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They all fall silent as another draft sweeps the theater, stronger and colder this time. The crystals of the chandelier tinkle overhead in response, and a strand of my hair lifts, blowing gently across my face in the unnatural breeze. Michal stares at it. His entire body stills, tightens. “Are they here now?” he asks quietly.

The pressure in my head builds until it might burst, until my eyes water and burn with it. Unable to pretend any longer, I clutch my ears and whisper, “They call mebride.”

His brow furrows. “Why?”

“I—I don’t know—”

“Isn’t it obvious?” Onstage, the portly man plants his hands on his hips and surveys us with stern disapproval. “You’re the knife in the veil, silly child—and you probably shouldn’t tarry. Heissearching for you, after all.”

“Wh-Whois searching?”

“The man in the shadows, of course,” says the woman with the ruff.

“We cannot see his face,” says the portly man, “but we can certainly feel his wrath.”

A whimper escapes my throat, and I clench my eyes shut, struggling to master myself. I will not fear them. As Michal said, this place is a rip in the fabric between realms. Death lingers here. Many have died, and that—that has nothing to do with me. Despite their warning, none of this hasanythingto do with me. This is all just one big coincidence, except—

“You really shouldn’t be here at all, mariée,” the man with the axe in his neck says irritably. “You need to leave this place, and you need to do it now. Do you want him to find you? Do you know what will happen if he does?”

My heart sinks miserably.

Except they seem to recognize me—me, not Michal—and as they drift closer, their voices grow more insistent, echoing all around me,insideof me, and impossible to ignore. Just like in Filippa’s casket. Indeed, the decapitated woman soon streaks up the aisle, holding her head in one hand, and her eyes burn with silver fire. “You mustlooklike the innocent flower, Célie Tremblay, but be the serpent under it.”

“Be the serpent,” another ghost echoes.

“Leave now,” another snarls.

“I”—forcing deep breaths, I choke down my panic—“Michal, p-please, we really need to—”

“How many came through?” Though his voice rises in urgency, I stumble backward, away from him, away fromthem, unable toanswer and unable to help. Because the ghosts don’twantme here. The longer I stay, the colder their touch grows—colder than vampires, colder thanice. Too cold to exist in this world. My teeth chatter helplessly. “Where are they?” he asks, louder now. “What are they saying?” Then, abruptly vicious— “Why can’t Iseethem?”

He can’t see them.The realization crushes the last of my hope, and my breathing hitches, spikes, painful and shallow and—Oh God. Vaguely, I can hear him speaking, but his words don’t penetrate. Not anymore. A horrible rushing sound drowns out his voice, growing louder with each passing second.

If Michal cannot see the ghosts, cannothearthem, it means—he must be right. Somehow, someway, I caused this. Isummonedthem, and now I cannot send them back. They came here for me.Iam the bride, and—and—

“Leave this place, mariée,” the man with the axe hisses.

“You must hide,” says the decapitated woman.

The stage manager’s voice rises to a shout. “You must HIDE—”

A sob tears from my throat as I wrap my arms around my head, as pain cleaves my skull in two. I am going to die in this theater, where they’ll force me to recite dead poets until the end of time. At the thought, hysterical laughter rises until I shake with it, until I cannot tell if I’m crying or screaming or making any sound at all.

Low and strained, Michal’s voice reaches me as if through a tunnel.

“Célie. Open your eyes.”

I obey the command instinctively to find him standing much closer than before—and motionless. Completely and utterly still. The black of his eyes seems to expand as he stares at my throat, and his jaw locks into place, as if—as if he’s trying not to breathe. Hedoesn’t speak again for another moment. Then, through clenched teeth— “You’re hyperventilating. You need to calm down.”

“I—I—I can’t—”

“If you don’t lower your heart rate,” he says evenly, “every vampire within a three-mile radius is going to descend on this theater.No”—the word is sharp, lethal, as his hand seizes my sleeve—“do not run.Neverrun. They will chase you, they will catch you, and they will kill you. Now. Focus on your breathing.”

Focus on my breathing.I nod, gulping air until my head swims with it, until the black in my vision begins to fade. At Michal’s proximity, the ghosts recoil, muttering bitterly. I choke on an explanation. “Th-They want us toleave—”

“In through your nose and out through your mouth, Célie.”

I do as he says, concentrating on his face, the hard line of his jaw. He still doesn’t breathe. Doesn’t move. When I nod again—calmer now—he drops my sleeve and steps backward. I take another deep breath as the ghosts gradually settle into their seats once more. With a grudging look in my direction, the stage manager calls for order. “Please leave,” he tells me, and I nearly weep with relief when Michal stalks toward the doors.