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Chapter Twenty-Five

A Natural Aphrodisiac

The vampire beside me snarls, every muscle in his body taut and tense. “I found her first,” he tells the others, his guttural voice dropping another octave. Near unintelligible now. Blood still spills down his chin, and I choke back bile at the sight of it. At the scent . “She is mine.”

The raven-haired vampire’s eyes never leave my face. His handkerchief remains extended. “Nonsense. I marked her on the street half an hour ago.” To me, he purrs, “Ignore the others. Come to me, ma douce, before you waste another drop of that lovely ichor. I shall take your pain away.”

He shall take my pain away.

The words are delicious, lovely and warm and—and compelling . When my head starts to empty and my feet begin to move, I wrench my gaze away and seize the rim of the basin. Pain radiates up my leg, down my arm, but I force myself to feel it, to remain in control, and stare determinedly at my scraped knuckles. I cannot run. I cannot even walk . The stake still bites into my palm, but the possibility of stabbing even a single vampire with it was slim; the possibility of stabbing four is nonexistent. The reality of the situation washes over me, and with it, my knees threaten to buckle.

I am going to die here, after all.

I can only pray Coco receives my note.

“Odessa will be here any moment.” Swaying on my feet, I lie through my teeth. “She just needed to finish up a bit of business with Monsieur Marc, but she said she’d be along soon. You don’t want to anger Odessa.” The last I deliver with as much bravado as I can muster. It’s what Jean Luc would do, what Lou and Reid and Coco would do too. They’d stare Death in the face, perhaps laugh at him, before striding into the afterlife with their chins held high.

I force my own chin up as the woman’s brow furrows.

“Fortunately for me, this will only take a moment.” The second gentleman removes his hat and gloves, draping them across the nearest cage. “Unfortunately for all other parties, however, etiquette dictates that you belong to the first vampire who marked you, and I’ve been tracking you since you crawled out of that hole in the Old City. What were you thinking?”

The feral vampire sinks into a half crouch before I can answer. “I don’t care for etiquette.”

The second gentleman glances at the ceiling—at the mutilated corpse still dangling high above us—in distaste. “Clearly.”

“Gentlemen,” the woman says warily. “She doesn’t look willing.”

“I don’t care ,” the feral vampire repeats with a snarl, sinking lower.

The raven-haired vampire sighs in resignation. “Let us be civil about this. Etiquette is subjective, of course, but I should still hate to destroy other vampires. The girl is no more than a mouthful—hardly enough to satisfy any one of us—so perhaps we can share her. I personally favor the femoral artery in the thigh.” He licks his lips, staring at my legs, and inches closer. “Which leaves her underarm and throat unattended, as well as that delectable wound above her heart.”

“I suppose the blood is much sweeter under the arm,” the second gentleman says grudgingly. He looks to the feral vampire. “What say you, Yannick? We shall even allow you first bite.”

The feral vampire hisses in agreement.

All three turn to the woman. “Madeleine?” the raven-haired vampire asks.

But the woman, Madeleine, edges toward the door, shaking her head with thinly veiled fear. “If what she says is true—if Odessa tracks her to us—Michal will not be far behind.” She waves a brown hand in my direction, inhaling deep. “Can you not smell the castle on her? She is his guest.”

The raven-haired vampire strolls toward me with an elegant shrug. “He has not yet bitten her. She remains unclaimed.”

Hesitating, Madeleine swallows hard and glances once more at my bleeding chest. “Michal will not like this.”

“Michal is not here ,” the other gentleman says impatiently, “but if you so fear him, by all means... leave her to us. I am hungry. Yannick?” Cold hands seize my shoulders from behind, and I cannot help it—I close my eyes, the last of my bluster vanishing. Because I am not Jean Luc or Lou or Reid, and I cannot laugh in Death’s face, cannot pretend to be brave as the feral vampire lowers his mouth to my throat. His breath is foul.

I will not be quick , he promised.

I tense, waiting for the first brutal lash of pain—and something streaks past my ear instead.

It imbeds in Yannick’s skull.

My eyes snap open as he releases me, as his head quite literally explodes in a shower of blood and gore. It douses my face, my throat, my chest in cold viscera. Whirling—clamping my mouth shut, clutching the basin for dear life—I watch a wooden stake clatter from the carnage to the ground, followed by his decapitated body. Before my very eyes, his figure begins to age, to desiccate, until it resembles not a man but a shriveled husk several hundred years old. His true age.

I stare at the dead vampire as if from underwater, a terrible ringing in my ears. His innards remain on my skin. I cannot acknowledge them. Cannot acknowledge him . The entire scene is so familiar—so gruesome —that my mind simply... withdraws. Between one blink and the next, the outside world stills, and I fold into that small, quiet place I discovered in my sister’s coffin. That place where I cease to exist.

No one is coming to save you.

The other vampires freeze instantly, their eyes darting in unison to the aviary door, where Michal leans casually against it.

“Forgive me.” In the dark leather surcoat from earlier—not a single hair out of place, his boots polished and his tie pristine—he pushes from the doorjamb with the grace and repose of an aristocrat. If not for the lethal glint in his eyes, he might pass as one. “Loath as I am to crash the party, I must say, I felt quite distressed at not receiving an invitation.” He pauses to pick a nonexistent speck of dirt from his sleeve. “I am the host, after all. And as such, a host might take offense to his guest being stalked, cornered, and terrorized in the street like common prey. A host might seek... restitution.”

Slowly, the vampires begin backing away—from him, from me, from each other. Madeleine’s eyes flit to the nearest window, while the raven-haired vampire lifts placating hands. “We meant no offense, Michal, of course. We would never dream of harming your esteemed guest.”

“Of course,” Michal repeats silkily, shadowing his steps.

The second gentleman bows, careful not to break eye contact. “We meant only to save her from the clutches of Yannick , Michal. The poor creature was unhinged.” He gestures to the ceiling, shaking his head with regret. “You did us all a service, really, by ridding the isle of such boorishness.”

Michal nods almost pleasantly. “No one will miss Yannick.”

“ Exactly —”

“You are, however, wrong about one thing, Laurent.”

The second gentleman’s eyes widen. “I—I am?”

“The curve between neck and shoulder”—suddenly, Michal stands directly in front of him, lifting a hand to caress the slope of the gentleman’s neck—“is where blood tastes the sweetest.”

Laurent is going to die.

The realization comes slowly at first, then all at once, as Laurent’s pallid face loses the last of its color. He knows it too. The predator has become the prey, and Michal—he relishes this moment, relishes the wild, panicked gleam in this weaker vampire’s eyes. Part of me relishes it too. Indeed, something dark stirs in my subconscious as I watch Laurent go completely and utterly still.

Part of me hopes Michal will not be quick.

“Michal.” Though Laurent’s voice drops to a whisper, the aviary has fallen quiet enough to hear every word. Even the birds sense imminent danger. “Please, mon roi. We just wanted to play with her.”

We just wanted to play with her.

To play with her.

The words are like needles, pricking my subconscious and jolting me back into my body. Yannick’s blood drips from my fingers as I tighten my grip on the stake. “I am not a doll,” I say quietly.

Frowning, Michal turns his face toward mine—just the slightest tilt of his chin—and in that split second, Laurent moves. He lifts his arms with lightning speed, breaking Michal’s hold on his throat, and lunges with bared teeth. Michal, however, moves faster. He plunges his fist into Laurent’s chest like a knife through butter, twisting, and when he pulls it back out again, he holds Laurent’s beating heart.

I stare at it in mute horror. In disbelief.

The raven-haired vampire bolts for the door, but Michal is somehow there too, repeating the process with brutal efficiency. Both bodies—shriveling, desiccating—fall to the earth in unison. The birds nearest them shriek and strain against their chains, collide with the bars of their cages, but Michal ignores them all. Tossing the hearts aside, he turns to the last remaining vampire, Madeleine, who still hovers across the aviary. Perhaps she knows better than to flee. Perhaps she knows she is already dead.

With alarming ease, he tears a wooden tread from the staircase, snapping it in half with his bare hands. It forms two crude stakes. “Please,” Madeleine begs, backing into the wall. “I’m sorry—”

“As am I, Madeleine.” Michal shakes his head in disappointment. “As am I.”

Apprehension flutters in my stomach.

Because Madeleine—she isn’t Laurent.

“Wait!” Before I realize what I’m doing, I lunge after him, grimacing at the fresh bolt of pain up my leg. It instantly crumples. The ground rises up with alarming speed, but then Michal is there, catching me. He doesn’t glance down—doesn’t acknowledge our embrace at all—his eyes instead narrowing on Madeleine, who risks a quick step toward the door.

“Do not move,” he warns her. Or perhaps me. Black blooms in my vision as I try and fail to escape his hold. My broken arm dangles uselessly at my side, the other trapped between us. My head throbs in time with my heart. Recognizing the battle lost, I collapse against him and nod weakly toward Madeleine.

“This woman—she told them not to hurt me. She respected your—your claim on me. She told the others there would be consequences.”

His arms tighten slightly around my waist. “She was correct.”

“You would truly kill a loyal subject in cold blood? An innocent?”

A cruel twist of his lips. “You know I would.”

Mila could not have been more wrong about him. Even Morgane cared about the lives of her people. This man—this creature —has completely lost whatever once made him human. “If you really want to send a message,” I say through gritted teeth, “you need a messenger.”

“A messenger,” he repeats coldly. At last, he deigns to look at me, his eyes flicking from my twisted ankle to my shattered elbow, the bloody gash above my breast. His jaw clenches almost imperceptibly, and too late, I realize his chest doesn’t move against mine. He isn’t breathing. “She inflicted none of these injuries?”

I shake my head, and another wave of black crests through my vision.

“You wish her to live?”

“I do.”

“Why?”

“Because”—I struggle to keep my eyes open, my head upright—“she doesn’t deserve to die .”

Michal stares down at me in disbelief.

I don’t know whether Madeleine killed the man outside; I hope she didn’t. I hope he consented to the feeding, just as Arielle did. I hope. Though Michal’s lip curls at whatever he sees in my expression, he finally jerks his chin to Madeleine. “Fine. Go. Tell the others what you saw here tonight. Tell them their king still protects this isle—from dangers both within and without—and tell them Célie Tremblay spared your pitiful life.”

Madeleine’s mouth parts in confusion, but she doesn’t hesitate. Bowing hastily, she casts me one last grateful look before streaking past without a word. Unlike her peers, she kept her life today. She escaped certain death.

And so did I.

Exhaling in relief, I unclench my limbs, but Michal doesn’t release me. Indeed, the tension radiating from his body only seems to build. He struggles to empty his expression, to school his features into that cold mask of calm, but fails miserably. His eyes glint colder than I’ve ever seen them as he stares at the door. We stand that way—still and silent—for several more seconds before he says, “I told you not to leave the castle.”

Frowning, I try again to extricate myself. “I thought you had business elsewhere tonight.”

“I returned only moments ago.”

“How fortunate for all of us.”

“How fortunate that Odessa scented Yannick,” he says tightly, “and rushed to find me. If she hadn’t, this night would’ve ended very poorly for you. Yannick’s tastes ran darker than most.”

The information shouldn’t surprise me—it shouldn’t —yet disgust still twists low in my belly. Birds of a feather. “You knew Yannick tortured and maimed his prey, yet you did nothing to stop him? You allowed him free rein of the isle?”

Without warning, Michal sweeps me into his arms, crosses the aviary, and deposits me carefully on the stairs before stripping off his coat. Though each of his movements remains carefully controlled, carefully leashed , his jaw looks hard enough to shatter glass. “It is not my job to rein in Yannick. Where are you hurt?”

“You are the king . It is your only job to rein in Yannick. You’re supposed to ensure the safety and well-being of your subjects, to maintain law and order—”

“Vampires are not humans.” His tone brooks no argument. “We possess none of your tender feelings, and we abide by only one law—a law you have undoubtedly broken tonight. Now, where are you hurt ?” When I glare at him stubbornly, his eyes flash, and he tears his sleeve up his forearm, sinking into another crouch before me. “Your left ankle and wrist are broken, and you’ve lacerated your chest, both palms, and eight fingers. Shall I conduct a more thorough examination, mademoiselle, or will you answer my question?”

We scowl at each other for a beat.

“My knees,” I say grudgingly. “I scraped my knees as well.”

His eyes flick to my torn skirt. “Your knees.”

It isn’t a question, but I answer it regardless. “Yes.”

“How did you scrape your knees, Célie Tremblay?”

“I jumped down the stairs fleeing Yannick.”

“I see.” His hands—still bloody and cold and wrong —lift to my jaw with surprising lightness, probing the bones there, pushing my matted hair away from my face. I wince at the slight indention he finds at my crown, at the pain that explodes behind my eyes. His mouth sets in a grim line. “And your head?”

“I jumped down the stairs,” I repeat stupidly, the words slurring a bit as my adrenaline fades. The pain builds in earnest without it. “Do you think I have a concussion?”

“That seems likely.”

I’m going to lose consciousness soon. I know it as certainly as I knew Laurent would die. As if sensing the same, Michal slides a knife from his polished boot, dragging the blade along his wrist, and crimson blood wells upon white skin, stark and startling. I recoil instinctively as he lifts it to my mouth. “What are you—?” Though I try to scramble backward—up the stairs, away —he moves in a blur to sit on the tread above me, blocking my escape. His uninjured arm snakes around my shoulders, and he traps me in the cradle of his legs. His mouth tickles my hair.

“Drink.”

“I will not —”

“My blood will heal you.”

“I— What ?” I shake my head, convinced I misheard, only to pitch sideways as delirious pain bolts through my temples. “I can’t—I’m not going to—to drink your blood,” I finish weakly. Though Lou, Reid, and Beau have occasionally drunk Coco’s blood mixed with honey to heal themselves—a magic unique to Dames Rouges—this is not the same. This is not Coco; this is Michal , and the thought of consuming such a vital part of him, of taking him into my body, is unthinkable. Perverse. I watch the blood drip slowly down his forearm, repressing a shiver. Isn’t it?

“We have no healers on Requiem, Célie. If you don’t drink my blood, your bones could set incorrectly, and your wounds could become infected, resulting in a slow, tedious death—and that’s only if your head injury doesn’t kill you first.” Though I open my mouth to argue, to refuse, I fall back against his shoulder instead—the entire world tilting—and stare at his blood as the wound begins to close. I do not want to die. I’ve never wanted to die.

Jean Luc won’t like this.

“Going once...,” Michal says quietly, holding his wrist within my reach. “Going twice...”

At the very last second, I struggle to lean forward, to seize his wrist. I needn’t bother. The second he feels my intent, he presses it to my lips, and the strange, metallic taste of his blood explodes on my tongue. My head instantly reels with it. Stars burst in my eyes as the pain in my temples vanishes, along with the pain in my elbow. My ankle. My hands and chest and—and—

A small, shameless noise escapes my throat.

My eyelids clench shut at the sound, and I pull his arm closer, drinking deeper. With each pull of my mouth, delicious heat spikes through my belly until I’m near delirious with it, until I’m on fire with it. When I press backward, into his chest, his thighs—desperate for his cool skin—his body shifts subtly in response, tightening like a snake about to strike. “Célie,” he warns, but I don’t hear him. I feel lighter than I have in weeks—in years—yet heavier too, aching and tingling and needing something I cannot name.

Frustrated, I lave his skin with my tongue, and he curses, his voice lower and harsher than before.

Though he rises to his feet, I move with him, my mouth feverish upon his skin. Unable to stop. He pulls his arm away, murmuring, “Enough,” but I whirl to face him with a gasp, my cheeks flushed and my skin tight. Too tight. A pulse throbs deep in my belly as I stare at him. As he stares at me.

He still doesn’t breathe.

The sight should’ve frightened me. Though my injuries have healed, blood still drips down my chest, and Michal is a vampire. He can hear my heartbeat. He can scent my emotions. And when his eyes narrow, flicking almost reluctantly to my neckline, the sight doesn’t frighten me at all. No. It fills me with a strange, heady sense of power instead. Like if I don’t kiss him this very instant, I might combust.

So I stretch up to my toes and do just that.