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Chapter Seventeen

L’ange de la Mort

Eight minutes later, Monsieur Marc shoos us from his shop, his chest puffing with unmistakable pride. “Excellent choices, papillon, excellent choices—and I shall summon you posthaste for your All Hallows’ Eve costume, oui? I am thinking the emerald swallowtail.” He splays his fingers wide, wriggling them in emphasis. “The most beautiful butterfly of them all. You shall sparkle like la lune à vos soleils.”

The pressure in my head subsides slightly as we step outside. “That would be lovel—”

“Of course it would,” he says. “Now get out. Can you not see I must work?”

He slams the door behind us without ceremony, and relief, hesitant at first but growing stronger with each second, loosens the knot in my chest. I tip my face toward the storm clouds—toward the thunder, toward the lightning, toward the three-eyed crow—and close my eyes, inhaling deep. Because Monsieur Marc, at least, seems to like me, and he is an excellent judge of character. Because ghosts are not real, and I smell of marigolds. Because the wretched D’Artagnan will remain a cat forever, and... there is no silver on Requiem.

“You were right.” I exhale as another bout of thunder rumbles overhead. “Spending my birthday alone would’ve been horrid, and I quite like Monsieur Marc.”

When no one answers, I open my eyes, turning to face Odessa and Dimitri with another smile—

And freeze.

Michal leans against the dark stone of the shop.

Arms crossed, deceptively casual, he studies the three of us with an inscrutable expression. On either side of me, Odessa and Dimitri have gone preternaturally still. They don’t even breathe. “As do I, Célie,” Michal murmurs. “As do I.”

Oh God.

“Michal.” Shoulders rigid, Dimitri steps in front of his sister and me. “You shouldn’t have—”

Michal lifts a pale hand. “Do not speak.”

At that, a flicker of—of something stirs deep within Dimitri’s eyes. Though I can’t quite place the emotion, it looks foreign, unsettling, on his charming face. It lifts the hair on my neck. “Should we have left her to starve?”

With lethal speed, Michal pushes himself from the wall to stand directly in front of him. He does not lift a hand, however. He simply stares down at his cousin, cold and impassive, and waits.

And waits.

I glance to Odessa, who looks straight ahead in a refusal to acknowledge either of them. Her pupils have dilated, and she no longer breathes. Inexplicable flutters erupt in my stomach at the sight, and I move without thinking, placing a hand on Dimitri’s chest to—to calm him, somehow. To defuse this strange tension. “I didn’t starve,” I tell him quietly, “thanks to you.”

His jaw clenches in response. After another second, he swallows hard and removes my hand, but his touch remains gentle. His fingers linger upon my wrist. “Remember what I said about sweet things in Requiem.”

He steps away before I can answer, bowing stiffly to his cousin in the process. Only then does Michal slide his black eyes to me. “You should indeed take care, Mademoiselle Tremblay, if Dimitri thinks you’re sweet.” Then— “Did you really think you could creep away unnoticed?”

The relief I felt only seconds before hardens into that familiar tightness as I glare at him. “I was not creeping, monsieur. I walked out the back door.”

His eyes flash with anger, or perhaps amusement. They’re disturbingly similar with Michal. “No. A lady never creeps, does she?” Arching a brow, lifting an arm to his chest in exaggerated civility, he inclines his head to Odessa and Dimitri. His gaze, however, doesn’t stray from my face. “Leave us now, cousins.”

Though Odessa casts me an apologetic glance, she doesn’t hesitate; looping her elbow around her brother’s arm, she attempts to steer him back up the street, but he digs in his heels. “I’m the one who persuaded her to leave her room, Michal,” he says, his voice bitter. “Odessa had no part in it.”

Michal’s answering smile is chilling. “I know.”

“It was not the fault of Mademoiselle Tremblay either.”

“No.” At last, those black eyes break from mine, and he surveys Dimitri with apathy bordering on disgust. “The fault—as always—rests entirely with you, and we shall discuss it at length before sunrise. My study. Five o’clock.”

“Dima,” Odessa hisses, pulling him harder now. “ Move. ”

“But—”

“Please go,” I say. “He won’t hurt me. Not yet, anyway.” Though Michal’s attention sharpens at the last, I ignore him, meeting Dimitri’s gaze and adding, “Thank you for the birthday gifts, Dima, and please—call me Célie.”

His lips quirk for just a second. Then he sighs, his entire body slumping, and allows Odessa to lead him away with one last inscrutable look over his shoulder. The two quickly pick up speed, blurring around the bend and out of sight. Leaving me alone with Michal.

He extends his arm in a mockery of a perfect gentleman. “Shall we?”

“If you plan to escort me back to my room”—I move away from him, crossing my own arms firmly against my chest—“I will require candles. Lots and lots of candles. I am not a vampire, and I cannot see in the dark.”

“Who says vampires can see in the dark?”

“No one,” I say quickly, realizing I’ve further implicated Dimitri. Then, unable to resist— “You simply remind me of an old bat. They have night vision, do they not?”

There’s no mistaking it now. Humor glints dark in his eyes as he reaches above my head to pluck a sprig of the Bluebeard blossoms. I scowl at the blue flowers, refusing to accept them, until he leans close and tucks the sprig into my hair. “Like bats, these blooms also once ate spiders.”

“What do they eat now?”

His fingers brush the shell of my ear. “Butterflies.”

I feel that touch all the way to my toes.

Two seconds too late, I jerk away from him, appalled by my own reaction, and swat the flowers to the ground. “Fortunately for me, I am not a butterfly, and I have no interest in being eaten by anything on this island.”

“You needn’t worry about that. Not yet , anyway.” At my scowl, he laughs derisively. “Come. We have unfinished business, the two of us, and I am eager to see it concluded.” Turning on his heel, he stalks after Odessa and Dimitri without checking to see if I follow. Which I don’t.

Unfinished business.

The words have never sounded more ominous.

“I will carry you, Célie,” he calls pleasantly, and—at the thought of him touching me again—my feet lurch into motion.

“You are grossly informal, monsieur.” Hurrying to catch up, I slide a little on the wet cobblestones. I left Dimitri’s parasol in Monsieur Marc’s shop, and the sky has started to mist once more. “Only my friends call me Célie, and you are most certainly not my friend.”

“How quaint. You think Dimitri is your friend.”

“Dimitri is a gentleman—”

“Dimitri is an addict. He has thought of nothing but your blood since he made your acquaintance yesterday. That lovely throat has become his obsession.”

I nearly stumble again, my mouth falling open in outrage. “I— That is not true—”

“You should be flattered.” Michal ascends the castle steps and passes a quartet of guards, who bow to him in unison. I swiftly avert my gaze. After Michal’s vulgar declaration, surely I just imagine the hunger in their eyes. “We don’t typically crave the blood of humans,” he continues, and perhaps I also imagine the way he shifts closer, the cool glance he gives the other vampires. I do not , however, imagine the proprietary hand he places on my lower back. “Dimitri is the exception, of course. He craves the blood of everyone.”

My cheeks flush inexplicably warm at his touch, and I quicken my step, darting ahead through the entrance hall. “You’re lying.” I have no idea if he’s lying, but I cannot abide Michal speaking ill of Dimitri. Not when Michal is so thoroughly and terribly Michal .

His lips twitch as he shadows my steps. “Believe whatever you like.”

“Oh, I will.” His words have hit their mark, however, and my first memory of Dimitri rears its ugly head once more. The blood-soaked rags. The furtive behavior. I push it all aside with irritation, bursting through the double doors into the night. Dimitri has been nothing but kind to me. Suspiciously, I ask, “Why don’t vampires crave human blood?”

“It tastes thinner, weaker, than the blood of magical creatures.” Michal extends his arm toward the city below, ushering me forward. “But we’ve already established you aren’t human. Not entirely.”

“You sound ridiculous.”

“You sound frightened.”

My gaze narrows. “If you’re so sure that I’m not human, please, enlighten me—what am I?”

His own gaze drops languorously to the pulse in my throat. “Only one way to find out.”

“You will never bite me.”

“No?”

“ No .”

His slow smile doesn’t falter as he brushes past without another word.

Four of the five victims have been of magical origin, and all have been found with puncture wounds on their throats and no blood in their bodies.

Vampires don’t typically crave the blood of humans. It tastes thinner, weaker, than the blood of magical creatures.

There can be no doubt of his guilt now. That was practically a confession.

And I have no choice but to follow a murderer into the city.

Passersby part for us without hesitation, either bowing in reverence or drawing back in fear. All stare at Michal beneath their parasols, however, as if a god walks among us. He doesn’t seem to notice their infatuation. Perhaps he just doesn’t care. Hands clasped behind his back, he stalks through the streets with an air of indifference, nodding to some and ignoring others completely. Imperious and insufferable.

Michal has now sought me out twice in as many days, however, which means this unfinished business of ours remains excellent leverage. Whether he likes it or not, the time has come to receive answers, and if he refuses to give them, I will make him rue his immortality. Hurrying to keep up, I say, “Monsieur Marc said silver is a finite resource in Requiem.” When Michal says nothing, I nearly clip his heel in my haste to catch him. “Indeed, he doesn’t keep it in his shop at all. He doesn’t keep any mirrors either.”

Michal still refuses to acknowledge me.

“Isn’t that odd? No mirrors in a dress shop? Though, now that I think about it”—I step on his heel intentionally this time, remembering when Pippa and I once shattered our mother’s hand mirror, coating her armoire in silver dust—“I don’t recall seeing any mirrors in my room either. Or in the castle. Or on the entire isle.”

“Hence the word finite .”

“Where is my cross?” I ask abruptly. “You never answered me before.”

When I clip his heel a third time, he casts a menacing look over his shoulder. “And I have no intention of answering you now. Tell me, are you always this...” His voice trails as he struggles to find the right word.

“Vexing?” I supply it with my sweetest smile, and I relish the way his eyes narrow in response. “ Always. Now—where are we going?” As if waiting for my signal, the sky opens up in earnest, pelting fat drops of rain on our heads. “To a candlemaker? A parasol shop?”

He chuckles darkly. “No, pet.”

We draw to a halt outside the theater.

The velvet swags hang limp from the balustrades—soaked from the rain—and no music pours from the black-and-gold doors. No screams either. Clearly, there is no show scheduled for tonight.

Michal pushes through the entrance anyway, thoroughly unconcerned, just as lightning streaks overhead. It illuminates shadowy shapes in the otherwise empty foyer, and suddenly, I have even less interest in this unfinished business of ours. Hesitating on the steps, I ask, “Why are we here? What do you want with me?”

“You know the answer to at least one of those questions.” Standing in the threshold, he peels off his jacket and tosses it aside. His shirt beneath is white and—and soaked . Mouth abruptly dry, I tear my eyes from the sculpted shape of his chest to find him smirking at me. My cheeks flame. “Feel free to come inside,” he says wryly, his eyes a shade darker than before. I glare at him through the downpour, water streaming down my nose. The portrait of aristocratic grace.

“Not until you tell me why we’re here.”

He chuckles again, rolling each sleeve with slow, deft fingers. “But you’re getting all wet.”

“Yes, thank you for that clever observation. I never would’ve realized if you hadn’t—”

“Come inside,” he says again.

I push the sopping hair out of my face, resisting the urge to stamp my foot like a child. “Tell me why we’re here.”

“You’re rather obstinate, aren’t you?”

“Pot, meet kettle.”

Crossing his arms, he leans a shoulder against the open door to consider me. “Shall we have another game, then? If I explain why we’re at L’ange de la Mort, will you promise to come inside?”

L’ange de la Mort.

The Angel of Death.

I cross my own arms, slowly drowning in my boots, and try not to shiver in the cold. He thinks himself perfectly reasonable—I can see it in the condescending curve of his lips, the self-satisfied gleam in his eyes. To him, I am just a child in need of managing. Under different circumstances, I might’ve sought to change his opinion, to prove myself capable and competent and strong, but now...

I shrug, adopting his devil-may-care attitude, and peer around him into the theater. “I make no promises. A little rain never killed anyone, and I have no interest in helping you do... whatever it is you’ve brought me here to do.”

“You shouldn’t tempt Death in this place, Célie. He just might answer.”

“By all means, do tell me more. You have no idea how willing I am to not come inside.”

He stares at me for a long moment—his expression inscrutable, calculating—before his lips curve in another cruel smile. For just an instant, I worry I’ve overplayed my hand—he could compel me to come inside, after all, could compel me to do anything he wants—but then he inclines his head.

“Very well,” he says. “I am undead, and as such, I exist with one foot in both the realm of the living and the dead. Each calls to me. Each serves the other. When I revel in the warmth of the living—when I feast on its blood—I hold cold death in my hands. Do you understand?”

Any answer I might’ve given sticks in my throat. This is—not what I expected, certainly, and far beyond anything I’m equipped to handle. Each calls to me. Each serves the other. “No, I don’t,” I say warily, staring up at him. “I don’t understand at all.”

“I think you do.” He pushes from the door, approaching me with his hands in his pockets. “There are always places, however—rips in the fabric between realms—where Death has slipped through and lingered, and L’ange de la Mort is one of them. Many have died here. It should make this process... easier.”

“What process?”

“The process of summoning a ghost.”