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Chapter Ten

A Bird in Her Cage

Wake up.

The words reverberate through my mind in a voice that’s not my own—in a voice familiar, in a voice deep and rich—and my eyes respond immediately, snapping open at the imperious command. Except... I blink, recoiling slightly, when the darkness remains absolute. It feels as if I haven’t opened my eyes at all. Not even a sliver of light pierces the black around me.

My heart begins to pound.

Thump-thump, are-you

Thump-thump, fright-ened

Thump-thump, sweet-ing?

I slam my eyes shut once more. Because the dark of my eyelids is far better than the dark of the unknown, the dark of my nightmares , and—and where am I? Confusion scatters my thoughts, heightening my senses until I reel with them, until they converge in a sickening rush. This place smells not of fish but of something sweet and sharp, something oddly metallic, which means I’ve left the Doleur behind. Perhaps—perhaps I’m safe in Lou’s apartment? Yes. Perhaps I no longer feel the cold air of Brindelle Park because I fell asleep on her chaise. Perhaps they doused every light because they didn’t want to wake me. Yes, of course—

Dull pain stirs in my head as I nod deliriously.

Wincing, I touch the knot at my temple, and the entire delusion spins out of control, crashing to the ground at my feet. Because Lou did not give me this lump. She did not creep up behind me, unseen, and knock me unconscious with a single crushing blow.

You do know it’s dangerous to wander alone at night with a killer on the loose?

Oh God.

The entire world sways as I lurch from my seat, but small, cold hands descend on my shoulders with startling speed. With startling strength . They push me back down, accompanied by a dulcet feminine voice.

“Ah, ah, ah. You mustn’t flee.”

My heart sinks horribly.

At the woman’s words, a single candle ignites across the room— far across the room, which spans nearly thrice the distance I expected. Vague shapes emerge in its wake: thick, ornate carpets, heavy drapes, and—and carved ebony boxes. At least two of them, perhaps more. The candle illuminates very little. With that flicker of light, however, the endless dark finally breaks, and my thoughts are able to focus with my vision. My breath steadies. My heartbeat slows.

This darkness—it isn’t real. Wherever I am, it is not a coffin with my sister, and Morgane le Blanc is dead.

She is dead , and she is never coming back.

“Are you frightened?” the voice asks, genuinely curious.

“Should I be?”

Humorless laughter thrums in response.

How much time has passed? When we parted ways, Lou expected me at her apartment in one hour. If I don’t arrive, she’ll come looking for me; they’ll all come looking for me—Jean Luc and Father Achille and the Chasseurs included. I need to stall until then. I need to—to engage the killer somehow. If she isn’t interested in conversation, Coco’s knives remain tucked in the sleeves of this cloak, and my hands remain free. I can kill if I must.

I have killed before.

“Who are you?” Despite the cold touch on my shoulders, my voice rings hard and clear as the crystal chandelier overhead. I am so tired of being afraid. “Where am I?”

The woman leans around me, and her long sable hair falls over my shoulder, a touch lighter and warmer than my own. It smells of marigolds. Of sandalwood. “Why, we’re on a ship, darling. Where else?” With a featherlight touch, she plucks the crimson hood from my head, tilting to examine me closer. “I am Odessa, and you are every bit as lovely as rumor claims.” In my periphery, she rubs a lock of my hair between her thumb and forefinger, and I hear rather than see the frown on her face. “A good deal less scarred, however. The other one had whole constellations of them—she carved all twelve stars of the Woodwose onto her left foot.”

Scarred? Constellations? I blink at the words. They seem... strangely irrelevant given our situation, in which this woman has assaulted me, abducted me, and stowed me in the belly of a ship like a piece of—

Wait.

A ship?

Oh no. Oh no no no—

When the floor undulates in confirmation, I tamp down on my hysteria swiftly, viciously. I cannot afford to lose my head. Not again. Not like I did with Babette. My eyes flick to the candle across the room, to the wide windows behind it, but the curtains conceal whatever lies outside. I can only pray that we still float in the harbor, that we haven’t yet departed for the open sea. If the former, Lou practically lives next door; only a handful of streets separate her apartment and the water. If the latter, well...

I force a smile, unsure what else to do.

“It is... enthralling to make your acquaintance, Odessa,” I say at last.

“ Enthralling. ” The woman seems to taste the word, intrigued, before she drifts away to perch on one of the ebony boxes. “Not quite a lie, but far superior to the truth. Well done.”

My breath catches at my first true sight of her face, and I stare at her, rendered momentarily mute. “Er—”

She arches a supercilious brow. “Yes?”

Thick waves frame her large, deep brown eyes—wide-set and upturned, almost feline—and high cheekbones, bow lips. She has painted them plum. They match the satin of her low-cut gown, the jewels of her lavish necklace. Against the pallor of her amber skin, the entire ensemble is... well, enthralling . I shake myself mentally. “May I ask why we are on a ship?”

“Of course you may.” Odessa tilts her head, frown deepening, and suddenly, she is the cat and I am the bird in a cage. Despite her words, fresh wariness prickles my skin. Why hasn’t she restrained me? Why are there no ropes? No chains? As if sensing my thoughts, she leans forward, dousing half of her beautiful face in shadow. “Such a clever turn of phrase, that—though undoubtedly polite, you simultaneously request my permission to ask and proceed to ask without my permission.”

“I—” I blink again, struggling to keep pace with the uncanny woman. “My apologies, mademoiselle.” When she continues to simply stare, however—those protuberant eyes entirely too intent upon my face—I cast about for something else to say. Anything else to say. I need just a few more moments before Lou and the others arrive. “Er, please forgive my ignorance, but you aren’t anything like I expected.”

“Really? And what did you expect?”

My brows furrow. “To be completely honest, I don’t know. Cruelty? A general air of malevolence? You have killed five people.”

“Oh, she’s killed many more than that,” another voice— that voice—interjects, and I nearly leap from my skin, squeaking and whirling to face the figure directly behind me.

Him.

The cold man.

He stands entirely too close—too silent —watching me with a derisive smirk. Cheeks flushing, I clutch my chest and try to speak without gasping, without betraying the sudden spike of my pulse. “H-How long have you been standing there?”

When he laughs, it is low and dangerous. “Long enough.”

“Yes, well, it’s quite rude to—to—” The words quickly wither on my tongue, however. Though it is rude to conceal one’s presence among company, it is altogether ruder to knock a defenseless woman unconscious and drag her into one’s foul den of iniquity. This man has done both. For all his refinery, he seems to have missed a few crucial lessons in etiquette. “Why am I here?” I ask instead. “Are you planning to exsanguinate me like Babette and the others?”

“Perhaps.” Clasping his hands behind his back, he circles me with predatory grace. The candlelight paints his stark colors—the white of his skin, the silver of his hair, the black of his coat—almost golden. It does nothing to soften him, however. His eyes could draw blood as they lock with mine. “Did you tell your little friend about the roses?”

“Why do you want to know?”

“You should answer him,” Odessa says from her perch on the ebony box. “My cousin grows quite tedious if he doesn’t get his way.”

The man’s black eyes cut to hers. “A family trait, I’m sure.”

“No need to be prickly, darling.”

When at last he halts in front of me, I lift my face, pretending to be obstinate when in reality, I cannot look away. I have never met a person with features so fine, so feral . Still, unease skitters down my spine as he tucks a single finger beneath my chin. “Who—who are you?” I ask.

“I am much more interested in who you are, pet.”

With a dramatic sigh, Odessa slides from the lid of her box. “Really, cousin, you should be more specific in the future. I followed your instruction to the letter.” She lifts three fingers, revealing black nails, long and wickedly sharp. An onyx gem glitters on her knuckle, connected by a fine silver chain to the bracelet on her wrist. “Black hair, crimson cloak, companion of La Dame des Sorcières. She meets all three criteria—and she certainly smells like a Dame Rouge—but...” Her plum lips purse as together, the two regard me with what looks absurdly like suspicion. “She bears no scars.”

There is that word again— scars . And did Odessa say I smell like a Dame Rouge? How could I possibly—

Realization swoops low and swift in my stomach—sickening— as the pieces click into place, but I fight to keep my expression impassive, keenly aware of their scrutiny. Keenly aware that I’m still wearing Coco’s cloak.

I am not the only companion of La Dame des Sorcières with black hair.

On the wings of that realization comes another, equally chilling: The other one had whole constellations of them—she carved all twelve stars of the Woodwose onto her left foot. These people knew Babette. They knew her intimately enough to see her bare feet, to remember the configuration of her scars. They killed her. Certainty swells in my chest. They killed her, and now—now they’re after Coco. Curiously, the knowledge doesn’t make my heart pound or my hands tremble like it should. No. It straightens my spine, and I jerk away from the man’s touch.

They will not have Coco.

Not if I can help it.

“Is that so?” Despite my best efforts, his grip tightens on my chin, and he tilts my face back and forth in search of scars, his gaze touching my eyes, my cheekbones, my lips, my throat. His jaw hardens at the last. “What is your name?” he finally asks, and his voice is softer now. Sinister. I know better than to ignore him. My instincts tingle all over again, warning me to remain still, warning me that this man is more than he seems.

When I swallow hard, stalling, considering my response, his eyes track the movement. “Why do you want to know?” I finally ask.

“That isn’t an answer, pet.”

“That isn’t either.”

Lip curling in displeasure, he releases my chin, but all relief shrivels when instead he crouches before me, his eyes directly in line with my own. I do my best to ignore the way his forearms rest against his knees, the way his fingers lace together as he considers me. Deceptively casual. His hands are large, and I know firsthand how strong they are. He could crush my throat in a second. As if reading my thoughts, he murmurs, “This will be much more pleasant if you play nicely.”

I repeat his own words. “And if I refuse?”

“Unlike you, I do possess the means to force your acquiescence.” He chuckles darkly. “Again, however—they won’t be pleasant, and they won’t be polite.” When still I say nothing—locking my jaw—his eyes narrow. His knee brushes my shin, and even that slight touch bolts up my spine, lifting the hair on my neck. In this position, almost kneeling at my feet, he should look submissive, perhaps reverent, yet he couldn’t be more in control. He leans closer. “Shall I tell you exactly what I intend to do to you?”

“I told you he could be tedious.” Strolling to the candle, Odessa plucks a scroll from the table beneath it. She unfurls it without interest before tossing it aside and selecting another. To her cousin, she says, “ Do hurry up, Michal. I long to be rid of this foul place.”

“You said you longed for fresh air, cousin.”

“The air in Cesarine is far from fresh—and don’t think I failed to hear the judgment in your voice just now. Air baths have enormous health benefits.” She waves an errant hand and sifts through the other scrolls, her attention already drifting. “Really, must you always be so closed-minded? A bit of naked window time might do you good—”

“ Enough , Odessa.”

To my surprise, she complies without protest—without rolling her eyes or muttering an insult under her breath—and that immediate obedience is somehow more ominous than any threat the man could’ve given. Lou would have laughed in his face. Jean Luc would have attacked in a second.

I suspect both of them would already be dead.

The man— Michal —takes a measured, controlled breath before returning his attention to me, but even I can see his patience unraveling. He arches a brow, his eyes darker than before. Flat, frightening black. “Well? How shall you have me, pet? Pleasant or unpleasant?” I stare at him, resolute, until he nods with bleak satisfaction. “Very well—”

“C-Cosette.” I force the name through gritted teeth, refusing to break eye contact. A good liar never looks away, never hesitates or falters, but I have never been a good liar. I pray to God now to help me become one. “My name is Cosette Monvoisin.”

His expression darkens further at the obvious lie. “ You are Cosette Monvoisin?”

“Of course I am.”

“Take off your cloak.”

“I— What?”

Perhaps he sees the panic in my eyes, senses the sudden tension in my body, because he leans closer still. His legs press into mine now. His lips curl in a hard grin. “Take off your cloak, Mademoiselle Cosette, and show us your scars. As a Dame Rouge, you must have them somewhere.”

I lurch to my feet—partly to feign outrage, partly to escape his touch—and the chair crashes to the ground behind me. Odessa glances up from her scrolls, curiosity piqued, as my cheeks flame and my hands clench. Please, please, please , I pray, but I cannot turn back now . I must lie as I’ve never lied before.

“How dare you, monsieur? I am the Princesse Rouge, and I will not be spoken to in such a lewd and familiar manner. You said yourself that you can—that you can smell the magic flowing in my veins. Clearly, I am outnumbered and outmatched, so please, heed your cousin and enact whatever plans you have for this evening. Let us not draw out the unpleasantness. Tell me what you want, and I shall endeavor to oblige—or kill me here and now. I do not fear death,” I add, fixing him with my fiercest stare, “so do not presume to—to frighten me with idle threats.”

Still crouching, thoroughly unfazed, he watches my tirade with scathing apathy. “Liar.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“You’re a liar, pet. Every word you’ve spoken since we’ve met has been false.”

“That isn’t—”

He clicks his tongue in gentle reprimand, shaking his head, and rises slowly to his feet like a shadow unfurling. I cannot help but yield a step. “What is your name?” he asks, and something in his voice—perhaps the sudden stillness of his frame—warns this will be the last time.

“I told you. I am Cosette Monvoisin.”

“Are you eager for death, Cosette Monvoisin?”

I retreat another step subconsciously. “I— Of course I’m not eager for death, but death—it’s inevitable, monsieur. It f-finds us all eventually.”

“Does it?” He closes the distance between us without seeming to move. One second, he stands with hands clasped behind him over there , and the next, he stands with hands clasped behind him right here . “You speak as if you know him.”

I exhale sharply. “How did you—”

“Could it be that he has already found you?” He lifts a pale hand to my collar. Though I stiffen, he merely tugs the strings of Coco’s cloak, and it tumbles to our feet in a ripple of crimson fabric. He brushes the hair from my shoulder. My knees begin to quake.

“Wh-Who?”

“Death,” he breathes, bending low to—to scent the curve of my neck. Though he doesn’t quite touch me, I feel his nearness like the lightest of fingers trailing down my throat. When I gasp and pull away, he straightens with a frown—unaffected, perhaps oblivious—and glances back at Odessa. “Blood magic doesn’t flow through her veins.”

“No,” she says blithely, still reading her scrolls. Ignoring us completely. “Something else does.”

“Do you recognize the scent?”

She lifts an elegant shoulder. “Not at all. It isn’t quite human, though, is it?”

I stare from one to the other as silence falls between them, convinced I misheard over the riotous beat of my heart. When neither speaks—when they don’t snort in disbelief, or perhaps laugh at their own clever joke—I shake my head and snatch Coco’s cloak from the floor. “You’re both quite mistaken.” Throwing it over my shoulders, I draw my hand into the left sleeve. Cheeks still hot, I press the latch, and her knife slides into my palm.

Lou and the others should’ve arrived by now. Either they cannot find my trail, or I am already lost at sea. The cause, however, no longer matters. The effect remains the same. I am running out of time, and these—these creatures cannot be allowed to roam free. If they leave the ship, they’ll undoubtedly resume their hunt for Coco, and here—now—I still maintain the element of surprise. My gaze drifts from Michal’s eyes to his ears to his nose to his—lower parts.

He arches a wry brow.

It doesn’t matter who you’re up against, Célie—everyone has a groin somewhere. Find it, kick as hard as you can, and get the hell out of there.

With a deep breath, I throw caution to the winds and lunge—

Between one blink and the next, Michal moves again, and suddenly, he isn’t in front of me at all, but directly behind, seizing my wrist and twisting, lifting the knife in my hand to my own throat. “I wouldn’t do that if I were you,” he breathes.