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Chapter Twenty-Two

The Curio Cabinet

I wait half an hour before peeking my head outside the room, searching for any sign of Michal. Dozens more candles illuminate the deserted corridor beyond, which has been cleaned to perfection since yesterday—the cobwebs swept, the tapestries scrubbed, the statues polished—without me hearing so much as a peep. It seems the servants move just as soundlessly as their master. Taking a tentative step from my room, I close the door behind me with a soft click .

True to Michal’s word, no guards loom outside to hear the sound.

In the folds of Odessa’s skirt, my new pins jingle eagerly as I hasten down the corridor.

Quieting them with a hand, I follow the candlelight and attempt to trace Dimitri’s steps on that first evening. He led me directly to Michal’s study, which seems the best place to start my search for hidden things. The only place to start my search, really, as I’ve visited nowhere else in the castle except the entrance hall. If Michal’s confidence in my ability to escape is any indication, however, he probably hasn’t hidden the cross at all—or he’s already cast it into the fire.

At that, I almost laugh.

Michal is too arrogant to destroy such a trophy, but as they say, pride always goeth before the fall. If the cross still exists, if Michal has hidden it somewhere, I will find it, even if I must tear apart this castle brick by brick. I will find it, and I will use it to my advantage somehow.

I will .

My confidence quickly fades, however, when I turn a corner unexpectedly, skidding to a stop in a corridor lined with suits of armor. Their shields gleam dark and strange in the candlelight, where my own pale face reflects back at me from each one, both familiar and—different, somehow. My features wild and fey. When I look for too long, my reflections’ eyes seem to bleed, and— no .

With a gasp, I shake my head to clear it before turning to retrace my steps around the corner. Because this is just another perversion. Of course it is. Mila, Lou, and even Christo spoke of a darkness—a sickness—spreading through the realms, and the castle wouldn’t remain unaffected. I just—I need to pay attention. I need to take better care, and I need to—

I lurch to a halt, and my eyes grow wide at the blank stretch of wall before me.

I need to stay calm.

Because the corner around which I just came—it has somehow vanished, moved , like the corridor itself grew legs as a spider and fled. Leaving me here with only suits of armor and shadows for guidance. Right. I swallow hard and turn slowly to face them. My reflections, at least, have returned to normal, and I choose to interpret that as a fortunate sign. Perhaps the castle isn’t trying to terrorize me, after all; perhaps it’s trying to help me, and this corridor will take me where I need to go.

When the nearest helmet turns to watch as I pass, however, I abandon that foolish thought and bolt down the corridor out of sight, not stopping until I reach a staircase that looks vaguely familiar. Except it isn’t familiar at all. And neither is the next one, or the next. Blowing a damp strand of hair from my eyes, I plant my hands on my hips and glare at the portrait of the woman in red before me. It definitely wasn’t there a second ago, and sure enough—between blinks—it disappears again, leaving only empty wall behind.

This is getting ridiculous.

If I haven’t already passed a vampire without realizing—and if said vampire hasn’t already contacted Michal or Odessa or Dimitri through some sort of macabre mind control—I’ll eat my left shoe. Any one of them could appear at any moment, which means this little excursion has an expiration date. With a reluctant sigh, I whirl to face the corridor at large, loathing myself for what I’m about to do. “Mila? Are you here?”

She doesn’t answer, but after her rather dramatic exit, I expected no less. Indeed, when a bud of irritation blooms in response, I focus on it with every fiber of my being. It really shouldn’t be this difficult. Nothing should be this difficult, yet here I am, attempting to coax forth enough emotion to pierce through a metaphysical veil and ask a ghost for directions. I scoff. My friends would never believe me if I told them. A week ago, I never would’ve believed myself . And perhaps I should be ashamed by such an admission—that no one, including me, would’ve ever thought I’d be tangled up in such a mess.

As swiftly as the realization comes, the temperature plummets, and all color seeps from the corridor as familiar ash begins to drift from the candelabra on either side of me. I brush it away with a weakened sort of triumph. Because I did it— I crossed —and I should be enormously pleased with myself. And I am pleased, but I am also... not.

Which leaves me feeling quite lost.

But I haven’t time to focus on that now. Shaking the thoughts aside, I hiss Mila’s name again, and—in true Célie fashion—a gangly, speckled-face ghost answers instead, floating up through the stairs with his hands in his pockets. “How do you know silver will kill them?” he asks.

“I don’t.” Hurrying past him in search of Mila, I make it only two steps before hesitating. Because like it or not, I cannot afford to waste this opportunity. I cannot afford to feel sorry for myself. Not yet. “Do you know how to kill them?”

He gestures to the twin gashes at his throat with a sheepish grin. “A friend once told me garlic.”

“Right.” I look away quickly, grimacing as I tuck that bit of information away. “No garlic. Perhaps you could direct me to Michal’s study instead?”

Grin widening, he jerks his narrow shoulder to the right. “Perhaps I could.”

Drifting into the wall, he vanishes just as quickly as he appeared, and I pause at a fork in the next corridor. Repressing a shiver, I forget about garlic and glance down each passage.

To the left, candles continue to burn, casting warm light on a passage that might lead to the entrance hall. The tapestry there looks vaguely familiar. I don’t remember Dimitri and me crossing the entrance hall to reach Michal’s study, however.

Biting my lip, I glance to the right, where shadows cloak the unlit sconces.

The ghostly boy didn’t seem to have malevolent intentions. With a deep, steadying breath, I snatch up a candelabra and veer to the right, picturing Jean Luc in my mind—and Lou and Reid, Coco and Beau. They crept through the dark of those tunnels for me, and I can do the same for them. I can find my silver cross, and I can save my friends from Michal’s wrath. I can save the lives of his future victims. He knows I fear the dark.

He left this passage in shadow for a reason.

I lift the candelabra higher, casting light farther up the passage. This place—it looks familiar too. I recognize that turbulent tapestry, this sprawling family tree. I move past them quickly, darting down another flight of stairs. Still no vampires spring out to stop me. The ash continues to settle, however, and the temperature continues to drop. Gooseflesh rises on my arms at each creak in the walls. “You’re being ridiculous,” I mutter to myself, gripping the candelabra with two hands now. A groan echoes overhead in response, and I tense, remembering Odessa’s warning: This castle is very old, and it has many bad memories.

“Ridiculous,” I repeat.

When peculiar laughter erupts behind me, I let out a strangled squeak, swinging my candelabra around like some sort of cudgel. It sails through empty air, however, nearly slipping from my hands and colliding with familiar ebony doors. I skid to a halt and stare up at them in awe. They tower to the ceiling—spanning just as wide—ominous and impenetrable and black as night. Just like their owner. “Found you,” I breathe.

As if the castle itself is listening, a gust of cold air sweeps down the corridor in response.

It extinguishes each and every one of my candles.

“ No —”

Before I can panic, before I can demand that it somehow—I don’t know— reignite the flames, another head pops straight through the ebony doors, sending me sprawling backward. I wield the candelabra at it like a sword and huff, “Can you please give some sort of forewarning before you leap out at me like that?”

“I do not leap.” The ghostly woman sniffs and lifts her haughty chin, pearl earrings bobbing within the perfect ringlets of her hair. Except for the odd cant of her neck, she is the portrait of civility. “You warmbloods are always so presumptuous, disparaging death in front of the dead. It isn’t the worst thing to be, you know.” She begins to withdraw.

“Wait!” I scramble to my feet, hastily smoothing my skirt and hair beneath her critical gaze. To be frank, she reminds me of my mother, albeit several years younger. Or perhaps several years older? It’s impossible to tell. “Er, please, mademoiselle, I—I apologize for the offense. You are entirely right, but if you could remain for just a moment, I would be forever in your debt.”

She wrinkles her pert nose in distaste. “Why?”

I gesture to the doorknob. Her silvery form provides just enough light to see the keyhole there, and she must have a good reason to linger in Michal’s study—presumably a vengeful one. He doesn’t strike me as the type to treat his lovers with affection. “The master of this castle has stolen something from me, and I should like to retrieve it. I need light, however, in order to pick the lock.”

A vicious sort of glee sparks in the woman’s eyes. “You want to steal from Michal?”

I nod warily.

“Ooh, excellent. Where shall I stand?”

I exhale in relief as she glides through the door, casting proper light over its handle. Peculiar ridges line its perimeter. I examine each carefully before turning to the keyhole, feeling unexpected camaraderie with this dead woman. Those of us who loathe Michal must stick together. “Pardon my candidness, but”—I fish the lockpicks from my skirt—“did he kill you too?”

“Who? Michal?” The woman laughs as I work the picks into the lock. “Of course not. He broke my heart, not my neck, though I would’ve gladly wrung his.” She lifts a hand to her hair, twining a ringlet around her finger almost dreamily. “Such a shame. The wicked things he could do with his tongue.”

Choking, I nearly drop the picks.

“Oh yes,” she says impishly, “and his teeth—”

The lock opens with a click, and I straighten hastily, my cheeks hot. On second thought, she most certainly doesn’t remind me of my mother. “Yes, well—thank you very much for your help. After I find my necklace, I promise to give Michal your love.”

She swells up like a toad. “You most certainly will not give him love —”

Twisting the handle, I leap across the threshold into his study, tearing back through the veil and landing firmly in the realm of the living. To my relief, the ghost merely pokes her head through the rip before sticking out her tongue and vanishing back the way she came. And as this rip is smaller—almost neater—it heals too quickly for her to change her mind.

Leaving me alone.

True darkness doesn’t descend, however, as a low fire still smolders in the hearth and a taper flickers weakly on his desk. It drips black wax upon the lacquered surface.

Right.

Summoning the last of my courage, I steal around his chair and wrench open each of his desk drawers.

Unlike the room itself, they remain unlocked, filled with neat and conventional supplies: an eagle-feather quill, pot of emerald ink, and needle-thin dagger in one; a velvet pouch of coins in another. I pour a handful into my palm. They bear not the crown on Belterra’s couronnes but the crude silhouette of a wolf in gold and bronze. No silver. I replace the pouch carefully and move on to the next items.

A box of matches and bundle of incense.

A skull-shaped seal and black wax.

An iron ring fashioned into a claw—I slip it over the tip of my thumb, examining its lethal tip in morbid fascination—and last, a charcoal sketch of Odessa and Dimitri. I recognize the thick waves of their hair, the feline shape of their eyes, though they look younger here than the vampires I’ve met. Perhaps my age. Even in pencil, their smiles transcend the page—their human smiles. No fangs interrupt the straight white lines of their teeth. They look... happy.

I tuck the sketch back beneath a jade paperweight, gritting my own teeth.

The cross isn’t here.

Though a fresh decanter of absinthe sits atop the sideboard, the cross isn’t there either. It isn’t among the cut glassware beside it, the dense books on the shelf above. It isn’t tucked beneath the carpet or tacked behind the portraits, isn’t hidden within the enormous curio cabinet.

It isn’t here.

Swallowing a scream of frustration, I nearly hurl my candelabra into the fireplace. It isn’t here , and I am running out of time. Already, Michal could be returning to the castle. Thanks to his carnivorous doorknob , he’ll know of my trespass the instant he steps foot in this room. He gave permission to explore the castle, yes, not break into his private study and rummage through his personal belongings. It has to be here.

It has to be.

I fling open his curio cabinet once more.

Even if I flee, he will find me, and without silver in my hand, he will be able to punish me, to lock me in darkness and throw away the key. I have to keep searching. I have to—

My candelabra knocks into the floor of the curio cabinet with a hollow thunk .

Hardly daring to breathe, I drop to my knees and search the shadowed recesses of the cabinet with clumsy fingers. The wood sits flush against the floor, and— there . A small button hides at the very back. When I press it—my eyes wide—gears crank from deep within the wall, and the floor of the cabinet pops open.

“A trapdoor,” I breathe.

And it is.

Below, an impossibly narrow stairwell plunges straight into darkness, the air thick and earthen, laced with the sweet, metallic scent of blood. My stomach flutters at that scent. My mouth dries at the absolute absence of light. Whatever lies at the bottom of this tunnel, it cannot be good. Still... I should investigate. This is surely where Michal has stowed my silver cross—in this damp and dark lair beneath the castle. Before I can change my mind, I race back to his desk, fumbling with the box of matches and relighting the tapers of my candelabra.

I’m halfway down the stairs before I realize what I’ve done.

Panic creeps up my throat.

No. Taking a deep breath, I focus on counting each tread. Reid always counts to ten when his temper flares. Unfortunately, my own anger has fled, leaving me as cold and hollow as the cavernous room into which I step. My hand clenches around the candelabra. The last time I journeyed underground, Morgane had knocked me unconscious, and I woke in the catacombs. I woke in a casket.

I shake my head against the memory. This isn’t like that. Though Michal has carved his lair into the very rock beneath the castle, these walls aren’t those of a crypt or casket. These walls sparkle with veins of mineral and specs of mica, and across the room, dark water extends smooth as glass beyond the glow of my candles. Whether it’s a pool or secret inlet of the ocean, I cannot tell, but a simple boat has been tethered at the shore. My heart leaps into my throat at the sight of it.

Dimitri said I could only leave Requiem by ship. He said vampire sentries would kill me before I reached the gangplank.

He conveniently forgot to mention this little rowboat hidden beneath the castle.

Forcing my feet into motion, I descend a second, wider set of stairs that feeds into the main level before picking up a pebble at the water’s edge. With a quick glance over my shoulder, I throw it as far as I can, holding my candelabra aloft to watch its trajectory. It does little good, however; even with the distant splash, I have no way to gauge whether this inlet connects to the sea. Except—

I crouch abruptly, dipping my fingers into the water before bringing it to my lips.

It tastes of salt.

Tears of overwhelming relief prick my eyes as my entire body slumps forward. Because this grotto must lead to the sea, which means— this is it . I hardly allow myself to think the words, to hope , but there it is, materializing just as clear and bright as my candlelight on the water. Michal is gone, and I can escape.

I can leave .

My foot is halfway in the boat before the reality of the situation swiftly follows, crashing down on my head and stunning me. I can flee Requiem tonight, yes—every instinct in my body screams for me to go, go, go —but my flight won’t stop Michal. He will not give up. He will still hunt for me, and worse—he will still hunt for Coco . Eventually, he will find us, and I will not be able to stop him from hurting her.

Not like I can now.

My fingers clench white upon the boat’s lip, and I stare determinedly at the dark water, deliberating. Michal needn’t know I uncovered his trapdoor, his secret chamber and private grotto. For all intents and purposes, he believes I am trapped, helpless, or he never would’ve allowed me to roam the castle unattended. And now—if I do find a weapon against him—I have means to escape. True means. If I killed him, no one would think to look for me here. They’d flock to the docks, and by the time they realized I vanished, I could be halfway back to Cesarine. Would they even try to avenge his death?

This could work.

Gingerly, I step back to shore, turning to examine the grotto with newfound urgency. I’ll need to be very careful, of course. Michal cannot know I’ve been here, or my entire plan will be ruined. Creeping forward, I approach the vast bed in the center of the cavern—ebony wood and lustrous emerald silk—before hesitating, loath to touch it. I cannot envision Michal sleeping either.

Focus, Célie.

Swiftly, lightly, I run my hands over the coverlet and pillows in search of my silver cross. Nothing. I turn away again. Though a thick carpet softens my footsteps, Michal has included little other decor: no statues, no pillows or settees, no candlesticks. A haphazard row of paintings leans against the far wall, but he’s hidden them with black cloth. Unable to resist, I uncover one of them, staring into two faces I recognize in pieces: his nose and her eyes, his jaw and her mouth. Michal’s parents.

His human parents.

A sense of wrongness pricks my scalp as I stare at them. I cannot picture Michal as human. The image simply doesn’t make sense—like an ugly Coco or a bashful Beauregard. Without his preternatural strength, his stillness, his intensity, the Michal I know doesn’t exist, yet here is proof that he did. Michal was born human. My fingers trace his mother’s eyes as I envision his compelled soldiers on the ship, his teeth in Arielle’s neck. The shadows in his gaze and the blood on his lips. Was he always this twisted up inside? This sadistic? How does one become a vampire?

How does a man become a monster?

Shaking the strangely mournful thoughts away, I note the names written in the lower right-hand corner of the portrait: Tomik Vasiliev and Adelina Volkov.

My gaze narrows.

Vasiliev.

My stomach pitches like I’ve missed a step. It cannot be coincidence.

With trembling hands, I flip to the next portrait, exhaling slowly at the familiar faces gazing back at me, at the matching names scrawled in the corner. Michal and Mila Vasiliev. He stands behind her, his pale hand resting upon her shoulder, while she sits regally in a velvet chair. Rendered in full, vibrant color, her eyes are no longer translucent, but instead gleam the most perfect shade of brown. Her hair—dark brown, just as I imagined—flows long and thick down her seafoam gown, and her cheeks flush dusky rose. She is breathtakingly beautiful.

My chest contracts painfully.

She is Michal’s sister.

Her eyes are larger, softer, than his—her skin darker—but there is no mistaking the bold angle of her brows, the straight line of her nose, the strong shape of her jaw. They belong to Michal too. They belong to their father. And suddenly, Michal’s obsessive quest to speak to her makes sense. His sister died. He is... grieving.

I replace the cloth hastily, feeling sick. Unless he hid my silver cross beneath his mattress, it isn’t in this room, which means I shouldn’t stay here any longer. Rifling through his desk is one thing; creeping into his bedroom, learning his family’s faces, is quite another. Instinctively, I know that if Michal finds me in this place, he won’t simply lock me away until All Hallows’ Eve. He will kill me, and I cannot say that I’d blame him.

With one last perfunctory sweep of my candelabra, I leave his secrets in darkness.