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But Frederic’s patience has finally reached its end. Shaking his head, he snaps, “Enough of this. We came here to finish the ritual, and there will be no loopholes this time, no ambiguity and no escapes. You will die to resurrect your sister, and she willfinallyreturn to me.” Lifting the knife and grimoire abruptly, near overwrought with purpose, he lunges toward me, and my knees bend in preparation to bolt, to find Michal and flee. To lose this particular battle as a means to winning the war.

And then, quite suddenly, Frederic stops.

The entire garden seems to still with him—to suck in a collective breath—as together, we look down at his chest. At the unfamiliar, black-gloved hand now protruding from it.

Oh my God.

Blood spurts from Frederic’s mouth.

“Pip,” he whispers, his eyes wide and unseeing—searching—but Filippa says nothing in return. She says nothing, and a single tear tracks down his cheek as he collapses to his knees, falling forward without another word.

Dead.

Frederic is dead.

Chapter Twelve

Mon Mariée

A terrible ringing starts in my ears at the sight of Frederic’s body, at his parted mouth and sightless eyes, because—because he can’t be dead. He simplycan’tbe. I retreat a small step, shaking my head in staunch denial. If Frederic is dead, all of this—it reallyhasbeen for nothing, and how will we ever reverse his magic? How will we right all his terrible wrongs? How will Filippa—?No.I grip the trellis for support, refusing to accept the wreath of blood around him. Refusing to acknowledge the sting of my teeth, the burn of my throat.

The scent of roses.

Roses.

My fingers tighten on the wood. These withered blooms behind me cannot possibly be responsible for such an overwhelming scent. It seems to envelop me, to caress my cheeks with phantom hands, mingling with candle smoke and something else—an awareness, or perhaps a memory. It crawls across my skin like ice until I shiver with it, until familiar darkness blooms at the edges of my vision.

Whoever killed Frederic, I know him. Irecognizehim.

And when I look at him for the first time, my knees nearly give way.

“You’re welcome for that,” he says wryly.

At the sound of his voice, even the wind stops to listen, theautumn leaves floating eerily between us. My sense of dread only deepens at Frederic’s heart in his palm—because it no longer resembles a heart at all. Now it resembles a withered black husk. Dropping it in distaste, the man dusts his gloved fingers on the leg of his pants. “Honestly, Filippa, I’ve only had ears for a week, and I wanted to stick them with something sharp every time he spoke. You owe us a very long explanation.”

My mouth parts in shock at his callousness, and the ringing in my ears reaches a fever pitch.

“TheNecromancer, he called himself.” With a grimace, the man drops to his knee beside Frederic, plucking up the grimoire and wiping its cover on the grass. “Even his blood smells foul. Not like yours,” he adds in an offhand voice, casting me a cursory yet appreciative glance. “I couldn’t smell you before, but now I understand what all the fuss is about.” Pausing thoughtfully, he extracts several glass vials from his cloak. “Though I suppose I’m really smellingmyself, aren’t I? Our scents are intertwined.” To Filippa, he adds, “You might want to leave for this next part, darling. Go check on our little friend.”

Without waiting for her to respond, he seizes Frederic’s knife with quick efficiency, testing its heft in his palm before raising it high overhead. My eyes widen as I realize his purpose a split second before he strikes. With a cry, I leap forward to stop him—to snatch at his wrist—but he clicks his tongue reprovingly. In an instant, figures detach themselves from the shadows around us. Though the roses hide most of their putrid scent, they cannot disguise all of it. I freeze mid-step, eyes widening.

Revenants.

Everywhere.

“Ah, ah, ah,” the man says with a wink. “We mustn’t touch.”

And without further ado, he drives the knife deep into Frederic’s throat, collecting the blood that spurts in a sickening fountain. The scent of it doesn’t provoke my fangs, however; instead I fight the urge to retch from the poisonous stench. “Not very pleasant, is it?” The man stoppers his first vial, then his second, examining each one in the overcast light. “Still, the blood of a Dame Rouge... who can afford to waste it?”

What ishappening?

“F-Filippa?” Horrified, I retreat to the trellis once more. “Who—?”

Still cradling her stomach, Filippa stares at Frederic’s blood for a long moment. Then, quite abruptly, she turns on her heel. “Remember our deal,” she says flatly over her shoulder, and the man inclines his head in response. Thorns prick at my blistered palm as she just... leaves me here, and the fount of Frederic’s blood slowly subsides.

The man before me whistles a merry tune, and I—

I’ve had enough.