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Chapter Twelve

The Isle of Requiem

I never learned what happened to my sister on the night of her death.

The night of her disappearance, however— that night I remember with excruciating clarity. I remember we argued. She’d snuck through our nursery window every night that week, all without a word to me. I still didn’t even know the man’s name . In my kinder moments, I tried to see the situation through her eyes: twenty-four years old and still sharing a nursery with her little sister. Twenty-four years old without a husband, without children, without a home and situation of her own. Perhaps she felt embarrassed. Perhaps the man lacked the title or wealth to procure her hand, so she kept their romance a secret. Perhaps a dozen other things that wouldn’t have mattered to me—her sister —because I loved her. I would’ve shared a nursery until the end of time; I would’ve eagerly championed her mysterious man, regardless of his title or wealth. I would’ve giggled with her under the blankets, would’ve oiled the window hinges for their secret rendezvous myself.

She never told me about him, however.

She never told me anything.

In my less kind moments, I wondered if she even loved me at all.

“This has to stop,” I hissed that night after the clock struck midnight, after the telltale creak of floorboard. Flinging my coverlet aside, I swung my feet from the bed and glared at her. She froze with one hand on the window latch. “Enough is enough, Filippa. Whoever they are shouldn’t ask you to creep around in the dead of night to meet them. It’s too dangerous.”

Relaxing slightly, she edged the window open. Her cheeks glowed with excitement, or perhaps something else. “Go back to sleep, ma belle.”

“I will not .” My fists curled at the term of endearment because lately, it didn’t feel endearing at all. It felt diminutive, derisive, as if she mocked me for something I didn’t understand. And it infuriated me. “How long before Maman and Pére catch you? You know they’ll take it out on both of us. I won’t be able to see Reid for a month .”

She rolled her eyes and hitched a foot over the sill, trying and failing to hide the knapsack under her cloak. “Quelle tragédie.”

“What is your problem —?”

With an impatient sigh, she said, “Reid isn’t for you, Célie. How many times must I tell you? He’s for the Church , and the sooner you realize that, the sooner you can do us all a favor and move on.” She scoffed, shaking her head, as if I was the stupidest girl in the world. “He’s going to break your heart.”

But it was more than that. For all her sisterly bluster, she used to like Reid; she used to take no greater pleasure than forcing the two of us to play with her, to catch snowflakes and pick oranges and call her Votre Majesté, le magnifique Frostine, after her favorite fairy tale . Something had changed between them in the past year. Something had changed between us . “Says the woman currently dangling from the drainpipe,” I snapped, inexplicably stung. “Why hasn’t he introduced himself, Pip? Could it be he isn’t interested in a real relationship? At least Reid still wants me when the sun comes up.”

Her emerald eyes flashed. “And you’ll never know a world without sunlight, will you? Not our darling Célie. You’ll live forever safe in the light, and you’ll never wonder, never question, never glance behind to see the shadows you cast. That’s the problem with those who live in the sun.” She stepped from the sill onto the branch outside our window, turning back to add with brutal efficiency, “I feel sorry for you, little sister.”

They were the last words she ever spoke to me.

As I watch the candlelight flicker on Odessa’s face now—trapped in the dark hull of a ship—I cannot help but wonder if my sister regretted opening that window. If she regretted stepping into the shadows. Though I’ll never know, not truly, I can’t imagine that she would’ve accepted her fate. She would’ve kicked and scratched and clawed against Morgane until her body gave out—because Pippa was strong. Even at her most secretive and infuriating, she was skillful, and she was sure. She was confident. Convicted.

As if I’d ever let anything happen to you, Célie.

She’d roll over in her grave if she knew I’d given up.

Straightening in my seat, I say to Odessa, “I don’t suppose you’ll tell me where we’re going.”

She doesn’t look up at me, still wholly engrossed in her scrolls across the room. “You suppose correctly.”

“Or how much longer it’ll take to get there?”

“I fail to see how it matters.” My gaze narrows at her clipped tone. She’s right, of course. Whether we sail for another five minutes or another five hours, I cannot hope to escape until we reach land. As if sensing my thoughts, Odessa arches a sardonic brow. “You’ve developed the dangerous air of desperation and stupidity that always precedes an escape attempt. It reeks of failure.”

I lift my chin. “You don’t know that it’ll fail.”

“I do.”

“What are you reading?”

With a barely discernible roll of her eyes, she returns her attention to the scrolls, effectively ending the conversation. I resist the urge to ask again, if only because I have little—no, zero —idea how to escape this ship after we dock. I know nothing of these creatures except for a vague, nagging sensation in the back of my mind. Have I told you the story of Les éternels? When I tug on the memory, it unravels slowly into silver brushes and golden freckles and snow-white scarves. Into Evangeline’s voice on a crisp October night. They’re born in the ground—cold as bone, and just as strong—without heart or soul or mind. Only impulse. Only lust .

I twist the fraying ribbon around my wrist, thinking of Michal’s black eyes, his adamantine skin, and resist the urge to scowl.

When the ship at last slows, dropping anchor, Odessa takes my elbow in her cold hand. “Where are we?” I ask again, but she merely sighs and leads me above deck once more.

Gray touches the horizon as we step from the gangway, and a truly sordid portrait stretches before us: an isle made of rock, wholly isolated from the rest of the world. On either side of us, dark water churns against sea stacks and a rugged beach. I focus on the waves, on the foam of each crest, to remain calm. To think . Because Evangeline had more to say that night in our nursery. The notes of her lullaby still linger in my ears, but I cannot quite hear them.

Not in this onslaught of noise.

My eyes widen at the absolute pandemonium around us.

Just ahead, the sailors dart throughout the harbor, their eyes mysteriously clear, shouting orders and calling to loved ones. Even the man with the stake envelops a small boy in a bone-crushing hug. Relief trickles through me at the sight—that this man has lived to see another day, that he hasn’t met a watery grave—but then Odessa pushes me forward, her presence too cold. Too inhuman. Evangeline continues to whisper in my memory.

The first one came to our kingdom from a faraway land, living in the shadows, spreading her sickness to the people here. Infecting them with her magic.

At least Michal has vanished.

Swallowing hard, I track another child as she slips through the adults, nicking the watch from a sailor’s wrist. Her skin and hair gleam silver in the pale light, and she—

My mouth falls open.

She has gills.

“Get back here!” Though the sailor lunges for her, she giggles and ducks beneath his outstretched arms, diving into the sea. Beneath her skirt, her legs ripple and shimmer, transforming into two fins, and she flicks them playfully before diving deeper. With a scowl, the man tries to pursue but instead plows into an enormous white wolf, who snaps at his heels in displeasure. “Fucking werewolves,” he curses under his breath, lifting his hands and backing away slowly. “Fucking melusines.”

I stare after him in disbelief before whirling to face Odessa. “What is this place?”

“Rather persistent, aren’t you?” Agitated, she prods me past the man as he disappears into a seedy pub. “Fine. Welcome to L’ile de Requiem, aptly christened by Michal, who thinks he’s enormously clever. Try not to draw attention to yourself. The locals enjoy fresh blood.”

The Isle of Requiem.

Though part of me shudders at the macabre name, the larger part cannot help but turn and wonder at the werewolf, at the woman behind who heals a sailor’s throat with the flick of her wrist. A witch. My mouth parts incredulously. Witches and werewolves and mermaids, all inhabiting the same isle. I’ve never heard of such a thing.

My father often visited faraway lands as vicomte, of course, but he never allowed Pippa or me to join him. I pored over each map in his study instead—of Cesarine, of Belterra, of the entire continent—and memorized each landmark, each body of water.

There should be nothing but ocean off the eastern coast of Belterra.

“This is impossible.” I crane my neck in each direction, determined to see everything, momentarily distracted by this isle that shouldn’t exist. “I—I’ve studied geography. My father practically papered our walls with maps, and I’ve never—”

“Of course you haven’t. This place does not exist on maps and in studies .” Though Odessa strives to sound indifferent, an edge sharpens her voice as we enter the crush. A bite of tension. Her hand is steel on my elbow. “Honestly, darling, be difficult if you’d like, but never be dense. And for the love of all things holy, stop staring .”

She glances swiftly over her shoulder, nodding as two men step into place behind us. No, not men at all. Les éternels. Judging from their hard physiques and the black insignias on their cloaks, they must be some sort of... guard. But that can’t be right. I can personally attest to Odessa’s strength and speed, so why would she need additional protection?

I cut her a sideways glance. “Who are they?”

“No one of import.”

“You relaxed when you saw them.”

“I never relax.”

Unbidden, I sneak another look at the two, frowning as they move even closer—because witches, werewolves, and mermaids aren’t the only ones who gather to watch us now. No. A dozen or more éternels have crept from the shadows to join them. Their cold eyes gleam eerie and strange in the lamplight as Odessa strides past, her chin high and indifferent to their stares. One of the guards’ chests actually brushes my back, however, when the nearest éternel bares his teeth at me. “Am I... safe here?” I ask him uncertainly. A ridiculous question.

When Odessa drags me forward, he and his companion follow without answering.

“Dawn approaches, so I fear we have little time for sightseeing.” Though she strides purposefully, confidently, Odessa still tracks the éternels in her periphery. “Tragic, I know. Requiem is a beautiful city—one of the oldest in the entire world and filled with residents of every size, shape, and— Oh, do hurry up, won’t you?”

She pulls me away from the establishment to our left, where whorls of velvet fabric adorn each balustrade and haunting music spills from doors painted black and gold. From deep within, an audience laughs. The sound is so chilling—so captivating —that I cannot help but pause to listen.

My body goes cold, however, as a woman’s scream entwines with the music.

A piercing, bloodcurdling scream.

Odessa tightens her arm around mine when I move to rush toward the doors. “Ah, ah, ah,” she titters again, just as the woman’s scream ends in time with the music. The silence lifts the hair on my neck. “Curiosity will kill the cat in Requiem, and no amount of satisfaction will bring you back.”

“But she—”

“—is beyond your help,” Odessa finishes, tugging me onward. “ Come. You may walk of your own volition, or one of my guards will carry you. Ivan in particular would take no greater pleasure.” She motions to the lean, dark-skinned male behind us. His gaze threatens violence. “The choice is yours, of course.”

What kind of magic?

Evangeline’s voice drifts back to me as Ivan and I stare at each other. The worst kind of magic, darlings. The absolute worst kind. The kind that requires blood. Requires death .

His lip curls slowly, revealing fangs.

Right.

I swallow hard and force myself to move, ignoring the odd swooping sensation in my stomach. Because I need to focus. Because I am not fascinated by this grim and ghastly place, and this breathlessness in my chest—it means I’m probably about to faint. Yes. I am about to faint, and if Evangeline really were here, she’d tell me to twist my head on straight before I lose it.

When I take my next step, however, I fear it might be too late.

Dark liquid oozes around my boot from the moss between cobblestones—dark liquid that looks disturbingly like blood.

With a small shriek, I leap away from it, colliding with Ivan’s chest and nearly dislocating my elbow in the process. He shunts me forward none too gently, and when I look down again, blood seeps around his boots too. A trail of our scarlet footsteps follows us along the street. “Is that—is the ground bleeding ?” I ask in alarm. “How is that possible?”

“It isn’t,” he says brusquely. “Look again.”

Sure enough, the moss no longer bleeds, and the trail of footsteps has disappeared.

Like it never existed at all.

When I gasp, incredulous, he pushes me forward once more, and I have no choice but to stumble after Odessa, shaking my head and spluttering. Because I saw them—they were there —yet I must’ve imagined the whole thing. It’s the only explanation. This isle might be different, but even here, the ground cannot have veins or vessels. It cannot be alive, and I—

I swallow hard.

I cannot allow it to unsettle me. The screams, the blood, the cold stares of Les éternels—they cannot distract me from my purpose, and that purpose is to protect Coco from Michal by any means necessary.

Odessa leads us up a street paved with cobblestone next, where odd little shops line each side. Enormous toads croak from gilded birdcages, live beetles glitter within silver sugar bowls, and incense stands in cut-glass vases, each bundle tied with black ribbon. Another shop sells vials of thick, dark liquid. Loup garou , one label reads in spiked handwriting. It joins others marked human , melusine , and Dame Blanche .

My fingers linger on a bottle marked dragon , and that tingle of anticipation returns. Or is it dread?

These are bottles of blood, after all, and in all my life, only Evangeline has ever spoken of the Eternal Ones. I’ve since read every book in Chasseur Tower—every book in the entire cathedral—and not a single one mentions them either. Dames Blanches and loup garou, yes, as well as melusines and the occasional lutin, but never Les éternels.

No, these monsters seem to be... new.

I release the bottle and force myself to keep walking.

Or perhaps very, very old.

Always sleep at nightfall, darlings... always say your prayers...

The familiar verse floats around us in the October market, tangling with the stray cats in the street. One crouches behind the toads, while another meows churlishly at a shopkeeper. Two more watch a three-eyed crow on its perch, completely still except for the twitch of their tails. I hurry to catch up with Odessa. “Do you have a rat problem on Requiem?”

She glances at a nearby tabby in distaste. “Rats are not the problem.”

“These cats aren’t pets, then?”

“An infestation, more like.” When I continue to stare at her, perplexed, she sighs and snaps, “They appeared on the isle several months ago. No one knows how or why—they simply sprang into existence overnight, and no one dares to remove them.”

I crouch to pat the head of a long-haired kitten. “Why not?”

“Cats are guardians of the dead, Célie. I thought everyone knew that.”

I freeze mid-scratch. I didn’t know that, but somehow, admitting such a thing to Odessa feels like admitting a grievous character flaw. Withdrawing my hand hastily, I change the subject instead. “I don’t understand. How could no one know about this island?”

“Michal,” Odessa says simply, nudging the kitten away. “He loves his secrets, my cousin, and this one he guards jealously. No one knows about Requiem unless he wishes it, and even then—they rarely know for long.”

“What does that mean?”

Before she can answer, however, a handful of éternels spill from the alley ahead, blocking our path, and the merchants on either side of us scatter. Some crouch by their carts as means of protection, while others flee into their shops; fear shines through their eyes as clear and bright as the crystals in their windows. My stomach clenches as Ivan looms at my back.

“Stay still,” he murmurs.

Not a problem.

Odessa, however, lifts her chin once more—supremely unperturbed—and waves a curt hand at the éternels. “Bonsoir, mes amis. You appear to have lost your way.”

A tall, terrifying éternel with fiery red hair and green eyes tilts his head as he considers us. His gaze feels cold and ancient upon my face, and behind him, his companions stand still and silent. “Who is she?” he asks quietly.

“That,” says Odessa, “is none of your concern, Christo.”

“I think it is.” He points a long, accusatory finger behind us, his lip curling slightly. “The cats follow her.”

As one, Odessa, Ivan, and I turn to follow his gaze, and whatever unease I felt at the blood-soaked moss multiplies tenfold—because the éternel spoke truth. A half-dozen cats trail me like a shadow. No. I shake my head vehemently at the ridiculous thought. They trail us like shadows. Us. Beyond Lou’s pet, Melisandre, cats have never paid me any particular attention, and I have little reason to believe they’d start now. A far likelier explanation would be Ivan hiding anchovies in his pocket.

Odessa casts me a swift, appraising look—there and gone too quickly to decipher—before returning her attention to Christo. “Your imagination runs wild as ever, darling. The cats arrived long before she did.”

“Did he bring her to heal the isle?”

“All you need to know,” Odessa says, “is that she belongs to Michal, and any creature who touches her will be subject to his wrath—and the wrath of the entire royal family.” She punctuates the statement with a chilling smile, her fangs flashing sharp and white in the lamplight. Instinctively, I hold my breath at the sight of them, trying to draw as little attention to myself as possible.

Christo, however, takes a pointed step forward. “And yet, ma duchesse, Michal is still not here. How can the shepherd protect his flock if he refuses to walk among them?” A pause. “Perhaps he cannot protect them at all.”

Before I can blink, the other guard lunges, pinning the éternel against the alley wall with a hand at his throat. Though his companions hiss softly from the street, no one moves to help him—not even when the guard pries the éternel’s mouth open by force. Turning ice-blue eyes to Odessa, the guard awaits her command as the éternel thrashes and chokes against him.

“Ah, Christo.” As if disappointed, Odessa saunters toward them, but her casualness belies the hard glint in her eyes. “Always such a cliché, and worse—now I must be one too. Shall Pasha and I deliver your message to Michal personally?”

Christo snarls, trying and failing to bite off Pasha’s fingers.

Odessa’s eyes spark with delight. “A most definitive yes.” Then, in a deft movement, she reaches between Christo’s snapping teeth and—and—

My eyes bulge in disbelief.

And rips out his tongue.

The movement is so efficient, so cursory, that the blood spilling from Christo’s mouth seems too bright somehow—too shocking, too red —to be real. Shaking my head in wild disbelief, I stumble into Ivan again. Only moments ago, Odessa and I were discussing cats , and now—now she holds the limp, gruesome organ of a living creature in her hand.

“Next time”—she hands the tongue to Pasha, who releases Christo in disgust—“I shall make you eat it, darling. Consider the delivery a kindness, and never threaten my family again.” To me, she says pleasantly, “Come along, Célie.”

This time, she doesn’t feign her indifference as she glides up the street without a backward glance.

And I—I stand rooted to the spot.

Suddenly, a silly nursery rhyme doesn’t seem an adequate weapon against these creatures. What could Evangeline have possibly known about such violence ? With the Eternal Ones’ speed, strength, and—frankly—beauty, how could any one person hope to triumph against them? How could I? Unbidden, my gaze darts over my shoulder, where Christo’s companions abandon him to rot in the street.

Next time I shall make you eat it.

“She... she tore out his t-tongue,” I whisper, stricken.

Pasha slips the tongue into his pocket. “He’ll lose more than that. Now move .”

With little other choice, I follow Odessa toward the center of the isle, where a castle towers above the rest. Thick storm clouds obscure its spires. When lightning flashes, however, the bolt illuminates two wickedly sharp towers through the gloom, and I inhale sharply. Thunder rumbles overhead.

“Welcome to my home.” Odessa gazes up at the black fortress with more affection than I’ve yet seen on her face. “It could be yours too if you’re clever. Guests tend to enjoy their stay more than prisoners.”

My chest tightens further at the implication. From Odessa’s own lips, she admitted few outside the isle’s populace know its location. She admitted Michal chooses who lives with that knowledge... and who dies with it. “And how long do your guests stay?”

“As long as we wish it.”

And there it is—her true meaning, reverberating unspoken between us. As ominous as the thunder overhead. The longer we need you, the longer you live. I nearly wring my hands in frustration. Because they don’t need me at all; they need Coco, and the sooner she arrives, the sooner she dies. The sooner we die. I am only the bait, the minnow, the worm , meant for bigger and better fish. As we ascend the castle steps—as Odessa finally relaxes, as she floats through the entrance hall and up the grand staircase, as Pasha and Ivan leave us without a word—one thought resolves as slick and sharp as the hook in my back.

Coco must never arrive.