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Chapter Eleven

Hell Is Empty

In moments of extreme duress, the human body often triggers the psychological response of fight or flight. I remember Filippa describing it to me as a child—the dry mouth, the tunnel vision, the shallow breaths. Even then, I knew Pip would never flee.

I knew I would never fight.

I react now without thinking— eyes, ears, nose, groin —thrusting my head backward, smashing Michal’s nose, whirling to knee him in the nether region. He sidesteps before I can connect, however—his arms snaking around my waist, pulling me with him—and I strike hard thigh instead. I nearly shatter my kneecap instead. Sharp pain spikes through the bone, but I tear free of his macabre embrace and race past him, stumbling in the darkness, searching blindly for a door, any door—

There.

I throw my weight against the heavy wood—once, twice, three times—and when at last it crashes open, I go with it, landing hard on my hands and knees. They shriek with agony as I claw my way forward, upright, as I bolt up the corridor and around the bend. No cold hands seize my shoulders this time; no silvery voice titters a warning.

They’ve let me go.

No. I push the intrusive thought aside, pushing myself faster, up the stairs, each step between us a breath of relief. No, I escaped. I escaped the room, and now I must escape the ship—

Thrusting open another set of doors, I skid to a halt on the quarterdeck, and my stomach plummets with the temperature.

Moonlight glints upon open water.

It yawns before me in every direction, unbroken and unending—except to the west, where a cluster of lights still sparkle on the horizon. Cesarine. Never before have I thought the word with such longing. With such fear . We’ve already departed for God knows where, which means... a hard knot forms in my throat at the realization, making it difficult to breathe.

My friends will never find me.

No.

I dart across the deck to where dozens of sailors work in unison, their movements strangely rhythmic as they handle the sails and steer the helm, as they haul rope and tie knots and scrub floorboards. Unlike Michal and Odessa, their skin flushes with physical exertion, warm and familiar, despite the hollow gleam in their eyes. “Please, monsieur”—I seize the sleeve of the man nearest me—“I—I’ve b-been abducted, and I desperately need your help.” Though my voice climbs steadily higher, shrill now, he doesn’t seem to hear it, brushing past as if I haven’t spoken at all. Glancing back at the double doors, I cling to his arm helplessly. “ Please. Is there some sort of lifeboat on board? I must return to Cesarine—”

He shakes free of my grip easily, trudging onward without seeing me. I stare after him with mounting panic before whirling to another. “Monsieur?” This man sits atop a three-legged stool, whittling a piece of wood into a swan—or at least, it started as a swan. Where the bird’s body should be, the man flicks his wrist mechanically in the same stroke, over and over and over again. Perhaps recklessly, I pluck the knife away, determined to gain his attention. He does nothing to stop me. His gnarled hand, however—it keeps moving as if he still holds the blade, honing the wood into a wickedly sharp point. “Monsieur, can—can you hear me?”

I wave the knife in front of his nose, but he doesn’t so much as blink.

Something is very wrong here.

When I slip a hand beneath his scarf to check his pulse, it beats weakly against my fingertips. Alive, then. Relief crashes through me in a violent wave, except—

I recoil, dropping the knife, before wrenching the scarf from his throat.

Before revealing two pinprick punctures.

They still weep gently, trickling blood down his collar. “Oh God. You—you are injured, monsieur. Here, let me—” When I press against the wounds to stem the bleeding, he opens his mouth and mutters something unintelligible. With another hasty glance at the doors, I lean closer despite myself.

“Always sleep at nightfall, darlings, always say your prayers.” He slurs the words as his eyes flutter closed, as his head begins to sway to the slow, haunting rhythm. “Always wear a silver cross, and always walk in pairs.”

From somewhere in my subconscious, horror dawns.

I know these words. I recognize them as surely as I remember my sister’s stubborn face, my nursemaid’s lilting voice. Oh God.

Oh God oh God oh God

I drop my fingers from his throat, and his hollow eyes snap open. Except they aren’t hollow anymore. Absolute terror streaks through them—bright enough to blind, to burn— and he seizes my wrist in a punishing grip. A great spasm wracks his frame. “R-Run,” he chokes out, his throat working furiously on the word. “ Run. ”

Twisting away from him, I gasp and stumble backward, and he collapses like a marionette. In the next second, however, he straightens. His hands resume their mindless carving, and when he blinks, his eyes empty of all emotion once more. Through it all, his throat continues to drip.

Drip.

Drip.

Spinning wildly, I search for the lifeboat, but now that I’ve seen those marks, I cannot escape them. Everywhere I turn, they leer back at me, adorning the neck of each sailor—some fresh and still bleeding, others crusted, bruised, and inflamed. It cannot be coincidence. These vacant-eyed men have been attacked and subdued—just like Babette and the others, just like me —and these wounds prove it. I clasp a hand to my own throat, shuddering and dashing to the carved handrail. We’ve been sentenced to death, all of us.

I would rather drown than die as these men will die.

With shallow breaths, I lean over the side of the quarterdeck, staring into the black waters below. The waves are fitful tonight. They crash against the ship’s hull in warning, promising retribution for any foolish enough to enter. And perhaps I am a fool. A headstrong, hopeful fool for fleeing Chasseur Tower, for believing I could succeed where Jean Luc and Lou failed. I glance once more at the double doors, but it seems my captors are in no rush to pursue me. Why should they be? They know I cannot escape.

My resolve hardens at the small insult.

I’ve never been a strong swimmer, but if I jump, there is a chance—though infinitesimal—that I might survive the water’s wrath, that I might follow the current back to Cesarine. I have met the Goddess of the Sea, and I call many melusines my friend. Perhaps they will help me.

Before I can change my mind, I clamber onto the handrail and send a silent, desperate prayer up to Heaven.

Cold fingers wrap around my wrist. They drag me back to Hell.

“Going somewhere?” Michal murmurs.

I choke on a sob.

“L-Leave me alone.” Though I try to twist away from him, my efforts prove futile; his hand remains a manacle around my wrist, and I slip on the narrow railing, my stomach plunging as I lose my footing completely and pitch over the side of the ship. Shrieking, I claw at his hand—the only thing keeping me aloft—and dangle midair over the icy waves. He holds my weight easily, tilting his head as he watches me flail.

“I’ll admit that I’m curious.” He arches a brow. “What now, pet? Do you plan to swim to Cesarine?”

“Pull me up!” The plea tears from my throat of its own volition, and my feet search blindly, frantically, for purchase against the side of the ship. “Please, please —”

His grip loosens in response, and I slip an inch, screaming anew. The wind thrashes around us. It tears at my hair, my gown, slicing through the thin fabric and piercing my skin like a thousand needles. And suddenly, my resolve doesn’t feel like resolve at all. It feels like the violent and visceral urge to live . I maul his arm in an attempt to climb up his body, to climb away from certain death below.

It seems I wouldn’t rather drown, after all.

“By all means”—he drops me another inch—“don’t let me stop you. You should know, however, that you’ll freeze to death in seven minutes. Seven ,” he repeats coldly, his face a granite mask of calm. “Are you a strong swimmer, Cosette Monvoisin?”

My nails dig into his sleeve, scoring the leather fabric, as a wave rises high enough to kiss my feet. “N-No—”

“No? Such a pity.”

Another scream ravages my throat—another swell snatches my hem—before at last I find purchase against the ship and vault upward. He doesn’t release my wrist, instead catching my waist with his free hand and guiding me over the handrail in a single fluid motion. Though he deposits me gently on my feet, the ice in his gaze belies the movement. His mouth twists in distaste as he steps away.

When my knees give out a second later, he does nothing to catch me, and I crumple at his feet, wrapping my arms around my torso and shivering uncontrollably. My hem has already frozen in the bitter wind. It sticks to my ankles, my calves, and creeping numbness follows.

I hate him. As fiercely and unequivocally as I have ever hated anyone, I loathe this man.

“Just do it.” Refusing to bare my throat—refusing to search for those needle-thin knives on his person—I glare up at him. He might take my life, but he will not take my dignity. “Pierce my skin. Drain my blood. Use it for whatever foul purpose you used the others’.”

With that same distasteful expression, he crouches, and his sheer size conceals me from the rest of the crew. Not that it matters , I think bitterly. The men still move strangely, like puppets on a string. Not a single eye has flicked in our direction since Michal arrived.

He studies me intently now. His expression reveals nothing. “I have never met one so eager for death as you.” When I do not speak, he shakes his head. “Never fear, however—I am nothing if not a gentleman. Who am I to deny a lady such as yourself?”

A lady.

The word sparks like kindling under my skin, and I sit up with a snarl, nearly striking his nose again. I have never been a violent person. Indeed, I usually abhor the sight of blood, but when a porcelain doll breaks, she is nothing but sharp edges. A strange, secret part of me wants to hurt this man. It wants to draw blood. Stifling the vicious reaction, I speak between clenched teeth. “Do it, then. Why wait?”

His lips curl in a smile. It doesn’t reach his eyes. “Patience is a virtue, pet.”

This close, his distinct lack of scent is unnerving—like snow or marble, or perhaps poison slipped in wine. I cannot stand another second in his presence. “I am not your pet ”—I spit the words in a voice I hardly recognize—“and do not pretend to understand virtue, monsieur. You are no gentleman.”

A low noise of agreement rumbles through his chest, or is it—my eyes narrow incredulously—is it laughter? Is he laughing at me? “Enlighten me, mademoiselle. What does make a gentleman?”

“You patronize me.”

“It’s a simple question.”

When I lurch to my feet in response, cold amusement glints in his black eyes, sparking brighter as I stumble and catch his broad shoulder for balance. My hand recoils instantly. I feel sick at that touch—at the rage in my stomach, the humiliation . I am not who he wants. Not truly. I am not even important enough to kill.

Taking advantage of his vulnerable position, I try to dart past him, but again—between one blink and the next—he moves in front of me, blocking my path. My gaze darts to the double doors.

I try again.

He reappears.

Clasping his hands behind his back, he speaks with cruel levity. “I can only assume your next step is to seek my cousin, appeal to her compassionate—perhaps maternal—nature. Let me spare you the disappointment: Odessa is the least maternal creature alive. Even if she did sympathize with your plight, she would not help you. She answers to me.” He pauses with that dark half smile, inclining his head toward the men around us. “They all answer to me.”

My heart thrashes in my ears as I stare at him.

One second.

Two.

When I pivot and lunge for the railing, he appears before me once more, and I skid to a halt to avoid colliding with his chest. The humor in his eyes gradually fades at whatever he sees in mine. “As you care so little for your own life, allow me to expedite this foolishness.”

With the wave of his hand, every sailor on the ship ceases his duties, lurching upright and marching toward the handrail on the starboard side. They don’t stop there, however. Without hesitation, without a word , they proceed to climb until they stand in a neat row along the handrail, balancing in the gale and awaiting further instruction. The wind heightens to a crescendo as I watch them in horror. Because they look like—like tin soldiers standing there, and suddenly, I don’t see their empty faces at all.

I see mine.

Morgane once rendered my body equally powerless. With her magic, she forced Beau and me to duel each other, forced us to hurt each other in order to send a message to her daughter. Even as my sword plunged into his chest, I could do nothing to stop it, and I knew in that instant—I knew —I would never see such evil again. I knew I would never meet her equal.

When one of the soldiers sways precariously, feet slipping on the handrail, I whirl to Michal with a renewed sense of purpose. “Stop this. Stop this now .”

“You aren’t in any position to make demands, pet. Should you attempt to swim to Cesarine, my men will follow, and they will also—tragically—freeze to death.” His eyes harden into something foreign and frightening then, something feral, as he seizes a lock of my hair, testing it between thumb and forefinger. “Of course, anemia will shorten their life span to less than seven minutes. Perhaps four if they’re lucky. You’ll be forced to watch them all drown.” A pause. “Do you understand?”

Anemia? I retreat from the railing like it’s grown horns, trying to place the word. When I cannot, the rage in my chest flares irrationally. “Let them down,” I snap instead. “I won’t answer anything until they’re safe on deck.”

“There is nowhere safe on deck.” Though he speaks the words with quiet menace, the sailors somehow understand his intent; as swiftly and silently as they climbed atop the handrail, they alight from it to resume their eerie dance. No longer tin soldiers, but marionettes. Michal inclines his head. “Have we reached an accord?”

“How do you control them?” I ask. “The men?”

“How do you bear no scars?”

“La Dame des Sorcières cast a spell to disguise me.” The lie spills from my lips with unexpected relish. I edge to the left as surreptitiously as possible, eyes lighting on the man with his swan-shaped stake. “We knew you planned to abduct me—”

“Petite menteuse.” Michal’s eyes darken further at the falsehood. Little liar.

Despite alarming evidence to the contrary, I cannot help the way my fists curl. “I am not a liar.”

“No?” He shadows my steps as a predator stalking his prey. Patient. Lethal. He thinks I am trapped, and perhaps I am. “When were you born, Cosette Monvoisin?”

“October thirty-first.”

“ Where were you born?”

“L’Eau Melancolique. Specifically, Le Palais de Cristal in Le Présage.” Obstinance—no, pride —drips from each word, from each little detail. Eternal stars in your eyes , Pippa always told me, and thank God for that. Thank God I collect stories like melusines collect treasure; thank God I listen when people speak.

Michal’s jaw clenches. “Your parents’ names?”

“My mother was the fabled witch Angelica. She died in the Battle of Cesarine along with my aunt, La Voisin, who raised me. I do not know my father. My mother never spoke his name.”

“Such a pity,” he repeats softly, but he doesn’t sound apologetic at all. “How did you meet Louise le Blanc?”

I lift my chin. “She threw a mud pie in my face.”

“And Babette Trousset?”

“We grew up together in La F?ret des Yeux.”

“Did you love her?”

“Yes.”

“Who do you love now?”

“His Majesty and king of Belterra, Beauregard Lyon.”

“And how did he propose?”

“He surprised me after my initiation into Chasseur Tower—” Triumph flares within Michal’s black eyes, and his cold smile returns. Too late, I realize my mistake, missing a step and nearly landing in the enthralled sailor’s lap. His wooden stake brushes my hip. Still he moves as if to carve it. Gritting my teeth, I seize the smooth wood and hide it within a fold of Coco’s cloak. If Michal notices, he does not say.

Instead, he lifts a familiar golden ring between us. The diamond glitters in the moonlight.

“I did not realize Cosette Monvoisin had a betrothed,” he says in a voice as frigid as the water below. “How intriguing.”

My free hand shoots to my pocket, and bile burns up my throat when I find it empty. My engagement ring and Babette’s cross—they’re both gone, stolen by this man who is not a man at all but a monster. His black eyes aren’t quite human as they watch me, and his body has grown too still. My own body responds in kind. I hardly dare breathe. “I did not realize she was a Chasseur either,” he says softly. “To my knowledge, only one woman occupies that position, and she is not the Princesse Rouge.”

In the silence that follows, he inhales my scent again. He tilts his head.

And I throw caution to the wind.

Swinging the wooden stake between us, I brandish it like a child with a toy sword. Between my fingers, the swan’s eyes mock me. You cannot hope to overpower this man , they seem to say—or perhaps it is not their voice at all. Perhaps it is mine. You cannot hope to outrun him.

“Stay away from me.” Breathless, I lift my stake higher, furious pressure building behind my eyes. I can do this. I incapacitated Morgane le Blanc. “I—I mean nothing to you. If you won’t kill me, just—let me go. I mean nothing, so let me go .”

Disgusted now, Michal no longer bothers to move with preternatural speed. No. He closes the distance between us slowly, his cold fist wrapping around mine and capturing the stake with laughable ease. He tosses it into the sea without a word. My heart sinks with it.

I sink with it.

“Do not run again,” he warns, his voice softer and deadlier still, “or I will chase you.” He leans closer. “You do not want me to chase you, pet.”

To my credit, my voice doesn’t tremble. “You won’t hurt me.”

“Such conviction .”

The words ring in my ears like a promise.

When he straightens and snaps his fingers, the sailor behind me stands abruptly. Without his stake, his hands have stopped twitching, and whatever magic Michal has cast takes full control of him once more. He stares straight ahead without seeing. “Return her to the ballroom,” Michal tells him. “If she attempts to escape again, I want you to retrieve your precious stake from the seafloor. Do you understand?”

The sailor nods and starts forward. When I don’t immediately follow, he halts, pivoting, and his arm shoots out to snatch my elbow. He wrenches me forward with brute strength. Though I dig in my heels—though I claw at his wrist, hissing and spitting, twisting and kicking and even biting —he continues to march me toward the double doors, undeterred. His blood tastes acrid in my mouth.

“My friends will come for me,” I snarl over my shoulder, grimacing when Michal appears there without warning. “They’ve done it once. They’ll do it again.”

He catches Coco’s cloak between pale fingers. It slips from my shoulders easily, draping down his arms, and the way he studies it—

An icy fist grips my heart as at last he smiles—a true smile, a devastating one—and reveals two long, wickedly sharp canines. The world seems to slow in response. The men, the ship, the ocean—it all fades into gray as I stare at him, as I stare at them , equal parts horrified and transfixed.

Fangs.

The man has fangs.

“Oh, I’m counting on it,” he says, his black eyes glittering.

And in that moment—as I descend into the bowels of his ship—I realize Hell is empty, and the Devil is here.