last inscrutable look over his shoulder. The two quickly pick up speed, blurring around the bend and out of sight. Leaving me alone with Michal.

He extends his arm in a mockery of a perfect gentleman. “Shall we?”

“If you plan to escort me back to my room”—I move away from him, crossing my own arms firmly against my chest—“I will require candles. Lots andlotsof candles. I am not a vampire, and I cannot see in the dark.”

“Who says vampires can see in the dark?”

“No one,” I say quickly, realizing I’ve further implicated Dimitri. Then, unable to resist— “You simply remind me of an old bat. They have night vision, do they not?”

There’s no mistaking it now. Humor glints dark in his eyes as he reaches above my head to pluck a sprig of the Bluebeard blossoms. I scowl at the blue flowers, refusing to accept them, until he leans close and tucks the sprig into my hair. “Like bats, these blooms also once ate spiders.”

“What do they eat now?”

His fingers brush the shell of my ear. “Butterflies.”

I feel that touch all the way to my toes.

Two seconds too late, I jerk away from him, appalled by myown reaction, and swat the flowers to the ground. “Fortunately for me, I am not a butterfly, and I have no interest in being eaten byanythingon this island.”

“You needn’t worry about that. Notyet, anyway.” At my scowl, he laughs derisively. “Come. We have unfinished business, the two of us, and I am eager to see it concluded.” Turning on his heel, he stalks after Odessa and Dimitri without checking to see if I follow. Which I don’t.

Unfinished business.

The words have never sounded more ominous.

“I will carry you, Célie,” he calls pleasantly, and—at the thought of himtouchingme again—my feet lurch into motion.

“You are grossly informal, monsieur.” Hurrying to catch up, I slide a little on the wet cobblestones. I left Dimitri’s parasol in Monsieur Marc’s shop, and the sky has started to mist once more. “Only my friends call me Célie, and you are mostcertainlynot my friend.”

“How quaint. You think Dimitri is your friend.”