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Chapter Twenty-Three

The Celestials

My parents hired a specialist when I returned from the catacombs. My mother quickly realized she wasn’t equipped to help me, and my father tired of waking each night from my screams. My little fits , he called them, and the specialist—a healer of the mind called Father Algernon—dutifully confirmed my condition, diagnosing me with hysteria. “A uniquely female complaint,” he told my parents, who in turn dutifully paid him for prescribing a tonic instead of an asylum—or worse, an exorcism.

I still heard them whispering in my father’s study, however, about demonic possession.

“It is not uncommon,” Father Algernon said gravely, “among those touched by witchcraft. We see it often in their victims—a corruption of the soul. A black seed planted in the weak and immoral. You must know it is not your fault, my lord, as rotten fruit grows in even the halest and heartiest of families.”

My mother shooed Father Algernon from our house after that, but nearly a year later, I still haven’t forgotten his words. Weak . Immoral.

They seem to swirl with the leaves as Odessa and I approach Boutique de vêtements de M. Marc later that night.

Overhead, paper bats hang from the silver birch tree in honor of All Hallows’ Eve, their tiny wings fluttering in the crisp wind. Below, pumpkins and gourds litter the doorstep. Someone has carved wide, leering mouths into the fruit, along with eyes that flicker from the tea lights within. Live spiders skitter across the window—which now displays a breathtaking gown of aubergine crepe—and garlands of black roses wind around the lamppost across the street. Above the door, a human skull dangles from rosary beads.

Odessa, who notices me staring up at it, offers, “The skull is an All Hallows’ Eve tradition in Requiem—and the rosary.”

“Why?”

Why doesn’t Mila want to see Michal? Why will she not speak to him?

And—more important—why won’t she speak with me now?

I tried reaching back through the veil. After returning from Michal’s study empty-handed, I focused on every single emotion welling inside me: confusion and anger, even hope and expectation.

Fear.

No matter how I entreated her to appear—or the dozens of ghosts who peeked through my shelves to watch the spectacle—she refused to answer, leaving me to stew and pore through How to Commune with the Dead until Odessa arrived. Leaving me , I think bitterly, one step closer to my demise .

My plan doesn’t work without a weapon.

“I suppose you could say vampires have a dark sense of humor.” Odessa’s eyes linger too long on my face. If I didn’t know better, I might think she seems concerned. Perhaps I look too pale, too drawn, since discovering Michal’s secret. Perhaps I’m not asking enough questions. When I still cannot bring myself to answer, however, she plunges onward with an air of determination. “The early Church attempted to absorb the ancient pagan rite of Samhain by choosing October thirty-first and November first for All Hallows’ Eve and All Saints’ Day—for ease of conversion, they explained. Quite a nasty little habit they developed. Of course, they never expected the undead to participate as well.” She smirks and raises her brows at that, but when I merely nod, she heaves a sigh. Then, like she’d rather pluck out her own eyes and nail them to the door— “Do you want to talk about it? Whatever is bothering you?”

Whatever is bothering me. I almost laugh, instead forcing myself to ask, “The early Church knew of vampires?”

“Briefly.” Lips pursed, she studies me for another second before caressing the skull’s cheek fondly and passing into the shop. “Hello again, Father Roland. You’re looking well.”

And there it is— exactly why Mila wouldn’t want to speak to her family. My stomach churns as I watch the skull swing gruesomely back and forth, and I resist the urge to remove it, to lay poor Father Roland’s head to rest. Michal may grieve his sister, but how many others grieve because of him?

“Oho!” Monsieur Marc’s exclamation rings through the shop when I follow Odessa, and it takes several seconds to find his wispy white hair among the bodies packed inside. He kneels at the hem of a beautiful vampire on the middle platform, while Boris and Romi flit to and fro between his worktable and two other vampire patrons, measuring, pinning, nipping, and tucking with supernatural speed.

“Bonjour, monsieur—” I begin, but he blurs past Odessa and me, seizing a length of golden chain from the wall behind.

“You are early , ladies!” He darts to a bin of beads next. “How terribly rude of you. Do you not realize All Hallows’ Eve approaches? Do you not realize the entirety of the Old City clamors for my attention? Do you not understand the concept of punctuality? Your appointments do not start for another ten minutes—”

“And we are happy to wait, monsieur. Aren’t we, Célie?” Odessa glides a hand down the garnet damask bodice near the door. A lavish sapphire cloak—sewn of velvet so dark it appears nearly black—hangs beside it, complete with a diadem of gold and pearl. The entire ensemble feels oddly familiar, though I cannot place where I’ve seen it before. “We understand true genius takes time. This is stunning,” she adds, lifting the cloak for me to see. “He never fails to exceed all expectations.”

“You flatter me.” Though Monsieur Marc pretends to grumble, impish glee sparks in his eyes at the compliment, and he puffs out his chest in unmistakable pride. “And flattery will get you everywhere. Boris”—he snaps his fingers at his assistant—“finish fitting Monsieur Dupont for me, would you? I must prepare our Madonna for her final fitting before entrusting Mademoiselle Célie with her trousseau.”

“Madonna?” I blink between Odessa and the blue-black cloak, the garnet bodice. Blue of the divine. Red of Christ’s blood. I snort in the most unladylike way possible. My mother would be ashamed. “You’re dressing as the Madonna for All Hallows’ Eve? As in the Madonna and child? The Mother of God and Jesus Christ?”

“Would you believe that Dimitri refuses to participate?” Costume in tow, Odessa tosses her hair as Monsieur Marc leads her into the back room. She winks at me conspiratorially. “You must convince him that he’ll make a darling newborn babe when he arrives with the carriage. With his keen intellect, he’s already halfway there. Just imagine him in swaddling clothes.”

Chuckling, Monsieur Marc closes the door, ending our conversation.

Leaving me alone in a shop full of silent vampires.

Moving in a blur, Boris extends the train of Monsieur Dupont’s gown—molten gold, the fabric so sleek it looks liquid—all the way to the door of the shop. I step around it carefully, all too aware of Monsieur Dupont’s dark eyes on me. Atop his smooth head sits a coronet shaped like rays of light.

I could never tolerate silence for long.

“Your costume is beautiful,” I tell him with a tentative smile. “You look like the sun.” When he says nothing in return, only stares at me, I clear my throat and start again. “Of course, you have no idea who I am, which makes this rather inappropriate, doesn’t it? My apologies. Please, allow me to introduce myself. My name is Célie Tremblay, and—”

In a voice as dark and smooth as his skin, he says, “I know who you are.”

Boris and Romi exchange a wary glance.

“Ah.” I look between him and his companions, my smile fading. “I see—”

“He allows you into the Old City?” The second vampire—pale, tall, and svelte, with ice-blond hair and bloodred lips—tilts her head curiously. Romi rearranges a fold in her soft white gown. The fabric seems to glow slightly, and a delicate black headpiece glitters across her head. It falls into a crescent moon pendant above her brow. “His human pet?”

I stiffen slightly. “His pet ?”

I dislike the nickname from Michal’s lips. I absolutely loathe it from hers.

“A Chasseur,” Monsieur Dupont says, his expression unreadable. “A huntress.”

“Why has he brought a huntress to Requiem?” the third vampire hisses. Raven curls fall in wild disarray down her round and voluptuous form, and the bodice of her gown is fitted and sheer—dove gray but iridescent, with flecks of diamonds sewn into the gossamer. They look like stars.

Because they are stars , I realize with irritating and irrational interest.

Together, these vampires will form the three celestial bodies on All Hallows’ Eve. They also look like they want to kill me. And suddenly, I refuse to admit that I’m a prisoner, a pet , while they lord over me with their lovely gowns and lovelier faces. I force another smile at each in turn. “Michal invited me here as a guest in his household. I shall return home after the masquerade ball on All Hallows’ Eve.”

It is the wrong thing to say.

Instantly, the raven-haired vampire hisses, and her ice-blond companion’s lip curls. I force myself to remain exactly where I am. Never run from a vampire. “He invited you to the All Hallows’ Eve celebrations?” the former asks in outrage.

“Should he not have done so? I’ve seen humans in the market.”

“As chattel,” she snarls. “Never guests.”

“Priscille.” Monsieur Dupont lays a broad hand on her shoulder before turning those fathomless eyes to me. Though they aren’t openly hostile like Priscille’s, they aren’t exactly kind either. “Take care, humaine, for we are not the Vasiliev king or his family. We have not the blessing of celebrating with our kin this All Hallows’ Eve.”

Swallowing hard, I glance to the back room. “Oh?”

“ Oh. ” Priscille bristles beneath Monsieur Dupont’s hand. “Vampires from all over the world should already be arriving in Requiem, yet this year, Michal has closed our borders. Without his blessing, no one comes in, and no one goes out.”

“Except you, of course,” the blonde says coldly. “Will your brethren try to follow you here?”

“I—I am hardly a Chasseur, mademoiselle.”

“Would you still taste like one, I wonder?”

“Juliet,” Monsieur Dupont warns. “Not here.”

Not here. My mouth dries. He didn’t say not ever .

But surely Odessa and Monsieur Marc can still hear us; surely they’ll intervene if I’m in true danger. My gaze darts again to their door. Though a shop full of angry vampires isn’t ideal, perhaps their hatred of Michal can work in my favor. An enemy of my enemy is a friend, after all. “Why has he closed the borders?”

Monsieur Dupont shakes his head slowly. “We do not discuss such things with humans.”

“Why shouldn’t we?” Priscille pushes his hand from her shoulder. “Michal flouts his own rule despite the danger to his people, yet he expects us to follow blindly? I think not.” She lifts her nose, nostrils flaring. “If you ask me, he is not himself. His servants have started to whisper, Pierre. They speak of strange happenings in the castle, of his reclusiveness and restlessness. They speak of ghosts .”

“ You should not speak of them, Priscille.”

“My cousin even overheard that he invited La Dame des Sorcières and La Princesse Rouge to the masquerade on All Hallows’ Eve. Can you imagine? Witches walking the streets of Requiem, thinking themselves our equals? Whatever happened to our sanctuary, our secret ?” She glares at me with withering disdain. “I did not want to believe it, yet now I fear it must be true—Michal is truly unhinged, and I no longer feel safe here.”

Juliet shakes her head in disgust. “The Chasseurs will follow their huntress. Mark my words. When the enchantment lifts on All Hallows’ Eve, they will come with their swords of—”

Monsieur Dupont speaks sharper now. “ Juliet —”

“And how can Michal protect us?” Priscille’s beautiful face twists in scorn. “He couldn’t even protect his own sister—”

The door to the back bursts open with a mighty bang , and Odessa stands in the threshold, still and slight and utterly terrifying. She no longer smiles. Monsieur Marc appears grave and silent behind her. “Oh, darlings, don’t mind me,” she says, her voice light and deceptively pleasant. It lifts the hair on my neck. “Please continue. I am ever so interested to hear more of this fascinating conversation.”

Monsieur Dupont bows his head, baring his teeth at Priscille and Juliet when they don’t immediately follow. Juliet grimaces as if pained before dropping into a curtsy. Odessa’s attention flicks to Priscille, who still stands on the platform with her back ramrod straight, her shoulders proud. Boris and Romi retreat from her slowly, their gazes fixed upon the floor.

“Do you challenge him, Priscille?” Odessa asks. “Shall I summon our king?”

Wide-eyed, I watch as Priscille’s jaw clenches, as she refuses to break eye contact with Odessa. It all feels terribly important—terribly foolish —like I am watching the last moments of this immortal creature’s life. If Michal were here instead of Odessa, Priscille would already be dead. Echoing my thoughts, still bowing, Monsieur Dupont murmurs, “Do not be rash, mon amie. Yield now.”

Priscille’s throat works furiously. “Michal is not fit to lead us.”

“And you are?” he asks.

“Perhaps.”

Odessa’s smile hardens. “Take care how you speak, celestials. Hundreds have challenged Michal in his thousand-year reign, yet Michal alone remains—for the sun, moon, and stars do not exist in Requiem. Here there is only darkness, and darkness is eternal.”

An inexplicably eager chill sweeps my body at that. Perhaps I am immoral. Because I cannot tear my gaze away from Priscille, from Odessa, from the palpable threat of violence between them. If the situation escalates much further, Odessa might not wait for Michal. She might dispose of Priscille with her bare hands, and I—well, I simply cannot muster proper horror at the prospect.

Leaning forward, I wait with bated breath for Priscille to respond.

When a small hand clasps my elbow instead, I tense, my heart leaping to my throat. Monsieur Marc coughs pointedly. “Go, papillon,” he says, his voice uncharacteristically quiet. “Some conversations are better left unheard, and I have assembled your trousseau in the back. Please wait for me to join you there.”

He doesn’t allow any argument, pushing me forward with strength that belies his white hair. Not a single vampire in the room acknowledges me as we pass. Odessa and Priscille remain locked in silent challenge, even as Monsieur Marc closes the door behind me.

Resisting the urge to press my ear to the door, I glance around the tiny room. His office , I realize. Dozens of garment boxes spill over his desk, beneath his chair, across his rug in organized chaos, and emerald ribbon adorns each one with a pretty bow. An unexpected surge of affection fills me as I blink at them. They match the ribbon on my wrist exactly.

“My brother suffers from that one malediction which cannot be cured,” D’Artagnan muses from a basket half-hidden behind the door. Startling, I whirl just as he yawns wide, stretches in a leisurely fashion—thoroughly unconcerned—and sits up to lick his paw. The tip of his tail flicks. “Sentiment.”

Though my eyes narrow, I resist the urge to tug my sleeve down over my own ribbon. Because I have nothing of which to be ashamed, and besides—I don’t much like this disdainful little creature and his opinions. I’ve always known cats to be rather standoffish, of course—with the exception of those on this isle—but this one wins the crown. “It isn’t the worst of sins, you know. To care for someone.”

He pauses in licking his back leg to blink up at me. “Is that what you think is happening? Vampires caring for you?”

“Don’t be absurd—”

“Oh, good. Then we’re in agreement.” He resumes licking himself in a rather offensive manner, taking care to gift me his back end. “I worried for a moment, but it would be rather absurd—even delusional—for either of us to pretend a vampire has your best interests at heart. Even your beloved Monsieur Marc poisoned me in a fit of malicious temper, and we shared the same womb.”

Unbidden, my eyes flick to the shop door, but no sound comes from beyond it. No footsteps. No voices. No screams of anguish, no cries of rebellion. Perhaps the celestial vampires have left the shop in peace, or perhaps—more likely—I simply cannot hear them; Monsieur Marc did admit to dallying with a witch, after all. Perhaps an enchantment lies upon this door, and they cannot hear me either, which means...

Edging toward the tattered desk, I nudge aside the boxes there as covertly as possible.

It couldn’t hurt to have a poke around. Though my search of Michal’s study didn’t yield my silver cross, it still proved useful, and Monsieur Marc doesn’t seem quite as scrupulous with his belongings as Requiem’s benevolent ruler. He did poison his vampire brother, after all. Could he still possess whatever he used? Powdered arsenic? Nightshade berries?

Rat droppings?

Please let it be rat droppings.

“You seduced your brother’s wife.” Determined to maintain a casual air, I trail my hand along the crystal bottle of ink, the peacock-feather quill, in search of anything immediately out of the ordinary. A crude portrait of two teenage girls—presumably Monsieur Marc’s daughters—sits framed with pride behind a leather-bound portfolio filled to the brim with sketches. “He had every reason to be angry with you.”

“Yes, well, he stole my favorite pocket square.”

My hand stills on the handle of the desk drawer, and I crane my neck to stare at him incredulously. “You cannot be serious.”

“As opposed to what?”

“You ruined your brother’s marriage because he stole your favorite pocket square ?” I shake my head and resume my search, dipping into Monsieur Marc’s drawer now. “That’s despicable, D’Artagnan. You should be ashamed of yourself as both a vampire and a cat.”

“Tit for tat—though if you must know, it wasn’t his marriage I ruined. His human wife died long before either of us transitioned to vampire, and she never allowed such antics.”

He blinks his great amber eyes at me in distaste, and though he has no way of knowing—he cannot read minds —a shadow of doubt still spreads through my chest in response. No. Of shame . Only moments ago, I relished the thought of Odessa hurting that celestial vampire, so who am I to shame D’Artagnan for his behavior?

My throat tightens at the realization.

I need to escape this island as soon as possible.

As if indeed sensing my bleak thoughts, D’Artagnan says, “More to the point of despicable behavior, however, has my brother stowed your trousseau in his desk? Is there perhaps an evening gown folded among the envelopes?”

I nearly slam my fingers in the desk drawer as I hasten to shut it. “Of course not,” I say quickly— too quickly—and I loathe myself as I adopt a wide smile, as I pat the nearest garment box with one hand and slip the blank sheet of parchment into my pocket with the other. It rustles against the inkpot and peacock quill already there. “I simply hoped to catch a glimpse of my costume before All Hallows’ Eve. Is it here in the shop? Has he finished it?”

If a cat could roll his eyes, this one would. “At least have the sense to steal more than a quill.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Stupidity does not become you.” At last, he finishes his bath, bestowing me with his undivided—and, frankly, inconvenient—attention. “Go on, then. I will not stop you. I assume you intend to procure a weapon for some madcap escape attempt—all the while failing to realize, of course, that no weapon in this shop can help you.”

Now it’s my turn to give him undivided attention. Because he didn’t say no weapon in general ; he said no weapon in this shop , and D’Artagnan doesn’t strike me as one to speak without thinking. “For your information, I do have a plan,” I tell him. “Or at least”—abandoning all attempts at subtlety, I fling open the cabinet beside the desk to widen my search—“I’m in the process of forming one, and it isn’t madcap at all. It’s rather simple, actually.”

“Does it involve the quill and ink in your pocket?”

“It might.”

“Then I regret to inform you, foolish girl, that there is nothing simple about sending a letter on Requiem.”

I move swiftly to the bookcase, pulling out each tome in hopes of loosening something. A packet of powder, perhaps, or a secret lever. “Nonsense. Do you not have an aviary?”

“Of course we have an aviary, but it resides on the northern shore of the isle, which—in case such trivial matters as revolt and rebellion have escaped your notice—is no longer safe. The streets are restless, and the citizens are eager for a martyr. Without Michal as protection, you will be... marked.”

Marked.

The word should lift the hair at my neck, but I return the last book to its shelf before whirling to face the rest of the room, scouring the cramped space anxiously. Despite D’Artagnan’s rather unexpected warning, there are no true safeguards here. Michal marked me the instant he saw Coco’s scarlet cloak. I am no more safe with him than I am in the streets.

Dropping to my knees, I begin to feel along the floorboards with increasing desperation.

Monsieur Marc and Odessa could break up this little chat at any second, and even if they don’t—my eyes dart to the back door, where the former arranges deliveries—Dimitri will be here soon. My fingers scrabble at the wood as disappointment rears its ugly head. Perhaps D’Artagnan didn’t mean to hint at a secret weapon at all—or perhaps he did , and he now delights in watching me crawl about on my hands and knees.

“You’re ruining your gown,” he says disdainfully, “and you look like the little match girl as well. Are you familiar with the tale? I used to read it to my nieces every night. It’s about the hopes and dreams of a dying child—”

“Though I appreciate the concern, D’Artagnan,” I say through gritted teeth, “I don’t care about my gown, and I don’t need your encouragement. I will warn my friends of what awaits them here. I don’t expect you to understand, of course, but—” Something bright glints in my periphery, and I stop short, turning sharply toward the underside of Monsieur Marc’s desk. Eyes narrowing for one second—two—I lean closer to investigate. Odd. Long and sharp and narrow, it appears to be some sort of... of pin , except—

No.

My eyes widen as I scramble to my feet, as I crack my skull on the desk and nearly crash to my knees once more, clutching my crown through tears. Because it isn’t a pin at all.

It’s a stake .

And it isn’t just any stake. It’s a silver stake, and I don’t know whether I weep with pain or giddiness, concern or jubilation. It hardly matters either way; seizing the weapon from its perch, I resist the urge to kiss D’Artagnan all over his cantankerous face. Because there can be no doubt now—if Monsieur Marc has taken such care to hide it, this stake must be dangerous. Silver must be dangerous.

“I knew it.” Still slightly dizzy, still clutching my head, I twirl among the boxes before remembering the ink, quill, and parchment in my pocket, upending them all on the desk. “I knew it.”

“Oh dear.” To my surprise, however, D’Artagnan makes no move to swat the stake from my hand or otherwise alert the vampires next door of my newfound weapon. Instead, he kneads the edge of his basket dispassionately. “It seems you’ve found my stake.”

“ Your stake?”

“You insult me, mademoiselle. If my brother hadn’t poisoned me that morning, I would’ve staked him that very night. Indeed, the plans were already in motion.”

“Despicable,” I repeat, shaking my head, but my heart is no longer in it. No—my heart now flies across the parchment with my hand as I finally, finally , set my plan into motion.

Coco,

You must not come to Requiem. The killer is here—a vampire called Michal Vasiliev. He drinks the blood of his victims, and he intends to kill you on All Hallows’ Eve. Armed with silver, I myself am in no imminent danger. Please know that I will escape this wretched place, and I will see everyone in Cesarine soon.

All my love,

Célie

At the last stroke of my quill, D’Artagnan steps languorously from his basket—yawning once more—and saunters toward the delivery entrance. “What are you doing?” I ask suspiciously, folding the parchment into quarters before slipping it into my corset with the stake. “You aren’t coming with me.”

“Of course I am.” He stretches upward to catch the door handle, and cool night air spills between us as it opens to the shadows of the alley. “Once a vampire, always a vampire, after all.”

Frowning at his back, I quietly follow him from the shop. “What does that mean?”

His tail flicks in the darkness like the feu follet of lore. Like an omen. “I quite enjoy the scent of blood.”