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Chapter Twenty-One

A Gift

She vanishes just as Michal appears behind me, and I cannot keep the sharp bitterness from my voice as I whirl to confront him, crashing back into the realm of the living. Heat washes through me in a violent wave, and my eyes burn at the sudden burst of bright and saturated color. “I didn’t give you permission to enter.”

He arches an imperious brow. “I didn’t ask for it.”

“That is entirely the problem—” I startle as he moves in front of me with inhuman speed, his black eyes tracking upward to the chandelier. The movement bares the broad, pale expanse of his throat above his cravat. Black, as usual, though he has changed into clean, dry clothes since I last saw him. I glance down at my sullied gown in resentment.

“Did I interrupt something?” he asks casually.

I cannot give him what he wants.

And now I know—Michal doesn’t want to speak with just any old ghost. No. He wants to speak with only one, and he wants to speak with her very badly. Though I don’t know why, I also don’t care.

“You interrupted nothing,” I lie.

“I could’ve sworn I heard you speaking.”

“I talk in my sleep.”

“Is that so?” Clasping his hands behind his back, he strolls around me with a quiet sort of self-possession. His eyes still study the ceiling. “Interesting. You didn’t utter a word when I tucked you in this morning.” My cheeks burn almost painfully at the revelation—at the thought of Michal anywhere near my sleeping form, my blankets and bed . “What?” he asks, a mocking curl to his lips. “No expression of gratitude?”

In my periphery, the rip between realms flutters slightly in a nonexistent breeze, its edges knitting together slowly. Healing , I realize in disbelief. As if I really am a knife in the veil, as if my crossing created an actual wound between realms. I force myself to turn away. “For leaving me in a damp gown? Yes, Your Majesty, I am eternally grateful for a chest cold and cough.”

He halts mid-step, casting me a curious, sidelong look. “Would you have preferred I undress you?”

“ Excuse me—?” If possible, my cheeks flame hotter, but he only tilts his head, and that curl of his lips transforms into a fully-fledged smirk. “I— You are despicable, monsieur , to talk of such things. Of course I wouldn’t have preferred that you—you—”

“Undress you?” he finishes salaciously. “You need only ask, you know. It would be no hardship.”

“Stop looking at me like that,” I snap.

He feigns innocence, beginning to circle once more. “Like what?”

“Like I’m a piece of meat .”

“More like a fine wine.”

“I thought vampires didn’t crave human blood.”

He leans closer, cruelly amused, and his gaze dips to my throat once more. He is trying to unsettle me. I know he is trying to unsettle me, yet instinct still roots me in place. Instinct and—something else, something liquid and warm and not entirely unpleasant. Michal’s smile widens as if he knows. “There are exceptions to every rule, Célie.”

I can scent your adrenaline too, can see your pupils have dilated.

I curl my fists tighter, startled by the inexplicable and unwelcome urge to reach out and touch him. I blame it on his mystery. Michal is truly and thoroughly horrid, but... do the shadows beneath his eyes feel as cold as the rest of him? And what causes them? Exhaustion? Hunger? My eyes flick to his teeth, to the pointed tip of each fang. They look sharp enough to pierce skin with the slightest stroke of my thumb. Would it hurt?

As if reading my thoughts, he murmurs, “You’re too curious for your own good, pet.”

“I don’t know what you mean.”

“Are you not wondering how it feels? The kiss of a vampire?”

Arielle’s moans rise, equally sharp, in the forefront of my mind, and my skin flushes hotter.

No. It didn’t seem to hurt.

“Don’t flatter yourself.” Storming away from him, I realize too late that I’ve veered toward the bed instead of the fireplace. Mother of God. I grit my teeth, smoothing the sheets and straightening the blanket to make the error seem intentional. “As I said before, I am not interested in being bitten by anything on this island—especially you.”

Michal’s laughter is dark, rife with promise I don’t understand. “Of course.”

“Why are you here ? Do you have no other prisoners to provoke this evening?” I glare at him over my shoulder, adding, “It is evening, correct? It’s impossible to tell, as apparently those shutters are integral to the structure of this godforsaken room.”

“It is seven o’clock in the evening.” He returns his attention to the ceiling. “And I came to ensure you survived,” he says wryly. “After your collapse at L’Ange de la Mort, I feared your heart might give out, and I cannot allow that. Though we made progress, our work remains unfinished.”

“Progress,” I repeat flatly.

“When did you develop nyctophobia?”

“How is that relevant?”

His black eyes fall back to mine. “It is relevant because nyctophobia seems to be your impetus. I realized as soon as I entered your room. Both shifts I felt occurred immediately after you’d been left here in the dark, and the third occurred in the theater—again, in the dark.”

I fluff my pillow with a vicious thwack . “Many people fear the dark.”

“Not like you do. Never before have I witnessed such an intense psychological reaction.” His eyes grow brighter, hungrier, as they search my face, and—seemingly unbidden—he drifts closer to the bed. To me. “I believe your fear allowed you to slip through the veil. It allowed you to see the ghosts. To speak to them.”

A beat of silence.

What do you expect when you repress your emotions? They have to go somewhere eventually, you know.

Though I open my mouth to refute his claim, it isn’t... entirely ridiculous, and it seems to fit with Mila’s explanation too. Each time the ghosts have appeared, with the most recent exception, I’ve been in the throes of a panic attack. Indeed—safe in the golden light of the candles—I might even admit that I never feel closer to death than I do in darkness.

“Is that your plan?” Lifting my chin and straightening my spine, I feign bravado. “Will you plunge me in darkness until you get what you want? Or is that what you really want—to watch me cower and hear me scream?” His expression cools instantly in response, but I press forward anyway, determined to—to rile him somehow. To shake him the way he has shaken me. “Does our fear make you feel powerful? Is that what you did to Babette before you killed her?”

All interest in his eyes flickers out. “You ask a lot of questions.”

“Why light these candles at all?” I fling my arms outward, reckless, perhaps foolish, and gesture to the candlelight all around us. “Aren’t you just prolonging the inevitable?”

“Perhaps,” he says coldly, inclining his head. “Nevertheless, I appreciated your efforts at the theater, and as such, I’ve decided to open my home to you. From this night onward, you may move through the castle freely. Consider it a token of my good faith. Do not, however”—he steps closer, his voice softening in that horrid and lethal way—“trespass on my hospitality, pet. Do not attempt to flee. You will regret it if you do.”

“Stop threatening me—”

“It isn’t a threat. The isle is dangerous, and I have business elsewhere tonight. I will not be able to intervene should you wander too far.”

It takes several seconds for the words to penetrate the thick haze of my anger.

“What sort of business?” I ask suspiciously, envisioning Babette’s bloodless body, the charcoal sketches of his other victims: human, Dame Blanche, loup garou, and melusine. Five species in total. No vampires.

All of their bodies drained of blood.

A hard edge of urgency hones my anger. If Michal plans to leave this isle, there can be no doubt that a sixth body will soon turn up in Belterra. I need to—stop him somehow, to incapacitate him, but short of finding a deadly and magical weapon—

I tense in realization. If Michal really does plan to leave, I can take this opportunity to search for my cross. He has hidden it somewhere, and though Mila didn’t confirm my suspicion about silver, I have little else to go on. I cannot save this victim—my stomach twists with regret—but perhaps I can save the next. Perhaps I can kill Michal the moment he returns to Requiem. Fierce purpose resolves at the thought. If silver is the key, I will find it, and I will stop him. “What sort of business?” I ask again, my voice harder this time.

“None of yours.”

With another imperious look, he stalks past me to the armoire behind the second silk screen. I hesitate only a second before charging after him. “What are you doing back there?”

“For you.” He flings a bundle of emerald lace and silk at me before I’ve taken two steps, and the fabric spills from my hands, revealing the most beautiful gown I’ve ever seen. Delicate black diamonds sparkle along the sweetheart neckline, down the fitted bodice, so small they look like flecks of stardust. “Monsieur Marc sends his regards and bids you return tonight with Odessa to collect the rest of your trousseau—for which you are also welcome.”

His voice drips with disdain. I clench the exquisite train in my fists. Despite his galling arrogance, I shouldn’t continue to goad him. He is a vampire, a murderer , who relishes control above everything else. He won’t leave until he reestablishes dominance over this situation , and I need him to leave in order to search for my cross. If I must express my gratitude to quicken his departure, I should do it—I should smile, I should apologize, and I should submit. I should lose this battle to win the war.

It would be the sensible thing to do. The logical thing.

Scoffing, I spin on my heel. “No gift can absolve the things you’ve done, monsieur. Your heart is as black as these diamonds.”

He snakes a hand through the silk, catching it—catching me —with fingers like ice. “Forgive me. I thought we had started over. Shall I return the gown for you?”

“No.” I tug on the dress, mindful of the delicate fabric, but he doesn’t release it. Instead, he draws it toward him slowly, forcing me to face him once more. I scowl and dig in my heels. He continues to pull, reeling me closer, closer, until I must crane my neck to see his beautiful face. “You most certainly will not return the gown,” I hurl at him. “It belongs to me now, and I hope you spent a fortune on it.”

With his free hand, he slides long, luxurious evening gloves from his pocket, dangling them in front of my nose. I cannot decide if the glint in his eyes is amused or angry. Perhaps both. “I did,” he says softly.

Just angry, then.

“ Good ,” I snarl because I am angry too—I am furious —and he—he—

He slides the gown from my hands with laughable ease. Before I can stop him—before I can so much as utter a startled curse—he tears it neatly in two, dropping the beautiful lace and silk and diamond to the floor at my feet. His eyes never leave mine. “My heart is blacker. Enjoy your freedom, Célie Tremblay.”

He leaves without another word.