Page 16

Chapter Fifteen

The Twins Petrov

The shelves in my room span to the ceiling, crammed with ancient books and broken trinkets. And dust. Layers and layers of dust. I lift the candelabra from the hall as I examine each tome and try not to sneeze. Though hunger wracks my stomach, I ignore it as best I can. Clearly, sustenance is an indulgence on Requiem—unless one happens to drink blood— and I would rather starve than ask Michal for anything. Brushing the grime from the spines on a lower shelf, I crouch to read the titles there: The Resurrectionist ; Practical Necromancy: A Guide to the Dark Art ; and How to Commune with the Dead .

I withdraw my hand abruptly.

Necromancy.

Shuddering, I wipe my palm on my bodice and hurry down the shelf, plucking out another book at random— Le Voile écarlate. With an impatient sigh, I jam it back beneath the bust of an angry, long-forgotten god. This room houses thousands of books, yet I only need one— one book with detailed instructions on how to kill a vampire. It shouldn’t be too terribly much to ask.

Like finding a needle in a haystack.

My stomach gurgles again, but another boom of thunder swallows the sound, rattling a chipped tea set overhead. I yank another book from the shelf. Perhaps this is Michal’s true plan—to kill me slowly, painfully, over the next two weeks. At the thought of Arielle and her ravaged throat, her breathless moans , I don’t necessarily object to the idea. Starvation is infinitely preferable to that .

Two hours later, however, I am ready to tear out Michal’s throat myself.

I shove An Illustrated Dictionary of Mushrooms and Other Fungi back onto the shelf, near delirious with hunger now. My eyes sting and weep, and the candles have melted to stubs. They cast faint, flickering light over the minuscule text of the next book, which depicts the four-step life cycle of... mold.

I let out a strangled curse.

“Mademoiselle?” Dimitri’s voice drifts down from the stairs, and I startle, lifting the candelabra. He holds a gilt breakfast tray in his hands, laden with what looks to be food . I scramble to my feet. Cocking his head with a roguish smile, he asks, “Are you... talking to someone?”

“Herself, I think.” Odessa steps around him and drags a finger through the thick dust on the banister. Her nose wrinkles. “This is disgusting.”

“Yes, it is.” I meet her brother halfway up the stairs. “It looked like this yesterday when you tossed me in here to rot .”

Even to my ears, I sound petulant, but my stomach also threatens to eat itself. When I seize the tray from Dimitri—thrusting the candelabra at him—he runs a hand over his mouth to hide his smirk, glancing sidelong at his sister. “Odessa, that was terribly wicked.”

Clearly, he’s trying to tidy up any misunderstandings from earlier, but after watching his cousin feast on Arielle’s throat, I’ve little doubt who produced those blood-soaked rags in the corridor.

As if reading my mind, he inclines his head with a too-bright smile. “Please believe, mademoiselle, that I would have never done such a thing. Look—I have prepared you a delicious, human breakfast.”

As one, we all look down at the breakfast in question: honey and cabbage, five hard-boiled eggs, and a vat of butter. “So delicious,” Odessa repeats, deadpan, before rolling her eyes and wiping her dusty finger on his coat. Though Dimitri scowls, I leave them bickering on the stairs, stuffing an egg into my mouth and settling into a squashy armchair.

After inhaling the first whole, I force myself to chew the second, to swallow, before skewering Odessa with a glare of my own. “You were supposed to return at dusk.”

“I said someone would return at dusk, darling, not that it would be me.” The train of her gown sweeps over Dimitri’s shoes as she descends into the room. She wears crimson silk tonight. The fitted bodice and full skirt gleam slightly in the light of the candle, as does the black paint on her lips, the onyx jewels on her throat. This is the first time I’ve seen her with her brother, and together—side by side—the two quite literally make the breath catch in my throat.

Tearing my gaze away, I make a mental note that Vampires are beautiful right next to Vampires eat people and You are a person, Célie.

“Dusk was four hours ago,” I say instead.

“Yes, well, my dear brother insists we all spend the night together, so—lest we ruin a perfectly pleasant trip to Monsieur Marc—shall we let bygones be bygones?”

I frown between them, slowing on the third egg. “Monsieur Marc?”

Trailing after his sister, Dimitri says, “Yes, he—” But Odessa speaks over him.

“—is a dressmaker, of course. The dressmaker.” She bends to examine the stack of books beside me, tilting her head in idle curiosity before flicking her gaze to my nail beds. “Do you possess a secret passion for horticulture? I myself dabbled with flora for—what was it?” She turns to her brother without waiting for my answer. “Twenty-seven years?”

“Yes,” he says tersely. “You abandoned the pursuit after I commissioned a hothouse for you.”

She lifts an elegant shoulder, already rising on tiptoe to inspect the tea set. “Why should I visit a dressmaker?” I ask them, suspicious.

Dimitri flashes another devilish grin. “We wanted to—”

Again, however, Odessa interrupts, waving a hand down my body in distaste. “Surely we need not answer such a ludicrous question. Look at the state of your gown . It positively reeks, which reminds me”—she flicks her wrist at Dimitri, whose eyes narrow—“you should fetch a servant to run a bath. We cannot introduce her to Monsieur Marc while she smells like a grubby mop.”

I try and fail not to huff.

He steps around her hand with thinly veiled patience. “Alas, that stench is your perfume, dear sister. May I speak?” When she casts him a withering look, he grins and continues. “Rumor has it that tonight is your nineteenth birthday, mademoiselle, and my sister and I would like to treat you to a new wardrobe—with Michal’s gold, of course.” He plucks a piece of cabbage from the tray, lifting it to the candlelight to examine its veins. “He certainly owes you something for the state of this room. What does cabbage taste like?” he asks abruptly.

Cabbage. Such a mundane thing to contemplate—and not at all what I thought I’d be eating on my birthday. If not for my abduction, my friends might’ve prepared a chocolate cake to celebrate the occasion. They might’ve decorated Pan’s Patisserie with pink garlands and everlasting bubbles, and my candles might’ve sparkled and popped with real fairy dust—they did the same for Beau’s birthday in August, except with rum cake and fireworks.

Of course, if not for my abduction, my friends would also still be keeping secrets.

“It tastes a bit peppery.” Grudgingly, Odessa flips through A Book of Old World Gardens . “Surely you remember cabbage, Dima. We were once human, after all.”

The admission pulls me from my reverie, and I stare at her incredulously. “You were... human?”

“A thousand years ago, give or take.” Dimitri flicks the cabbage back to the tray as my eyes bulge. A thousand years old? Surely I misheard him. He winks at my reaction, adding, “Quite spectacular for our age, aren’t we?”

“For any age,” Odessa sniffs.

Dimitri ignores her. “Though I’m flattered by your attention, mademoiselle—truly—I cannot in good conscience accept it when you still refuse to tell me your name.”

Odessa’s own eyes roll to the ceiling. “That, and your infatuation with the local fleuriste.”

“Ah, Margot,” he says dreamily, draping himself in the chair next to me. He drops his head over one arm and swings his legs over the other. With him grinning at me upside down—his black curls tickling my arm, his velvet suit a bit rumpled—he radiates boyish charm.

Except for those rags in the corridor.

I drop my egg in distaste, pushing my tray away at the sight of his sharp incisors. Still, it seems foolish to continue the lie when Michal already knows the truth. “If you must know, my name is Célie Tremblay. And I thank you for breakfast, but I really must ask you to—”

“Célie Tremblay.” Like his cousin before him, he seems to taste the words, his mouth pursing in contemplation. “A fitting epithet if I’ve ever heard one. In your language, I believe it means heaven .”

And that is when Odessa loses interest in the conversation entirely. “In older, more definitive languages, it means blind . Now, shall we go, or did I rise at this unholy hour for nothing?”

Dimitri chuckles. “Loath as I am to admit it, Des, you no longer need beauty sleep.” To me, he says, “What do you think, Mademoiselle Tremblay? Would you care to join us for a bit of birthday shopping? It could be fun.”

Fun. My gaze flicks to the shadows of my room, the wall of bookshelves, and I almost weep. I have no time for fun —if such a thing even exists here. No. I must continue my search and learn how to kill vampires like Odessa and Dimitri; I must somehow warn my friends to stay away from Requiem. Christo didn’t seem terribly pleased with the royal family during our trek through the market. Perhaps somewhere on this isle, a witch is equally displeased—perhaps so displeased that she’ll magic a note to Cesarine or help me kill her overlords.

Unbidden, my eyes return to Dimitri’s upside-down face, to the anticipation there. He looks almost wholesome , and a tendril of curiosity unfurls despite myself. Vampires eat people , yes, but Odessa studies horticulture. Dimitri has dimples .

I give myself a vicious mental shake.

These creatures are monsters, and I hate them. I do . They hold an entire island hostage, feasting on the blood of its inhabitants, and they plan to lure my friend to her death. They kidnapped me. They assaulted me. They serve a man who undoubtedly murdered Babette, and—and how many more reasons do I need to shoo them from my room?

“Why are you being so kind?” My brow furrows as I straighten the corner of the breakfast tray. “I am still a prisoner here. You shouldn’t care about my birthday. You shouldn’t care about my wardrobe either.”

Odessa speaks to the spines of my books, trailing a sharp nail across them. “Vampires live forever, darling, and you are bright and shiny and new. My dear brother cannot help himself.”

“Says the vampire conducting an in-depth investigation of her bookshelves.” Sitting up, Dimitri laces his fingers together between his knees and returns his attention to me. “You will remain a prisoner whether you sulk alone in this room or join us in the village. I know which cell I would prefer.”

He smiles again to soften the rebuke, and I stare at him, torn with indecision.

A small part of me knows I should send them away. Jean Luc would have done it without hesitation.

Still... the thought of remaining here for a fortnight—with only candle stubs, shadows, and rows upon rows of dusty books for company—isn’t exactly appealing, and my mother always told Pippa that she’d catch more flies with honey than vinegar. Though Pip resented the expression, it made perfect sense to me. I needn’t be alone on this isle. I needn’t rot in the darkness or waste precious time with mushrooms and mold. As vampires, Odessa and Dimitri know more about their species than any book in this castle.

There is only one problem.

Sweet creatures never last long in Requiem.

Perhaps, however—just like my mother said—sweetness needn’t be a curse at all. Clearing my throat, I feign a tentative smile and bat my lashes at Dimitri, determined to catch at least this fly with honey. “You’re right. Of course you’re right, and I would love to go with you...”

“But...?” he prompts.

“Michal told me to stay here,” I say reluctantly. “He forbade me from leaving my room.”

Dimitri scoffs. “Our cousin is an old bat.”

“And you , brother, are a rotten liar.” Shooting an exasperated look at her brother, Odessa closes her book with a sharp crack , and the sound echoes through the room with finality. “ Michal agreed , did he? I don’t know why I still listen to you.” She shakes her head and stalks for the staircase. “This has been an enormous waste of time.”

“ Des. ” Dimitri leaps to his feet, his voice equal parts outraged and imploring. “You would leave Mademoiselle Tremblay here in this dust and darkness? On her birthday?”

“So bake her a cake —”

A sharp pang of regret.

“You cannot be serious—”

“I know it’s hard for you, Dima, but do try for intelligence. If Michal said she cannot leave, she cannot leave.” She waves a curt hand, her humor growing fouler and fouler with each step. “I shall still ring a bath for her, of course. And perhaps we can arrange for Monsieur Marc to visit tomorrow—”

Dimitri chases after her without decorum, but before he can speak, I rise to my feet, adopting an earnest, pleading sort of voice. “But I am human , Odessa. Michal cannot expect me to live in these conditions until All Hallows’ Eve. I could catch sickness in this dark and damp—perhaps even my death . Is that really what he would want? For me to die before I serve his purpose?”

“And technically”—Dimitri catches her at the bottom of the stairs, looping his arm around her waist and twirling her around—“we will remain within the castle grounds. She’ll be perfectly safe as long as we do not stray beyond the inner walls. Everyone wins. Isn’t that right, Mademoiselle Tremblay?”

I nod fervently. “You did say I smell like a grubby mop.”

Odessa narrows her eyes at me. “I mistook you for clever, but it seems Michal is right—you have a death wish, and I will not assist you with it.”

“Oh, don’t be so dramatic.” Dimitri cups her cheeks in his hands, flashing her a charming smile. His teeth are very white. Very sharp. “Michal is never right, and furthermore, he’ll never know we’ve gone. He has better things to do tonight than patrol the east wing.”

At that , a hundred questions rush to the tip of my tongue, but I bite down on them all, unwilling to push my luck so quickly. Odessa already looks prepared to skewer someone. She scowls between Dimitri and me, her cheeks still squashed between his broad palms. “This is a terrible idea.”

Dimitri releases her instantly, his grin triumphant now. “All the best ones are.”

“I want it noted that I objected.”

“Duly, of course.”

“When Michal finds out, he will skin you, and I will not intervene.”

“You may wear my hide as a hat.”

“You are a cretin.” She pushes him away and stalks toward one of the silk curtains. Behind it, an enormous tub awaits. She pulls on a fringed tassel, and a deep gong answers from somewhere overhead. Looking over her shoulder, she snaps, “Well? Are you coming, Célie, or shall Michal follow the trail of your stench to Monsieur Marc?”

I jolt forward just as Dimitri makes a noise of outrage. “Why does she get to call you Célie?”

Three-quarters of an hour later—clothed in a gown and cloak from Odessa’s garderobe—I stride through the castle arm in arm with Odessa and Dimitri. They sweep me into a vast courtyard, where we have a bird’s-eye view of the hillside below—and what appears to be a hidden village.

My mouth parts in genuine awe.

Intricately carved stone ramparts rise to the north, east, and south—shielding the small homes and shops—while the castle itself forms the fourth and final wall of the village. Gargoyles crouch atop each pillar. They leer down at us, flames crackling in their open mouths and ivy climbing up their stone bodies. Though the vines and flowers soften their harsh features, they cannot disguise the gargoyles’ scales and teeth and horns. My eyes flit to the three-eyed crow from the market as it pecks at one of their ears, loses patience, and hops instead to the thatched roof of l’apothicaire. When thunder rumbles overhead, it ruffles its wings with an indignant caw.

Below it, two cats detach from the shadows to watch me.

No. I shake myself internally, vehemently. To watch us .

Odessa adjusts her parasol just as it begins to rain.

“Wonderful,” she says coolly, ushering me down the cobbled street without sharing her umbrella. Dimitri extends his with a long-suffering look at his sister. “Do not start with me, Dimitri. We’re already late, and Monsieur Marc detests tardiness. ’Tis a mark of poor character”—her eyes narrow pointedly between the two of us—“and he is an excellent judge of character.”

Dimitri rolls his own eyes. “You will not melt, Odessa.”

“And how do you know?” She glares at the storm clouds overhead, and lightning flashes in response. A great boom of thunder shakes the earth. “Hygral fatigue is very real. I may not melt, but my hair follicles will indeed expand from excessive moisture, causing dullness, brittleness, breakage, and—”

“—much-needed humility,” he finishes. To me, he adds with a grin, “This is the Old City. Only vampires are allowed to live within these hallowed walls—and only the most revered and respected lineages at that. These roads are nearly as ancient as Michal himself.”

Even here, it seems I cannot escape him—or the cats. Despite the rain, they follow us on silent feet, their eyes lamp-like and unblinking.

Still, as I take in the narrow, twisting streets—the moss between cobblestones, the iron spires, a cracked birdbath—I cannot help but bounce on my toes. Just a little. Odessa’s marigold soap washed years of grime from my skin, and breakfast dulled the sharp edge of my hunger. I can ignore the cats. After all, I thought I wouldn’t live to see sunset just hours ago, yet here I am, strolling through an ancient supernatural hamlet with two creatures who know it best. What better way to uncover their weaknesses than to walk among them?

Does it not feel like you’re playing dress-up?

Frederic thought my doe eyes meant ineptitude. He thought I could never assist our brotherhood, could never belong , yet the Chasseurs don’t even know vampires exist . Perhaps doe eyes and dresses are exactly what they’ve needed all these years.

I reach carefully toward a monarch butterfly flitting through the drizzle. I do not want to frighten it—or Dimitri—away with the wrong question. Never mind that the white specks on the tips of its wing seem to blink at me like... like eyes . I look away quickly. “And the other inhabitants... they came here willingly?”

Dimitri catches the butterfly easily and places it in my palm. It no longer blinks— thank God —but its orange color still seems too bright against the dark lace of my glove, the muted grays of the sky and street. “All who inhabit Requiem chose to make their home here, Mademoiselle Tremblay.”

“But did they have all the information? Did they know their neighbors would be vampires? Did they know you would feed on them?”

“You ask an awful lot of questions.” Odessa flicks an arch glance toward Dimitri. “And you shouldn’t indulge her. Michal will already be furious—”

“No one forced you to come, darling sister.”

She scoffs. “ Someone must protect your neck, as you’re quite insistent on sticking it out as far and as often as possible.”

Dimitri chuckles, inclining his head to a pair of éternels, who bow stiffly to both him and his sister. “And why shouldn’t we answer her questions? Aren’t you the one who always says curiosity killed the cat, but —”

“— satisfaction brought it back ,” she finishes irritably. “This is different, and you know it.”

“Come on, Des. Who is she going to tell?” To me, he adds, lowering his voice, “You can only leave this isle by ship, and vampire sentries overrun the docks—they’ll kill you before you touch the gangplank.”

My stomach twists, and I release the butterfly to the wind. It spirals upward toward the crow, who promptly eats it. “I assumed as much.”

He turns to Odessa with a self-satisfied smile. “See? She knows better than to flee. And to answer your question”—he squeezes my arm companionably—“their ancestors immigrated centuries ago, but Michal gave each family a choice before bringing them here.”

“What sort of choice could he have possibly given them? And how could they have refused? According to Odessa, Michal jealously guards the secret of this place. He would have killed everyone who knew of its existence.”

Though Odessa tenses slightly at my tone, she pretends to examine her reflection in the window of le chapellerie as we pass . “Have you never heard of compulsion, darling?”

“Odessa,” Dimitri warns, his dimples fading. He slides behind me to walk between us. “Don’t even think about it.”

She shrugs absently, but the set of her jaw, her shoulders, says she isn’t absent at all. Her reflection meets mine in the window, and the tiny hairs on my arms rise. Compulsion. Even in my thoughts, the word feels strangely forbidden, strangely... sensual. But it’s only a word . Shaking my head, feeling ridiculous, I say, “Of course I’ve never heard of compulsion. I’d never even heard of vampires before this evening.”

Those feline eyes flick to mine. “Would you like to know what it is?”

“Odessa, stop—”

“I told you, Dima, I will protect your neck— and mine—even if you refuse to do the same. Célie needs to understand the true danger of Requiem. If she plans to continue provoking Michal, she should understand exactly what she risks.” She steps closer, offering me her hand. Offering me a choice . “Shall I compel you, Célie?”

I glance at Dimitri, whose handsome face has hardened to stone as he glares at his sister. He says nothing, however. He won’t stop Odessa from compelling me—whatever that is—and he won’t stop me from asking her to either. Perhaps I should forgo the whole thing. Clearly, Odessa is still irritated, and even in my limited experience, an irritated vampire doesn’t bode well. I already know the danger of their speed, their strength. I know the danger of their teeth . What more could there possibly be?

What more could there be?

The question might kill me. Hopefully satisfaction will indeed bring me back, because Odessa is right. I do want to know. I take her hand. “Show me.”

Squaring her shoulders, she tilts her head with a hard smile. “Excellent.”

We lock eyes.

At first, nothing happens. Unsure, I glance at Dimitri, but Odessa catches my chin in her hand, holding my gaze. “At me, darling. Look only at me.”

The strangest sensation creeps over my mind in response—like a spectral hand has reached out to touch it, to caress it, to seduce it into tranquility. No. Into submission . Part of me wants to lean into that touch, while another wants to recoil, wants to flee as far and as fast as I can. Before I can act on either, she purrs, “Tell me how you plan to strike at us before All Hallows’ Eve.”

“ Des ,” Dimitri says sharply.

She doesn’t break our eye contact.

“I plan to warn Coco of Michal’s trap.” The answer spills from my lips of its own volition, soft and sure and serene. With each word, the tranquility deepens, enveloping me in lovely warmth until I cannot help but smile with it. This is the danger? I have never felt more content in my entire life. “I plan to manipulate Dimitri into revealing your weaknesses, and I plan to avenge Babette and the others’ deaths by killing you if possible. I plan to kill every éternel on this island.”

“Damn it, Odessa.” Dimitri runs a hand down his face, breaking his stone facade. “Why did you ask her that?”

“Isn’t it obvious? I wanted to hear her answer.”

“But why ? You know she cannot actually harm us—”

“Of course I do, but now she knows it too.” To me, she says, “And there you have it. Compulsion. I cannot say I expected a different answer. However, if I were you”—she turns to resume her stroll down the street, twirling her parasol on her shoulder—“I would keep word of my plans away from Michal, and I would leave my brother alone.”

The second her eyes leave mine, her thrall over me lifts, the delicious warmth vanishes, and my thoughts crash and spiral in confusion. In horror. Because she didn’t—I couldn’t have just told her—

No.

Though I clap a hand to my mouth, it does little good; I cannot take the words back. They live between us now, as slick and dark as the rain upon the cobblestones. My teeth chatter as a wave of cold washes over me, as my heart plummets to somewhere between my feet. I just told them everything. Odessa already knew I wished them harm, of course—and I already knew vampires possessed some form of hypnosis—but the ease with which she extracted my innermost thoughts is... alarming.

Worse still—she wanted me to know. She wanted me to realize how weak I am in comparison.

I think I’m going to be sick.

“I—” Though I search for the right words to fill the silence, I find none, and treacherous heat creeps through my cheeks at Dimitri’s careful expression. “I apologize,” I say at last. Even to my own ears, the words sound petulant. “I should never have tried to—well—”

His dark eyes sparkle with good humor. “Seduce me?”

“I wouldn’t call it that .”

“Your lashes threatened to take flight.”

“Like I said,” I repeat through gritted teeth, “I am very sorry—”

“Don’t be. I quite enjoyed it.” His roguish grin soon fades at whatever he sees in my expression. “My sister and I won’t harm you, Mademoiselle Tremblay,” he says with a sigh, “but you should forget your plans of vengeance. You cannot kill us, and you’ll only succeed in angering Michal if you try. Shall we?”

When he extends his arm as an olive branch, I stare at it in cold disbelief. I just admitted to plotting his and his entire family’s demise, yet still he wishes to be friends.

I cannot decide whether the gesture is comforting or insulting.