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“He also spoke of Mila.” When I swallow hard, Michal tracks the movement reflexively before turning back to the absinthe. He stares down at it with palpable hatred, as if even the sight of it revolts him. And suddenly, I wonder at the presence of that bottle in his bedroom. I wonder why he keeps it here at all. “He spoke of how you turned her into a vampire. Howyouturned into a vampire.”

Without a word, he extends one of the glasses to me, but I shake my head, remembering my last experience with the horrendous stuff—how I vomited all over his pristine boots. My vampiric body would likely reject it even faster. I have no idea how Michal can keep it down. “I’d rather die again than drink that,” I say frankly.

“Fair enough.” He downs each drink in one swallow—his face impassive despite the burn of alcohol—before returning the glasses to the desk and saying, “I’m sure you have questions.”

“You don’t owe me any answers, Michal.” I draw to a halt at his side, turning to lean against the desktop. “I seem to remember owingyouquite a few, though. I hope you’ll be kind when the time comes.”

A ghost of a smile touches his lips, and a deeper sort of warmth infuses my chest at the sight of it—because he hasn’t shut me out yet. Because he isn’t pushing me away. Instead he shakes his head and turns too, crossing his legs and mirroring my stance. “No more games, Célie. What do you want to know?”

We stare at each other for a long moment before I say tentatively, “Death said you found him, just like everyone else does.” I hesitate. “How did you... do it?”

His expression hardens when he realizes my meaning. “Next question.”

I nod quickly, somewhat relieved he refused to answer.Someday, maybe, he’ll want to tell me, and if that day comes, I will do my best to listen.“How did you first transition?” I ask instead. “How did youbecomea vampire?”

“What color light did you see when you died?”

“It was sort of—golden.”

He leans behind us to grab the bottle of absinthe, forgoing the glasses and drinking straight from the source before saying, “Mine was black. I walked into it, and when I woke, I slaughtered my neighbor’s entire family. His daughter, Vesna, and I”—here he shakes his head bitterly, unable to keep the deprecation from his voice—“we were childhood sweethearts. I thought I would marry her someday. By the time I realized what was happening, she was dead in my arms with her parents and brother lying across the room.”

“Oh, Michal.”

He tips the bottle of absinthe in acknowledgment before taking another drink. “And I still turned my sister after that. I watched as she turned Odessa, as Odessa turned Dimitri, as the three ofthem slaughtered anyone who had ever spurned them, and when our parents disavowed us, I happily joined them in leaving a trail of bodies through the countryside. Whispers began to follow us, and villagers began to mark their doors with crosses—at the urging of my father, I think.” He shakes his head and takes another drink. The gesture feels almost belligerent now, yet still Michal doesn’t react to the alcohol. “Apparently, he cleaned himself up after we left, never touched the bottle again. I wouldn’t know. He died before I ever came home.”

“How—” I swallow hard and try again, staring at the bottle in his own hand. “How oldareyou?”

“I don’t know,” he says plainly. “People tracked time differently then—by month, by year, by the equinox each autumn and solstice each spring. Physically, I couldn’t have been much older than you when I transitioned to vampire.”

“Oh.” Eyeing his bare chest incredulously, I privately disagree. “You must’ve, er... aged faster back then.”

To my surprise, he grins—that sharp, mocking half grin I’ve come to love. “I’ve always been strong, Célie. Even as a human.”

Noted.My own chest twists a little as his grin fades once more, and we gradually lapse into silence. I still have dozens of questions to ask, of course—possibly hundreds—but I sense Michal has reached his limit this evening. He grips the absinthe with both hands now, his knuckles clenching white around the label, and stares down at his fingers without truly seeing them. Though the silence stretches between us, I cannot bring myself to move, to leave him alone with his thoughts.

In my worst moments, my thoughts trapped me just as completely as any coffin.

Just as I reach for him, however, he asks in a devastatingly quiet voice, “Would you have hesitated with Filippa?”

It’s the single most vulnerable thing I’ve heard him say, and in response, my hand shifts midair; slowly, it reaches to take the bottle from him instead. His fingers slip from the glass without resistance. Placing it behind us with a dullthunk, I step in front of him and wait for him to look at me. When he does, I step closer, wrapping my arms around his waist and resting my cheek against his chest. Right where his heart should beat. “You’re a good man, Michal.”

Though his body remains tense, he still brushes a strand of hair behind my ear. “I’m not a man anymore, Célie, and if you’ve listened to anything I’ve said tonight, you know I’ve never been good.”

I lean back to study him through narrowed eyes. “Do you thinkIam good?”

“How can you even ask me that?” He sounds incredulous now, almost angry. “Célie, you’re—” But his voice breaks off, and he looks away swiftly, clearing his throat. “Yes. I think you’re good.”

“Then listen to me. No,listen, Michal.” Reaching up, I catch his face between my palms and force him to look at me. His eyes glint like shards of broken glass in the low light, bright and sharp and painful. “You accuse me of romanticizing nightmares, but I disagree. I’ve always been able to tell the difference.” He exhales harshly, moving to turn his face away, but I stretch up on my toes to keep him still. “The world has never consisted of angels and demons. It consists of people, and people make choices. The Archbishop, Morgane, even my own father—almost every time, they make the wrong one. I know I do, and so do you.”

When I release him this time, he doesn’t turn away. He simply stares at me. He stares at me, and he waits to hear my condemnation. I can feel his body bracing for the impact, canseethe self-disgust resolving in his gaze. And I empathize; for the longest time, I needed someone to tell me the truth—to justtellme that I’m weak, that I’m worthless, that I’ll never be good enough, so I could accept it myself and move on.

I could never accept what wasn’t true, however. And neither can Michal.

Still, Michal has hated himself in private for hundreds and hundreds of years; convincing him otherwise will be a difficult task.Difficult, but not impossible.Perhaps if he hears my words tonight, he’ll listen to them later. Perhaps someday he’ll even believe them.

“There was nothing wrong about trying to save your sister,” I tell him fiercely. “You did your best for the people you love, and it was a brave and admirable decision—more than most of us ever choose to do. I can only hope to someday do the same.” Rising to my toes once more, I press a kiss to his cheek. “Come on. Let’s go talk to Dimitri.”

Chapter Thirty-Three