Page 80

Le Lien Éternel

We take a different route back to the castle, avoiding the stream and instead picking our way through particularly heavy undergrowth. Nervousness pricks at my skin as I avoid Michal’s gaze, but with each step, I can feel his resolve hardening as the teardrops have done in our absence.

The entire forest now sparkles with ice.

They glitter from the fronds like tiny crystals, slick and sharp, and I’d rather stab each of them into my eyes than have this conversation. Exhaling a slow, wintry breath, I search for something to say that doesn’t involve my sister. Something to postpone this conversation just a little while longer. “So—er—why do you think all ofthis”—I gesture helplessly to the knee-high ferns around us—“happened?” When his black eyes cut to mine incredulously, I add, “The ice, I mean. The tears are all, well—frozen now, but of course you can already see that.”

He shakes his head. “Célie—”

“The veil must be affecting the temperature. I saw a small hole earlier where a revenant must’ve torn through, and the spirit realm—it’s much colder than ours. It always seems to be snowing there, or perhaps it’s just ash—I’ve never been able to tell—but that would explain why the temperature is plummeting here too.” The words fall from my lips faster than strictly necessary, thenfaster still, until I titter with nervous laughter. It burns all the way up my throat. “Still pretty, though, isn’t it? All this ice. It makes me think of Yuletide gifts and snow-white scarves, of ice palaces and orange trees and—and—” I stumble a step at that, nearly slipping on a rock between ferns, but Michal’s hand snakes out to catch my elbow.

It sears my skin through the violet silk of my sleeve.

“Célie.” A muscle ticks in his jaw as he stares down at me, and for just a moment, something soft—almost vulnerable—shadows his features. I brace for the inevitable, my thoughts scattering wildly for something else,anythingelse, to postpone his next words. “Moje sunce. We need to discuss Filippa.”

Filippa.

My eyes flutter shut as her name drifts between us, as fragile as the snowflakes beginning to fall. Though I cannot feel their cold, I still feel their damp, and each kisses my face as a memory. Filippa lacing her fingers through mine as we race toward the river with mud on our boots and leaves in our hair. Laughing. Dancing.

Filippa bowing her dark head over a storybook, tracing each word on the page.

Filippa peeling an orange for me. Filippa crying. Filippa throwing a knife at my back. Filippa standing over Frederic’s broken body, clutching her stomach and turning away without a word.

My eyes snap open at the last, and the snowflakes catch in my lashes; they blur my vision until everything is white. That wretched lump rises in my throat again, but I swallow it back down.

Because my sister is a revenant now, and no amount of tears will change that. According to Mathilde, each revenant must diein order to mend the veil—to mend the natural order, the naturalworld. How can I condemn my own sister, however? How can I send her back to the grave she never deserved?

When Michal brushes the snow from my eyes—his touch gentle—inexplicable anger cracks open my chest. Because it isn’t fair.Noneof this has been fair, and I haven’t had a single choice in any of it. All at once, it becomes too much, toopainful, and I recoil from his hand as if he slapped me. “No.”

Though a muscle feathers in his jaw, his fingers cling to mine, refusing to let me go. “You heard Mathilde, Célie. The veil isn’t going to heal itself.”

“Perhaps I don’t care.” I lift my chin to ensure he hears every single word. “I am not discussing this with you.”

“Why?” His voice hardens almost imperceptibly, but I still hear it. I stillfeelit. “I thought we werefriends.”

“Wearefriends—”

“Do friends not communicate?” He shifts slightly closer as if unable to stop himself, and warmth suffuses my belly at that small movement. “Do friends not trust each other to help? To tell the truth?”

The truth.Even the words make me want to laugh, or perhaps scream. Because Michal and I have never told the truth—at least not all of it—and never to each other. Since we first met outside that graveyard, we’ve danced around whatever this is between us, ignoring it when possible and disguising it with games and questions when not. We have never been honest, yetnowhe wants to speak openly? How convenient when it involves my sister instead of him.

Instead ofus.

“You want to communicate? You want to tell the truth? Fine.” Gripping his shirt, I rise to my tiptoes to speak directly against his lips. I don’t pause to examine the instinct, to question the ends or the means. “Tell me about blood sharing.”

His eyes narrow. “That isn’t what I meant.”

“It’s what youshould’vemeant, though, right? I mean, everyone seems to have an opinion on the topic, but I still haven’t heard much about it fromyou.” Before he can speak, I plunge onward recklessly. Breathlessly. “Your eyes glowed like mine—you were able to see Mila and Guinevere without touching me—and I caught you during our race earlier, which you said has never happened. Is that what you meant by vampires changing when they feed from each other? They assume each other’s abilities?”

His grip turns slightly possessive. “Among other things.”

“What other things?”

When he hesitates, I step even closer, my chest grazing his stomach. I should care about this conversation. I should care about it very much, but all I can seem to think about is that small point of contact between us—the way his abdominal muscles clench at the brush of my breasts, the way his hands slide up my wrists to my elbows. “What other things, Michal?” I whisper.

At the sound of my voice, he curses under his breath, releasing me like I’ve burned him and stalking to the nearest tree; they grow farther apart here—vast and primeval—giving me plenty of time to chase after him. Which I do. Immediately. Snatching his arm, I say, “Justtellme—”

He whirls again at my touch, and any sane person would flee such a fierce gaze looming above them. I am not sane, apparently, as the sight of his intensity—such rawemotionfrom someone socontrolled, so cold—only engulfs my body with fresh heat. “It’s called Le Lien Éternel,” he says tightly. “What we’re doing—blood sharing—it forms the Eternal Bond, and we have to stop before it’s too late.” At my rapt expression, he exhales a harsh breath and says, “Please stop looking at me like that.”