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Dropping to my knees, I begin to feel along the floorboards with increasing desperation.

Monsieur Marc and Odessa could break up this little chat at any second, and even if they don’t—my eyes dart to the back door, where the former arranges deliveries—Dimitri will be here soon. My fingers scrabble at the wood as disappointment rears its ugly head. Perhaps D’Artagnan didn’t mean to hint at a secret weapon at all—or perhaps hedid, and he now delights in watching me crawl about on my hands and knees.

“You’re ruining your gown,” he says disdainfully, “and you look like the little match girl as well. Are you familiar with the tale? I used to read it to my nieces every night. It’s about the hopes and dreams of a dying child—”

“Though I appreciate the concern, D’Artagnan,” I say through gritted teeth, “I don’t care about my gown, and I don’t need your encouragement. Iwillwarn my friends of what awaits them here. I don’t expect you to understand, of course, but—” Something bright glints in my periphery, and I stop short, turning sharply toward the underside of Monsieur Marc’s desk. Eyes narrowing for one second—two—I lean closer to investigate.Odd.Long and sharp and narrow, it appears to be some sort of... ofpin, except—

No.

My eyes widen as I scramble to my feet, as I crack my skull on the desk and nearly crash to my knees once more, clutching my crown through tears. Because it isn’t a pin at all.

It’s astake.

And it isn’t just any stake. It’s asilverstake, and I don’t know whether I weep with pain or giddiness, concern or jubilation. It hardly matters either way; seizing the weapon from its perch, Iresist the urge to kiss D’Artagnan all over his cantankerous face. Because there can be no doubt now—if Monsieur Marc has taken such care to hide it, this stake must be dangerous.Silvermust be dangerous.

“I knew it.” Still slightly dizzy, still clutching my head, I twirl among the boxes before remembering the ink, quill, and parchment in my pocket, upending them all on the desk. “Iknewit.”

“Oh dear.” To my surprise, however, D’Artagnan makes no move to swat the stake from my hand or otherwise alert the vampires next door of my newfound weapon. Instead, he kneads the edge of his basket dispassionately. “It seems you’ve found my stake.”

“Yourstake?”

“You insult me, mademoiselle. If my brother hadn’t poisoned me that morning, I would’ve staked him that very night. Indeed, the plans were already in motion.”

“Despicable,” I repeat, shaking my head, but my heart is no longer in it. No—my heart now flies across the parchment with my hand as I finally,finally, set my plan into motion.

Coco,

You must not come to Requiem. The killer is here—a vampire called Michal Vasiliev. He drinks the blood of his victims, and he intends to kill you on All Hallows’ Eve. Armed with silver, I myself am in no imminent danger. Please know that I will escape this wretched place, and I will see everyone in Cesarine soon.

All my love,

Célie

At the last stroke of my quill, D’Artagnan steps languorously from his basket—yawning once more—and saunters toward the delivery entrance. “What are you doing?” I ask suspiciously, folding the parchment into quarters before slipping it into my corset with the stake. “You aren’t coming with me.”

“Of course I am.” He stretches upward to catch the door handle, and cool night air spills between us as it opens to the shadows of the alley. “Once a vampire, always a vampire, after all.”

Frowning at his back, I quietly follow him from the shop. “What doesthatmean?”

His tail flicks in the darkness like the feu follet of lore. Like an omen. “I quite enjoy the scent of blood.”

Chapter Twenty-Four

Ma Douce

Anticipation swells in my chest as D’Artagnan leads me toward the seven-tailed gargoyle, parting the ivy beneath it and ducking through the crack in the wall. Perhaps it’s foolish to feel so...buoyantafter his warning, but the city feels different now. A harsh, almost painful laugh escapes as we climb through the shrubbery on the other side of the wall, as we dart into the wider street beyond. The colors here—the yellow of the gourds, the amber of D’Artagnan’s eyes—appear richer than before, beautifully saturated, while the salt in the air tastes sharper, and a distant rumble of thunder promises another storm.

But not yet.

The streets are perfectly still tonight. Peaceful, even. The moon herself peeks out from behind her clouds, glistening upon the wet cobblestones, and a black cat follows us as we cross to another street. When she purrs, brushing against my skirts, I know in my bones this is it. This is my moment. Reaching a hand into my skirt pocket, I double-check the folded letter there. When D’Artagnan arches his back and hisses, frightening the poor creature away, I triple-check the stake in my corset.

“You didn’t need to do that,” I whisper to him. “She wasn’t harming anyone.”

He looks smug. “I know.”

Shaking my head, I glance around the landscape to gain my bearings—and thank God that the Old City sits on the highest peak of the isle. From here, just outside the wall, I can see the whole of Requiem sprawled out below us. D’Artagnan said the aviary lies on the northern shore, which means—I turn and squint in the moonlight—there. I can just see it rise along the rocky beach. With a slow exhale, I memorize the stars above it: a constellation called Les Amoureux. The same star forms the tip of the serpent’s tail and the dove’s wing. I allow it to guide me as I plunge into the city and lose direct sight of the aviary.

Beau renamed the constellation as a wedding gift to Lou and Reid last summer.