Page 7

“Someone else, then?”

“Thereisno one else.” The words land like knives between us—too sharp, even to my own ears—and he blinks, flinching away from them. Shame cracks open my chest in response, and instantly, I move to—I don’t know,consolehim. He keeps his distance, however. “I’m sorry.”I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry.The words seem to bleed from every part of me until I’m drowning in blood—mine, yes, but also theirs. My teeth ache at the scent of it, and my ears ring as Filippa’s laughter echoes in a disorienting wave through the room. “Something is happening to me—”

“Whatis happening to you?” Lou leans forward on the table, her eyes narrowing suspiciously. “If no one is here, why did you shout? What is goingon?”

I shake my head reflexively. “I didn’t—I didn’t mean to—”

“What aren’t you telling us, Célie?”

“N-Nothing—”

“You’re lying.”

“No, I’m—I’m not—” My teeth descend at that moment, however, and Filippa’s laughter reaches a fever pitch. It deafens me, and I clench my hands against the building pressure in my head, still shaking, still trying and failing to convince myself this isn’t real.This isn’t real. None of this is real—

I hear the knife before I see it.

Spinning again, I catch the silver blade a split second before it pierces the back of my skull, and in the corridor beyond, something shifts in the darkness. Something... ripples. “The veil,” I breathe incredulously, and before my very eyes, its shorn edges mend themselves; Filippa’s laughter dies instantly. Silence descends, and with it, a sickening sense of relief. Unbidden, I glance down at my fingers, not noticing how they burn until Coco wrenches the knife away.

The veryrealknife.

I’m not imagining things this time. Though I don’t know what happened to Filippa on All Hallows’ Eve, this pain in my hand is real. That tear in the veil was real, which means the person who opened it must be real too... if they’re a person at all.

Meeting Lou’s incredulous gaze, I say, “I think my sister is haunting me.”

Chapter Three

How to Commune with the Dead

“What we need,” Lou pronounces an hour later, “is a séance.”

Seated at the kitchen table once more, Beau groans and drops his head into his hands as a storm builds outside the windows. Thunder rumbles in the distance. “That is not what we need, Lou. A séance is never whatanyoneneeds.”

“Nonsense.” Pale yet determined, Lou flits around the living room, gathering every unlit candle she can find while I hold my breath, watching her with carefully clamped limbs. My head still pounds, and a halo rings my vision. “If Filippa wants to play with us, we need to learn the rules of the game, or we can never hope to win. Oh, don’t look at me like that,” she adds. “She just tried to kill Célie. Clearly, she isn’t feeling very friendly. Don’t you want to know why—to know what shewants?”

“No,” he says in exasperation. “I have never wanted to know anythingless—”

“She didn’t want to kill me.” I speak the words stiffly, moving my lips as little as possible. “I think she wanted to make me feed... properly.” Though I cannot bring myself to clarify further—not with them so close to me—they seem to understand all the same; Beau blanches, recoiling, while Lou shakes her head and Coco rolls her eyes.

“How supportive,” she mutters.

Lou dumps an armful of candles in front of us. “But why? What does she possibly stand to gain by our untimely deaths?”

“We are rather important.” Beau gestures around the table without a shred of humility, but he’s also right—between the four of them, they rule the greater part of the kingdom’s population. “No sense pretending otherwise.”

“Maybe it isn’t about us at all.” Reid straightens the candles compulsively. “Maybe it’s a far simpler matter of misery loving company.” Then, to me: “What makes you think your sister will answer this summons after throwing a knife at you? It doesn’t sound like she wants to talk.”

I clear the fire from my throat. “She won’t have a choice.”

Though Lou grins in approval, I tear my gaze away from them, focusing instead on the scent of the peonies in their painted vase. Sweet and rosy with a hint of citrus. Because I don’t have time for this deep, unending ache in my stomach. Filippa just shattered the pretty illusion of safety my friends created for me—and with Filippa, unfortunately, comes Frederic.

The Necromancer.

I tried not to think of him. I coaxed myself into believing that his plans failed—or, at the very least, that they ended with Filippa. That perhaps he would leave us alone to re-create the life Morgane stole from them. That perhaps he and Pip would live happily ever after, and I would never need to find them.

Standing abruptly, I sweep the vase of peonies aside to make room for more candles, which Lou drops unceremoniously into my hands. Beau shakes his head in disbelief as she darts off in search of chalk. “This is demented,” he breathes. “What if Filippa isn’t even a ghost? What if she is somethingelsenow, and—and wedredge up all sorts of nastiness with this little trespass—”

Scoffing, Lou continues to rummage through the cabinets. “It’s better to ask forgiveness than permission.”