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Chapter Twenty-Four

Ma Douce

Anticipation swells in my chest as D’Artagnan leads me toward the seven-tailed gargoyle, parting the ivy beneath it and ducking through the crack in the wall. Perhaps it’s foolish to feel so... buoyant after his warning, but the city feels different now. A harsh, almost painful laugh escapes as we climb through the shrubbery on the other side of the wall, as we dart into the wider street beyond. The colors here—the yellow of the gourds, the amber of D’Artagnan’s eyes—appear richer than before, beautifully saturated, while the salt in the air tastes sharper, and a distant rumble of thunder promises another storm.

But not yet.

The streets are perfectly still tonight. Peaceful, even. The moon herself peeks out from behind her clouds, glistening upon the wet cobblestones, and a black cat follows us as we cross to another street. When she purrs, brushing against my skirts, I know in my bones this is it. This is my moment. Reaching a hand into my skirt pocket, I double-check the folded letter there. When D’Artagnan arches his back and hisses, frightening the poor creature away, I triple-check the stake in my corset.

“You didn’t need to do that,” I whisper to him. “She wasn’t harming anyone.”

He looks smug. “I know.”

Shaking my head, I glance around the landscape to gain my bearings—and thank God that the Old City sits on the highest peak of the isle. From here, just outside the wall, I can see the whole of Requiem sprawled out below us. D’Artagnan said the aviary lies on the northern shore, which means—I turn and squint in the moonlight— there . I can just see it rise along the rocky beach. With a slow exhale, I memorize the stars above it: a constellation called Les Amoureux. The same star forms the tip of the serpent’s tail and the dove’s wing. I allow it to guide me as I plunge into the city and lose direct sight of the aviary.

Beau renamed the constellation as a wedding gift to Lou and Reid last summer.

A pang of longing shoots through me at the memory, but I push it aside. I bury it deep. Nothing can dampen my spirit tonight—not rain, and certainly not regret.

This is my moment.

After sending this letter, I’ll slip back to Michal’s grotto and wait.

Though candlelight flickers from the shops on either side of us, I duck my head and resist temptation; I hurry past the bookshop and perfumery, glance only twice over my shoulder at the diamond and pearl collars on display in the bijouterie. The celestials might be distracting Odessa for now, but eventually, she will notice my absence. Quickening my step, I nod politely to a passing gentleman, who tips his hat to me with a curious expression. His face is pale as bone.

Maintaining my calm, measured pace, I refuse to glance back at him. Refuse to give him a reason to stop, to speak to me. For all he knows, I’ve done nothing wrong; I’m a simple human pet out for a stroll in the moonlight, perfectly commonplace and dull. What had Priscille said? Like chattel. I wait several more seconds. When no cold hand grasps my arm, I turn my chin slightly, exhaling in relief at the empty street behind me. “Second thoughts?” D’Artagnan murmurs. “It isn’t too late to turn around.”

“You’d like that, wouldn’t you?”

“Not at all.” He rubs his side along a gargoyle in perfect contentment. “Why deprive myself of the entertainment? There is nothing quite so satisfying as watching a plan go awry—not that yours would qualify as a plan, of course. A letter and a stake seem more a farewell.” He pounces on an errant leaf. “I’ve always envisioned my own swan song with rather more pomp and circumstance—perhaps in haute couture, my brother’s tonsils in hand.”

“Lovely.”

No other creatures cross our path as we continue down the sloping streets.

It seems the crowds of the lower markets avoid wandering too near the Old City—an advantage, I tell myself, nodding and walking faster still. It would be much harder to maintain secrecy while traipsing through the hustle and bustle of witches, werewolves, and mermaids near the docks. Still... I glance around us. According to Odessa, vampires rise with the moon. Shouldn’t there be more of them outside tonight, perusing these lavish shops near the wall? Surely not all vampires reside within the Old City? Dimitri claimed only the most revered and respected lineages lived inside.

Cold awareness pricks my nape.

Then again... perhaps vampires are here. Perhaps I just can’t see them.

As if in response, movement stirs in the shadowed alcove across the street, and I tense, drawing the silver stake from my corset. But... no. I relax again, my cheeks growing warm. The couple—a man and a woman—seem to be locked in a passionate embrace, far too occupied with each other to notice us. Their hips move in synchrony. Even to my human ears, the man’s breathing sounds labored and uneven, and when the woman pulls away, he moans and topples sideways, blood streaming down his chest. My heart lurches into my throat. They aren’t embracing at all. The woman is feeding from him, and the man appears to be dying. “Quelle tragédie,” D’Artagnan purrs.

Holding my breath, I nudge him forward and tiptoe past as quietly as possible. It takes several moments to slow my heartbeat, to regain my sense of purpose. I cannot save that man—I cannot save Michal’s victim tonight—but I can save Coco. I will save Coco, and I will save myself too.

The stake is slick in my palm when another gentleman passes halfway across the city. He wipes blood from the corner of his mouth with a silk handkerchief and a salacious grin, his teeth gleaming long and white. “Bonsoir, ma douce.”

“Good evening, monsieur.” I clutch the stake tighter, hiding it in my skirt, as I stride around him. When he continues to stare—the breeze tousling his raven-dark hair—I force a pleasant smile and murmur, “Beautiful night, isn’t it?”

“Indeed it is.”

He watches as I turn the corner, but thankfully, he doesn’t follow. “See?” I ask D’Artagnan with strained optimism. Except gooseflesh rises along my arms, my legs, and pressure starts to build in my ears with each erratic beat of my heart. I struggle to control my fear, to steady my breathing, as color leeches from the street around us. “If any vampire wanted to bite me, it would’ve been that one, and he was a perfect gentleman—”

“Except for the blood on his collar,” Mila says, her voice sharp.

I startle violently as she materializes beside me, her eyes narrowed and—and angry . “Mila!” My own eyes dart around us as the spirit realm fully descends, and I slink back a step, slipping a little in ash and trying not to look too disappointed. Now she deigns to speak to me. “What are you—?”

“The better question is what are you , Célie Tremblay? Do you think you’re being brave , sneaking away from the others? Do you think you’re being clever?” When I move to walk around her, she shoots in front of me, and I cringe at the unpleasant, icy sensation of her skin against mine. “And to think I mistook you for intelligent.”

“It’s wonderful to see you too.” Lifting my chin—ignoring the hot spark of anger at her words—I bare my teeth in a smile before continuing down the street. Ahead, the shadow of the aviary looms closer, larger. I fix my gaze upon it, refusing to look at Mila. She cannot ruin this. Coco, Lou, Jean Luc, Reid—they’re almost safe. I’m almost there. “Thank you for telling me about your brother , by the way. I really appreciated that little lie of omission.”

Her brows snap together in surprise. I’ve shocked her. Good. “I didn’t lie,” she says, recovering quickly and squaring her shoulders. “I told you my name. It isn’t my fault you didn’t recognize it.”

“Such modesty . Must be a family trait.” I quicken my step, eager to escape her. “I’m rather busy at the moment, though, so if you’ll excuse me—”

“I will most certainly not excuse you. What are you doing out here all alone?”

D’Artagnan clears his throat, detaching himself from the shadows and startling us both. “Hello again, Mila.”

“D’Artagnan.” If possible, Mila’s expression hardens further—she resembles actual stone now—but their cold greeting only confirms my suspicions: D’Artagnan can see ghosts, which means I’m not quite as alone here as I feared. Not quite as wrong . The realization fills me with a strange sense of kinship with the beastly little creature. “Of all the meddlesome—I should’ve known you’d be here.” Mila’s voice drips with accusation. “I assume you put her up to this?”

D’Artagnan rubs languorously against a streetlamp. “Her reasons are her own.”

Throwing up her hands, she streaks after me in exasperation. “ Well? What are they?”

“I’d rather not discuss them with you.”

“I’d rather not be dead, yet here we are,” she snaps. “Did Michal not impress upon you the danger of this place? When we agreed you’d leave the isle, I assumed you meant alive .”

“Listen, Mila,” I say tersely, practically sprinting from her now. “Michal might be your brother, but this really doesn’t concern you. I can’t let him kill my friends, and I thought you of all people would understand that. Clearly, he wants to speak with you—and I could’ve translated—but you refused to see him earlier. It must’ve been for a reason.”

Angrier now, she streaks in front of me once more. “This isn’t about me and Michal. This is about you .” Wrong answer. I skirt around her, clenching my jaw, but she merely follows like a bat out of Hell. “Vampires eat people, Célie. Just because my family has treated you with kindness”—I scoff aloud—“does not mean vampires are kind. If you stumble across the wrong sort, even my brother will not be able to save you. Do you understand that ? Do you understand how unpleasant it is to die?”

“I can do this.” I lift my chin stubbornly. “I have to do this.” Then—unable to keep the frustration from my voice— “Why do you even care? You don’t know me, and your brother plans to kill me in less than a fortnight. Clearly, you still feel some loyalty toward him, and—” Realization dawns swift and cruel and—and oh my God . “Is that it? Are you worried that my friends won’t arrive if I die before All Hallows’ Eve? That Michal will never get his vengeance?”

Mila’s eyes narrow once more. When she moves to stop me this time, she draws to her full height, looming over me with a look so cold and so familiar that I almost miss a step. “You really are a fool,” she says, every inch her brother, “if you think I’m here for vengeance.”

I skid to a halt to glare up at her. “Why are you here, then? To help your brother choose his next victims? To drag those poor souls to Hell?”

“My brother didn’t kill those creatures. You think him beyond absolution, but you’re wrong. Michal can still be saved. I know he can.”

You think him beyond absolution.

No gift can absolve the things you’ve done.

D’Artagnan clicks his tongue in disapproval.

“Were you eavesdropping on us?” I ask indignantly, but when she opens her mouth to answer, I realize I don’t want an explanation. Mila was Michal’s sister—of course she thinks he deserves absolution; of course she doesn’t want to believe him capable of such irrevocable evil. If the roles were reversed, I’d never believe it of Pippa either. But—no. I don’t have time for this. Odessa could arrive at any moment.

Lifting the silver stake, I say decisively, “Let me be clear. Even if it were possible—which it isn’t—I would never help you absolve Michal. If I could, I would drive this silver straight into his chest to rid the world of his black heart.”

“My brother’s heart is many things,” she says vehemently, “but black it is not.”

But I refuse to tolerate Mila or her brother for another second. With a vicious, instinctive push, I thrust out with my anger, feeling righteous—feeling vindicated —for the first time in ages. Feeling like perhaps I could drive this silver into Michal’s chest if he appeared. Mila’s mouth parts in shock as the veil splits in a swift, brutal cut behind me, and I leap through it, away from her, seizing the edges and forcing them back together again.

Eyes widening, she bolts forward two seconds too late. “What are you doing?”

“I’m sorry, Mila. I wish we could be friends.”

She shakes her head—tries to force a hand through—but the veil repairs itself at rapid speed now, stoked by the fire in my chest. “Don’t do this, Célie, please— ”

“ Leave .”

With a final, ruthless swipe, I force the veil to close completely, leaving the path to the aviary clear. I take another deep, steadying breath—tamping down on my guilt—and inhale warmer air before striding toward the aviary. To my inexplicable relief, D’Artagnan follows.

“Loath as I am to admit it,” he murmurs, “that went... well.”

“You didn’t tell me you could see ghosts.”

“You didn’t tell me you could either.”

Heavy silence descends as we step through the door together.

Unlike the aviary in Cesarine, this one isn’t built like an enormous cage. No. It’s built like a rook, tall and narrow and slightly crooked, with a concave ceiling and stone walls. A peculiar smell fills the place—one I can’t quite place—but it probably belongs to the birds. And there are hundreds of birds: hawks and owls and pigeons and ravens, each face illuminated by the basin of fire in the middle of the room. Some of them blink at us within cages, while others perch along the rickety staircase that circles the walls to the top of the structure. Above us, chains rattle faintly before falling silent.

I peer at the dark ceiling cautiously. Though the firelight doesn’t reach the top of the aviary, I assume the keeper tethers his deadliest birds up there, away from the others. Already, my fingers itch to set them all free. The cages, the chains—they’ve always seemed particularly cruel for creatures with wings.

Unfortunately, I can only release one tonight.

Quietly, I follow D’Artagnan up the stairs, searching for a larger bird to make the voyage across the sea. Even D’Artagnan seems reluctant to speak in this place. Crude windows pock the walls the higher we climb, and a leak trickles from somewhere overhead. Its steady drip, drip, drip joins the soft flutter of wings, the gentle crackle of fire.

A sharp, sudden caw! from above nearly stops my heart. D’Artagnan hisses, darting up the stairs and out of sight as my face snaps toward the sound. The three-eyed crow from the market peers back at me in a cage near the shadowy ceiling. Tilting its head inquisitively, it ruffles its feathers and hops from foot to foot. Odd. I frown and start toward it, whispering, “How did you get up there? I thought you were someone’s pet.”

Voice low, D’Artagnan says, “Should I be insulted you think the bird will speak?”

“Why shouldn’t it? You certainly never stop.”

It caws again in response, sounding strangely urgent as I climb higher into the gloom. As the drip , drip , drip of water grows louder. “You’re making a terrible racket, you know. No wonder that merchant got rid of you.” The bird’s only answer is to caw and attack the bars of its cage. I hesitate beside the agitated creature.

There are other birds, better birds, that could deliver my letter, yet I feel an inexplicable kinship with this one.

“Stop that,” I tell it firmly, extracting the folded parchment and poking its beak with the tip. “You’re going to hurt yourself, and I have a job for you.”

Though it pecks my letter in irritation, it also seems to understand my words, growing still and quiet on its perch. Watching me. Studying me. “Right.” I eye it apprehensively before sticking the silver stake back in my décolletage. “I am going to unlock your cage now, and you are not going to attack me. Do we agree?”

“This should be good,” D’Artagnan says.

“Ignore him,” I tell the bird.

It ruffles its wings with some importance.

Interpreting that as yes , I lift the latch and swing the door open. When the bird doesn’t move, I loose a breath of relief. “See? It’s quite easy to be civil. Now”—I slip the letter into the pouch around its foot—“I need you to deliver this to Cosette Monvoisin.” The bird tilts its head. “La Princesse Rouge? You can find her at 7 Yew Lane in Cesarine—or at the castle,” I add, feeling stupider by the second. If witches and mermaids and vampires can exist, however, surely this bird can deliver a letter. “She often stays with His Majesty there. Or—or she could also be up past Amandine. Have you heard of Chateau le Blanc? I don’t think she’ll be there this time of year, but just in case—”

The bird caw! caw! caw! s to put me out of my misery, and before I can duck, it hurtles past my face and out the nearest window. I watch it go with a mingled sense of triumph and unease. Something isn’t quite right about that bird—and I don’t just mean its extra eye. Indeed, something isn’t quite right about this place .

I try to shake the feeling, climbing to the window and forcing myself to appreciate the view. Because I did it. I did it. With any luck, the bird will find Coco quickly, and my friends will heed my warning. I’ve procured a silver stake to end Michal’s evil reign, and I’ll soon be rowing home to Cesarine. Everything will end perfectly. Everyone will live happily ever after, just like in the fairy stories Pip and I read as children. We’ll all be fine.

As the three-eyed crow disappears, however, my sense of hope refuses to return. A peculiar sense of awareness settles over my skin instead. The longer I stand here, the stronger it grows. My gaze flicks to the owls on either side of the window. Though their wings quiver, they stand wholly and totally still on their perches. Shouldn’t animals—even birds—make more noise than this? And where is Odessa? Shouldn’t she have found me by now? “Come on,” I whisper to D’Artagnan, turning toward the stairs. “We should go back to Monsieur Marc....”

But a gentle lapping sound has joined the steady drip , drip , drip of water. Frown deepening, I glance down at my feet, where D’Artagnan crouches, licking up a pool of...

My entire body goes rigid.

A pool of blood.

Unbidden, my head snaps upward to find the source, and—from the darkness of the ceiling—the wide eyes of a corpse stare back at me. For the span of a single heartbeat, my mind refuses to accept the scene overhead: the corpse’s limbs tangled in chains, his throat torn open, his mouth twisted in agony and fear . Then a drop of his blood hits my cheek. My eyelid, my lips —

The reality of the situation crashes over me, and I choke, stumbling away from him, crashing into the cages along the walls. The owls shriek with terror. They catch my cloak in their talons, my hair in their beaks, but I cannot feel the sting, cannot feel anything , because the corpse’s blood—it’s in my mouth. It’s on my tongue , and I can taste its bitter tang. I can—I—

I crash to my knees, heaving, but there is blood here too. It coats my palms as I push to my feet once more. It seeps across my vision and paints the aviary red as my eyes instinctively return to the man.

No.

Behind him—just visible in the shadows—a vampire clings to the ceiling, his body, his head , contorted unnaturally to watch me. Just because my family has treated you with kindness does not mean vampires are kind. If you stumble across the wrong sort...

A jagged grin stretches across the vampire’s face. Bits of the man still remain in his teeth, and blood pours down his chin in a dark wash of crimson.

This is the wrong sort.

My knees unlock, and I seize D’Artagnan, turning and sprinting down the staircase. “What are you doing ?” He twists wildly in my arms, hissing and spitting indignantly. “Unhand me this instant —”

“Don’t be stupid —”

Though I fumble for the stake in my corset, I only manage to cut my chest before the vampire lands in front of me on silent feet. His pale eyes glint with hunger at the line of blood on my décolletage, and he licks his lips greedily, dragging his gaze back to mine in a slow, wicked taunt. That simple movement—the sight of his lust, his tongue —sends me reeling backward, near delirious with panic. “I will not be quick,” he promises, his voice guttural and deep. And I believe him. Oh God , I believe him, and I should’ve listened to Mila—to D’Artagnan, to Odessa and Dimitri, even to Michal .

Do you understand how unpleasant it is to die?

When he lunges, I don’t stop to think.

I simply jump.

The floor rises swiftly to meet me, but I bend my knees, pressing my feet together to brace for impact. Jean Luc taught me how to fall during training. He taught me to relax my muscles, to angle toes first, to do a hundred other things that I forget the instant my feet hit the ground. Pain explodes up my legs, and I pitch forward, rolling and landing hard on my elbow. The bone shatters instantly. Yowling, D’Artagnan leaps from my arms and bolts through the open door. Though the vampire’s cruel laughter echoes above, I drag myself upright, the ground pitching and swaying beneath my feet.

My elbow is broken. My left ankle too. The force of the collision pushed the stake deeper into my breast, and blood pours freely down my bodice. By some miracle, however, I’m still alive; I survived . Leaning against the basin of fire, I wrench the stake from my skin with my good arm. I cannot run, but I will not die here. Not yet. “Where would you like it, monsieur?” I ask him through gritted teeth, lifting the stake. Black spots bloom in my vision. I taste blood in my mouth. “Eyes, ears, nose, or groin?”

He drops to the ground by the basin. Though I prepare for his attack, it never comes.

Instead, his eyes dart over my shoulder, and his salacious grin vanishes at something behind me. My fingers tighten around the bloody stake. I hardly dare hope. I hardly dare breathe . Turning slowly, I follow his gaze across the aviary, but it is not Odessa who steps through the door. It is not Monsieur Marc or Dimitri or Michal either.

No.

The two gentlemen from the street tip their hats to me, devastatingly handsome, followed by the woman with the lover. All three stare at the blood on my chest with palpable hunger. “Oh dear.” Extending his handkerchief with long, graceful fingers, the raven-haired vampire clicks his tongue sympathetically. His smile, however, is pure evil. “You seem to be bleeding.”